Today I listened to some music while working out in the garage. That happens to be where I keep my stereo (not enough room in the house). I recently picked up the album Crime of the Century by Supertramp. That I referred to it as an album tells you right off how old I am. I remember when that album came out on a Criterion Collection special high quality vinyl. This was back before there were CDs.

The music is deep, and highly polished. It is prog rock, meaning that it reaches back into the classic music closet for ideas as opposed to the blues, jazz, or country closets. So odd meters, odd chords, actual counter melodies in the bass line, deep meaningful lyrics, etc. But there is more to it than that. I have Rush albums from that time, and they are good, but not this lush. Yes albums from the same era are wonderfully complex, but not as commercial. Not as slick. These are albums in which a lot of time was painstakingly put into the craft of recording and producing high quality music. In today’s digital world, where recording is so much easier, I wonder if something is being lost. I can’t think of a modern CD which was written/produced like this album. I don’t think anyone builds songs like this anymore.

Listening to it today brought me back to summers in Clovis. Driving around in Carl Christenson’s car, music blaring. I discovered this album, and this type of music in high school, back when I was VERY ERNEST about the world. It was impossible for me to listen to the music and NOT talk about it. I had to point out every cool part, every interesting note. It seems very compulsive to me now, but I suppose at the time that it was just our way of working out our intellects. Finding something we could be adult about, and hammering away at it until we appeared practiced and urbane.

I’m older now, and really don’t have much time to just sit and listen to music. I tend to use music as a tool, either to set a mood for writing, or to help be focus on retouching. Rarely do I take the time to just listen, letting the lush orchestration flow over my ears. So today I cleaned out pool equipment that has been sitting on my workbench since last fall when we put away the pool, and enjoyed Supertramp, followed by Ambrosia’s self titled first album. The only one in my collection that is missing  from that time period is Dark Side of the Moon, which is sitting in my Amazon shopping cart, waiting for me to make the purchase.

The other day, some idiot drove though the crosswalk to my son’s school.

Now this is not that unusual an occurrence. The crosswalk is on a busy street (Burbank Blvd), and the cars, especially in the morning, are not particularly focused on their surroundings. What made this episode unusual was the amazingly level of blindness performed by this driver. Really almost a Herculean effort. And then when this driver actually had to deal with his epic level of fuck-upidness (is that a word?), sadly he failed.

Let me start at the beginning. The crosswalk is fairly big, in crosswalk terms. There are flashing yellow lights (3 each way), large yellow reflective signs (2 each way), big fat yellow lines, etc. In addition there are signs for the School Zone, and others that say “Reduced Speed 25 MPH when children are present”. On top of all that, there is a crossing guard, whose name happens to be Mali (really the nicest of guys). Mali wears a bright yellow vest with a reflective orange stripe, and carries a very large red stop sign.

These are the hints, the subtile, and not so subtile, suggestions which all drivers are expected to observe and follow. From experience, I’d say about 1 in 10 morning drivers are not up to the level of introspection. The unexamined driver is NOT worth following apparently. At least on Burbank Blvd.

Every morning when I walk my son to school, we have to look out for these bozos, and make sure we are not in the crosswalk when they decide to not see us. Like I said, 1 in 10.

Anyway, my story starts with me crossing back over, after dropping off my son. The South side of the road slightly more congested with parents dropping off their kids. The crossing guard, hits the button, causing those big orange lights to flash. The traffic slows on both sides, and we begin to cross. A eastbound car stuck in the middle of the T intersection, attempts to turn North from Burbank onto St. Clare. A guy in a black car, going the other way (westbound) barely stops in time for the guy to make his left turn, laying on his horn to let everyone know how unhappy he is. By this time, every other car around is stopped, as in NO MOTION. Mali and I are halfway across Burbank, heading North.

So now there is, in addition to all the signs and lights noted above, the fact that every single other car around is completely stopped, and there are people in the middle of the street. The guy in the black car starts to drive forward. Remember he had to come to a complete stop to let the car turn left in front of him. So now he hits the gas, and moves forward. Several people including myself yell very loudly at this time. (Let me tell you, I know how to yell. When I yell at something, it stays yelled at. For hours.) This apparently has no effect as the guy continues to drive, and drives right in front of me.

That was when I slammed my arm down, and hit the top of his rear corner panel with an open palm. Bamm. I’d love to say I can slap a car as good as I can yell. I’d love to say that there were paint flakes in my hand because I hit that car so hard. Alas, I did not damage the car at all. However, I did manage to do something no one else had been able to do that morning; get through the thick skull of the idiot behind the wheel.

In classic American idiot fashion, our young driver pulls over, and gets out of his car. He is mad now. Someone has touched his car. Out of the Blue! or so I’m sure it felt to him. So he gets out, and starts to curse. I wait for him at the corner, and he comes walking over, eyes aflame.

And it is at this particular moment I realize I am part of a village. The idiot comes over to confront me, and suddenly another father, and the crossing guard are at my side. A third father is on his balcony of the apartments above us, yelling for the guys license plate number as he is on the phone with the cops. The other father, (Lee, whom we also happen to know) and I are attempting to out yell the idiot driver. The crossing guard is yelling to. I’m fairly passive, trained as I was to stop situations like these from escalating (special education teachers are good at this), but Lee is having none of that passive crap. He is mad. Mad and tall. He looms over the young man, and suddenly the idiot is realizing he might be in a situation over his head. The idiot’s excuse, “But I didn’t see you,” sounded especially lame.

Moments later, our intrepid idiot, suddenly turns heal and walks to his car.

And you know the best part about all this? That very morning when he got to work, I know exactly what that idiot said to his co-workers: “Hey guess what? Some asshole hit my car today. For no reason.”

There’s an old writing adage that goes, “Every villain is the hero of their own story.” I can tell you, it is true. So very true.

When I was young, I remember reading about auguries, which were a way of foretelling the future based upon things like watching birds fly. This fascinated me. There was this other way of looking at the world, a language of fowl flight, that if one read it, one could understand the future. What a cool idea.

I mention this because I am always looking up to the sky, and always noting what the birds are doing around me. It’s not out of some need to guess what the future holds (as it happens, I have a pretty good handle on that, within reason), but because I just like to watch birds. I also like watching airplanes, and look up whenever one audibly passes by, but that is not quite the same as birds.

I know my position on this is unique. I know most people don’t think watching birds if great fun. And the funny thing is, I’m not a bird- watcher. That hobby holds almost no interest to me. What I like is to see how birds interact with each other. How they fly.

For instance, if you have ever seen one bird attack another, then you see some real drama. I’ve seen this lots of times, everything from a Coopers Hawk trying to take out an equally sized dove (like watching a WWI dogfight sped up 20 times), or two crows working a single raven (like a chess game where either party worked hardest to get above the other), or even a murder of crows work over a hawk (always a treat). But my favorite bird to watch fly is a Mocking bird. While other birds will come close to their attacker, a mocking bird will strike them, multiple times, and do this with élan. A mocking bird so out flies any other bird that it really isn’t fair. You can almost hear them say, “Listen up punk. School’s in session.”

Anyway, as I got off the exercise bike this morning, and walked back towards the house, I looked up and saw a hawk circling. I think it was a red tail hawk. He was up and over the nearby grocery store, maybe 300 feet up, and turning lazy circles. Any glider pilot worth his salt could tell you he was working the meager lift provided by the roof of the store. A slight breeze pushed the warm air north, and slightly east, so as he circled he got closer to our house. He  was up high enough that the other birds didn’t see him. I could tell because they didn’t react. If they knew he was there, they would have ducked and run. I’ve seen this happen enough times to know their reaction. They also shut up when they’re afraid, and they were yapping away this morning to beat the band.

So this hawk worked the lift, and circled maybe 4-5 times nearby. I guess he found nothing, because I could see his wings getting shorter as he started to stoop. Soon he zoomed right over our house, and headed for my son’s school at a speed about 10 times faster then he was going when circling in the thermal.

Watching him go, I wondered what was the augury for this? What did it mean? A hawk circled on my right, and then zoomed over me crossing to my left. Does that mean good things are going to happen to me today? I thought so. So far, it’s been a good guess.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been unusually busy, or maybe it’s the weather, but I just cannot get into the Christmas spirit this year. Teri has also been busy, and between the two if us, it seems like nothing for Xmas has gotten done. Here it is the 19th of December, and we don’t even have a tree up. Are cards are printed, but need to have a little insert, a thing we add to them every year to makes them to let the more distant family and friends catch up with our life. Normally I handle the insert, but this year I just could not. The loss of my father-in-law has cast a long shadow over our year, and it just seems like we cannot shake it. That is why I could not write about this past year, because I am simply too depressed about it.

Last week I was working on the West Side (Culver City for those not from around here), and had a couple of golden moments in the midst of a otherwise too long commute. The first one was in the morning, Thursday morning I think. It had been raining, off and on, but cleared out almost completely as I took the transition from the 405 south to the 10 East. The sun was out, not in full force, but fairly strongly, and there was even large patches of blue overhead in between the big puffy cumulous clouds. The transition between the two freeways is an overpass that puts you up about 100 feet over the ground level at that spot. Higher than most of the buildings. It is also right underneath the main approach to the Santa Monica airport, which makes for a plesent time if there’s a plane in the pattern.

Anyway, this particular morning, I happened to look over my left shoulder almost due north, up towards UCLA and Westwood. The light was just perfect, and the air was wonderfully clean. The city just down below was all bright greens and light colors; the rain making all the houses and streets look scrubbed fresh and new. You could see the taller dark grey buildings in the distance, and the flat-bottomed big puffy clouds above and below them depending upon how far off they were. Behind the clouds the Santa Monica Mountains were in stark contrast, a nice dark green stripe with a top serrated edge, and behind those mountains, over the valley, the storm was completely socked in, making the distant sky a field of crumbly white and grey. Everything was lined up perfectly, to give that wonderfully breathless perspective you get every once in a while here in LA.

Then the following Friday evening, I had another wonderful moment I’d like to share. It had been raining all day, and I had driven there (to Culver City) and back 3 times already. This was my last trip home, and I was dead tired. I rolled onto the 10 heading West right about 6:00 pm, and the freeway was bummer to bummer. The freeway itself takes a little dip, and then rises again, just after the Robertson Exit. It was on this little hill that the cars all stopped in front of me. All 5 lanes. The road was wet, slick, but the rain has slowed to just the merest or trickles, so visibility was good. 6:00 pm in December meant it was already dark, with the rain making the road gloss black, and the lane lines difficult to see. When all the cars stopped, all of their brake lights came on, and their reflections on the wet cement we beautiful. There were hundreds of big glowly red splashes of light on the ground, following the cars as they slowly moved. Each glow bringing sharp detail to the many lines cast in the cement surface. Occasionally, a car would change lanes, and it’s amber turn signals provided a nice contrast to the red spots. It was so mesmerizing that I drove for quit some time looking only at the reflections, instead of the cars themselves.

On both occasions I really wished I had a camera handy, but it was one of those things were you know it would only last for a moment, and then the moment would be gone.