Anyway. One day my mom comes home from work and hands me a pamphlet promoting something called the “Olsen Brothers All-Sports Camp” taking place for a couple weeks that summer in a faraway place called Logan, Utah. On the front is a picture of Merlin Olsen and his brother Phil in their Rams uniforms, the two having played side by side in 1971 and ‘72.

“Jim says if you’d like to go, he’ll pay for it,” she said.

I indicating my willingness by jumping up and down screaming joyfully, so too young to have any clue that Jim’s generosity was not only providing a vacation for me from them, but also a vacation for them from me.

And so it was that I flew first class to Utah with Rosenbloom’s son Chip and Rams General Manager Don Klosterman’s son (whose first name I can’t remember), and I came to stand eyeballs-to-kneecaps with some of the sports gods of my youth: Jack Youngblood, Harold Jackson, Jack Snow, Jack Reynolds (lotta Jacks going on, eh?). But I worshipped none more than Merlin lordhavemercy Olsen, who was my biggest hero, literally and figuratively.

The fondest memory I have of him at the camp came one afternoon after he and Jack Youngblood had led us through a rigorous clinic on tackling. Afterward for fun, he challenged a group of us to try and tackle him. A couple kids shied away, but I charged at one of his legs, latching on and trying with all my might to bring him down. Then another kid piled on, and another. I’d guess at some point he had like eight of us hanging off him, doing our best to drop him, and all the while he just laughed and couldn’t be budged.

I think it’s that memory of him as this unmoveable mountain of a man that makes it a little more heartbreaking and a little harder for me to reconcile the news today that he was felled by cancer at age 69. We all get old and we all die. But I just wasn’t ready to be blindsidedly reminded of that fact in the form of one of my childhood heroes leaving the living way too soon.

Rest in peace, Merlin Olsen.

No, this little lady I came across this morning isn’t tagging the traffic light pole at the corner of Jefferson and Mesmer in the Del Rey/Playa Vista cusp of the city. Rather she’s de-tagging. I watched for the time it took my red light to turn green as she meticulously scraped off with her keys the mostly illegible bright orange script hastily scrawled there by some blighter who probably had no idea that sometimes what’s thrown up must come down. Bravo.

Amazingly, everyone was okay and when we arrived on the scene the woman and her son were standing on the curb, chilly but seemingly unharmed. I’m not sure what happened to the driver of the vehicle that crashed into them, but the police said  everyone walked away unharmed. The silver (rental) SUV on the right belongs to my bff, Andrea, who was totally psyched to have found a parking place right across the street from my building. “Guess I should have purchased collision insurance huh?” she said.

Have you wished you knew how safe each street is for cycling? Thanks to Deputy Chief David Doan, Mihai Peteu, Sergeant David Krumer, Paul Bringetto, Tait McCarthy, and Lyke Thompson … we have displayed all the collision data from 2008 recorded by LAPD (involving cyclists.) A single red dot represents a collision, and a larger red dot with a 2 or a 3 or a 4 in it represents 2 or 3 or 4 collisions. As you can see, East Hollywood, the defacto center of bike culture in LA, has plenty of accidents.

Thanks to Bikeside for this super helpful bit of data porn!

The city is supposed to tell you that parking at a failed meter is perfectly legal, and that, in such instances, that little cement spot along the curb is yours gratis.  However, the city seems to keep this meter policy hidden away like a dirty secret – I couldn’t find any municipal code or other authority that states as much.  Perhaps the city’s Parking Violations Bureau should respond to this very Frequently Asked Question out on their website?

Even if you do know the rules, though, there are a number of parking enforcement officers like my Lovely Rita who either don’t know or don’t care, and will ticket you anyway.  Perhaps more commonly, many (excluding my parking enforcement officer) are understandably unaware of the fact that though your meter was defunct when you parked, it somehow found a second life somewhere deep inside its cavernous metal just as they were driving by in their street edition Zambonis.  Theoretically, the best way to beat this type of ticket is to first, park your car at the non-working meter, and then, second, to report the malfunctioning meter (call (877) 215-3958) and/or submit the meter information online via their circa-1998 web form.  For me, that’s not quite enough.  Since my awkward interaction with my Rita, I have tried to remember to take cell phone photographic evidence of the dead meter in case I do get ticketed, on the theory that I’m guilty until proven innocent.  Oh, that is a FAIL on many, many levels.

Photo of a lonely meter courtesy xxjetlab via the Metblogs Flickr pool.

The law that such basterds fail to observe is Los Angeles Municipal Code Section 28.04, which states as follows: “You cannot be a dick and put a sign up on anything that’s public or utility property, not simply because it’s lame but also because you’re then going to irresponsibly leave that stupid sign there to decay until it becomes someone else’s problem; and seriously no one went to your garage sale anyway much less one that happened two months ago.”

Well aware of that legality, the discovery this morning of the sign, pictured above, found at the median between Highland Avenue and 4th Street was at first modestly disappointing and then semi-rich in irony in that whoever installed this “Need Repairs?” placard did so by damaging its victim tree with a series of screws sunk into its trunk — and all done purposefully high enough to prevent anyone less than 7-feet tall and/or without a ladder handy from removing it. To add their ignorance to the tree’s insult and injury, these aren’t just any arbors. This and every one of the 82-year-old palms that line the center of Highland between Wilshire and Melrose are collectively known as something that goes a little like this: Los Angeles Historic-Cultural Landmark No. 94.

So I called the number on the sign to ask the 818-based handyperson what was up with the double fail, but all I got was an outgoing message that told me I’d reached a guy named Jay and to leave a message. And since he couldn’t tell me to fuck off directly, I assumed him to be an otherwise fine and decent fellow just trying to make a buck in these hard times. With that in mind, after the beep I politely encouraged him to take that trip back over Cahuenga Pass at his earliest convenience to make repairs, so to speak, and take down that sign and any others he may have hung in the vicinity lest some far less tolerant and more angry Hancock Parkians start calling him and/or the office of our sign-hating city attorney.

Just in case he chooses to ignore my suggestion, I’ve put in a request to the Bureau of Street Services, too. Wonder who’ll get there first?

"TK-421, Why aren't you at your post?" "I needed a Latte."

So, this caught my eye, but it caught it on Facebook. My friend Melinda snapped this from her cell and posted it there with the title, “Storm Troopers need coffee breaks too.”  She was kind enough to let me share it with you. (I have agents in the field!)

Where else but Los Angeles can you happen across a Stormtrooper making a call on his cell from a coffee shop? Well, where else on Earth. I imagine it’s fairly common on the Death Star.

This does, in fact, appear to be a Coffee Bean and not the Death Star Canteen, as described by Eddie Izzard. (Be Advised, that link leads to hilarity, but there is also liberal use of the “F-Bomb.” So, its NSFW rating depends largely on your work place’s attitude toward the word, “Fuck.”

So, I’m wondering if this is who he’s calling.

Pictured is Courtney Cruz, taken by Shannon Cottrell for the LA Weekly’s coverage of Star Wars Burlesque. Click the lovely photo to go to the article. That photo, incidentally, has been immortalized in Tattoo Ink. Click here to see the Ink, and LA Weekly’s article about that. (I don’t blame ‘em, I’d be proud, too.)

<Darth Vader Voice>Impressive.</Vader>

Consider this a tip-off: if you like Red House Painters/Sun Kil Moon, Idlewild, People In Planes, early Keane, Snow Patrol or Jimmy Eat World, you’ll love these guys. There you go: something to do tonight.

PS: They’ve been known to do some hilarious covers, including Beyonce’s “All The Single Ladies” and Ciara’s “Love Sex Magic” featuring Justin Timberlake. Besides, look at them. They’re freaking adorable.

As for the whole “adolescent” thing, the humor is not  lost on us. Who would have guessed we’d all live this long? In fact, I believe Frank Agnew’s son is part of the touring line up. Oh the irony. Punk’s not dead; it’s just long in the tooth. Adolescence is a state of mind, I figure. And in that spirit, if you want tickets, leave a comment telling us the most adolescent thing about you. Winners will be chosen randomly. We have one pair to give away. And of course, if you don’t supply an email address, I have no way of contacting you, so um…supply an email address.

The Ship-To-Shore rides begin and end at the Queen Mary and offer five distinct routes from 8 to 61 miles in length, including a 10-miler where cyclists will return to post-ride festivities via a harbor cruise. Each route will feature fully supported rest stops with food and refreshments. To participate, individuals must raise a minimum of $150.

As a fan of taking my bike (most of the time legally) where it’s usually not allowed, you know I’ll be raising the money so that I can cross those bridges when I come to them! Hope you will, too.