The Shoebox Gallery

70 Years Ago

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 09:48:00 +0000

For the past few years, I've procrastinated on cleaning up my grandfather's memoirs to publish them. I've decided that the best way to get this done is to just focus on spelling and punctuation. I'm not allowed to fix his grammar or factual mistakes.

I'll save that for the epilogue.

Anyway, Grandpa was a second lieutenant in command of the 21st Quartermaster Car Company stationed at Fort Lewis. He was 29 and engaged to my grandmother, Margaret. Grandma was living in McMinnville, Oregon, working as the society editor at the local weekly.

------

Now to Pearl Harbor, the day that "will live in infamy," according to President Roosevelt. It was Sunday and Lt. Quinn and I were lolling around in our quarters reading and writing. The radio was playing some innocuous tune and I was thinking that in a few minutes I would have to bestir myself, strap on my .45 revolver and walk to the battalion headquarters of an engineer company where, during a brief ceremonial revue of area guards, I was to take over my shift as OD (officer of the day).

The area of my responsibility included several units in my end of Fort Lewis. Each unit contributed, by roster, men as guards and officers as officer of the day.

I had just risen from my writing desk when the radio announcer stridently reported that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. Quinn and I stood glued to the radio for a few minutes, appalled and excited. I couldn't wait any longer and almost ran to take over my OD post. Quickly Fort Lewis was rousing from the somnolence of a Sunday to a state of almost hysterical animation.

Early that night as I was sitting in one of the engineer battalion offices, having only minutes earlier visited all guard stations in my duty area, the telephone rang. It was a guard stationed at an enlisted men's beer joint in my area. He said there was a riot and he needed help.

I grabbed two of the largest men in sight and armed them with baseball bats (enlisted men in the newer units had not yet been issued arms). We jumped into a jeep and raced to the beer joint. Inside, men were packed like sardines, many of them drunk, all celebrating in advance of the action they knew was coming. Every voice in the room was in high gear. Several fights were in progress.

I was too short to see over all the heads and wasn't sure what was going on. The two enlisted men and I shoved our way to the bar and I jumped on top of it. I blew my whistle and motioned in the direction the two men should take. Without laying the bats on too heavily, they soon broke up the fights. I was herding everybody out when the MPs arrived and took over. At least the men had let off some steam that night without much damage.

The next day war was declared against Japan and, soon after, against Germany and Italy. Nineteen US ships had been sunk or otherwise destroyed at Pearl Harbor and 3000 Americans killed. A tight lid was placed on Fort Lewis, nobody could get on or off the Post without special orders from Corps. There was a feeling that the Japanese might be right off the west coast and we might be bombed or invaded. Total blackout was ordered and most units, including mine, were ordered out into the prairie hills east of Fort Lewis for the night,

We bivouacked at night, using only the blackout lights built into the lighting systems of the newer cars and trucks. It was confusion on a vast scale. The next day the Army was reassured that we weren't about to be invaded; we returned to the post. But Fort Lewis was buttoned up tight for more than a week.

I was on the phone to Margaret as soon as I reached our unit area. We decided to get married the following Friday, December 13, if I could wrangle approval to leave the post and go to McMinnville. My friend, the colonel, Corps Quartermaster, gave me that permission.

We are the 9%

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 22:01:00 +0000

I was in the Ballard Fred Meyer last night, looking over their micro-brew and import selection. I didn't want to drink much that night, just wanted to sample something new during dinner.

A fellow shopper stepped up beside me. "Looking for a Belgium ale?" he asked.

"Not particularly," I replied, a little shocked that a stranger was talking to me. "Just looking for something new, you know."

He pointed to a pint bottle. "Have you had this yet?"

"I think I have," I said, recalling the bottle as something someone brought to my birthday earlier this year.

We stood there in silence, then he said, "Have you had Doghead Fish* Ale?", and pointed down the aisle.

"Which one?"

"This one," and he picked up a four-pack of bottles and handed it to me.

"It's good, eh?"

"It'll knock you down," he said, and walked away.

I looked at one of the bottles, and saw that this particular beer was 9% alcohol. For context, your normal beers average between 5.2 and 6%. Figured that's why it was sold only in a four-pack and not your usual six-pack.

So I put it in my basket, along with my frozen dinner-in-a-bag and colored pencils, and went home to subsequently consume all four bottles.

So much for sampling.

*or "Dogfish Head Ale" - I can't be responsible for remembering such things.

The New Normal

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 09:41:00 +0000

Facebook and Twitter have become the new blogger.

I don't write much online anymore, obviously. I'm active on other social networking sites - where I can post without thinking too much.

I also write every day in a journal I keep on my computer. A Pages document that sits on my hard drive. Perhaps at the end of the year I'll read through it and think something's special enough to post online.

Or maybe it'll all be too painful.

I also want to invest in a new laptop next year, so maybe when I get a new lappy I'll be motivated to write more, but for now I guess I'll have to deal with the fact that I've posted around 6 to 7 entries for all of 2011.

Perhaps I'll just kill this here blog, like I did Write That Down. Sure, it'll still be online, but understood that it's a dead blog.

And maybe sometime in 2012 or 2013, Google will decide to erase all blogger URLs that haven't had any activity in the last 12 months. Won't that be something? Remember Journalspace?

Anyway, I was able to keep to my New Year's resolution to write every day for this year, perhaps I'll be able to write every day next year too, but at least publicly.

So what I'm saying is I may kill the blog, but don't give up on me yet.

Jesus...

Benefits of the Position

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 00:22:00 +0000

"Leniency for a Rocketman?" I ask the Parking Enforcement Officer as I walk up to my car. He was in the process of writing me a ticket for my expired sticker.

"Well, I guess," he says, looking up - then doing a double-take as he noticed my outfit. "This is your car?"

"Yes. I know it's just a Tercel, not a rocket, but..."

"Okay, I gave them a break, so I'll give you a break too," he says, pointing to the people getting into the Lexus behind mine. "Fairness for all."

"Thanks," I say and march towards the metering station.

"Hey," he stops me. "You said this is your car?"

"Yes, it is."

"You have to move it."

I point to the metering station. "I can't just buy more time?"

"No, you have to move it after two hours," he says gruffly over the honking.

I don't want to get off his good graces, so I do a quick about-face and head towards my car. "Oh, okay. I didn't know. Thanks."

The people leaving the space behind me - the ones who also got a break, almost hit an SUV as they're pulling out. Hence the honking. The honking and road rage continue down the street. When the two cars are at the intersection, the driver of the SUV gets out to confront the Lexus, which speeds away around the corner.

I put my goggles on and drive away.

Carefully.

God Hates Churches

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 09:14:00 +0000

When I was in Christchurch, New Zealand in 2006, I took a picture of the cathedral. It looked like this:

Today, it looks like this:

If I ever meet that earthquake, I'm gonna punch it in the face.

Cake Judge

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Thu, 10 Feb 2011 08:46:00 +0000

On my next trip to my car two hours later, there was a guy selling Real Change in front of the liquor store.

"Hey big man," he says to me as I walk by him.

"How's it going?" I ask, in an unusual response to people on the street who want to sell me something.

"I'll tell you, big man," he says, then pauses.

I stop and turn around. "Yes?" I say. Again, another odd move for me.

"I'll tell you, I... I could be a cake judge!"

I was a bit taken aback by this, then a young woman walked out of the store and his attention snapped to her.

"Hey, my pretty lady has returned!" he said to her.

I continued on my way.

Ten Years On

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Sat, 22 Jan 2011 02:26:00 +0000

I've decided to type up all of my old journals - primarily to consolidate everything into one place that's not a large cardboard box in my office, but mostly to make it all searchable.

Anyway, last night, I came across this gem from January 3rd, 2001 - during rehearsals for "The Sizemore Interviews":

Heffron's "The Main Room" directed by Fetzer is rehearsing in the black box right now. Bruce gave a tour of Annex. Tim and I followed him too, even though it feels like I live here sometimes.

I'm glad to see that so much of my life has changed in 10 years.

A New Year, A New Year.

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Fri, 07 Jan 2011 09:50:00 +0000

So I got real drunk at the whizARTbang! party at Annex on New Year's Eve. Didn't drink enough water, had different types of drinks, not enough food, etc...

It should have come to no surprise to anybody that I was laid out on the floor by the end of the evening.

It was a surprise to me at the time, mind you. Especially as I upchucked into the hallway running to the bathroom. That was a bit of a surprise. I cleaned it up a bit later, wondering if anybody had seen, and thankful that I didn't spill any on the carpet (Comte would never have forgiven me.)

Laid down on the floor in the bathroom, as you do when you pray to the porcelain god. After a bit, to avoid taking up an entire bathroom from the party, I just sat in the office and occasionally heaved into a garbage can.

Which, as you can imagine, was awesome.

But I was alone at least. Alone to reflect on the year. To reflect on my behavior over the course of the night, over the course of the year. How did I find myself here? What was I doing? Have I done anything I'll regret later?

Before all this, before I found myself regurgitating Ballet seafood curry and cheap champagne into the receptacle I normally toss my lunch garbage into, I was having quite a bit of fun.

For instance, when it was midnight and I was still at that stage of binge drinking when I was just... fucking... happy... I was standing in the lounge with Max.

We both looked at our phones and realized that the midnight hour had just passed. And nobody had said anything. It was the New Year! And nobody knew!

"It's gone!" said Max.

"We missed it!" I lamented. Then I decided that I might as well start something. So we started yelling "10... 9... 8..." and walked into the theater where people picked it up. So we had our moment.

Flash forward about three hours - I've gone from "Yay! Having Fun!" to "Omigod I want to die!"

The way I look at it is this: New Year's Eve was my Mardi Gras, and the January to mid-February Resolution Season is Lent.

Yes, I may have been in my mid-thirties, passed out on the floor due to too much alcohol, a victim of what seasoned pros might call "amateur night," but I was just getting it out of my system in preparation for the coming months of health and sobriety.

And boy, did it come out.

Nothing says "Happy New Year" like cleaning up your own vomit.

Winter Blues

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Sat, 27 Nov 2010 04:43:00 +0000

We got hit with a snowstorm earlier this week. It unfortunately coincided with a fundraising benefit at Annex. Unfortunate because it kept a lot of the would-be patrons away, and because I really wanted to be there - so I went.

And it was great. The getting home part? Not so great.

I was the last one out of the theatre aside from the gal who slept there. I knew that my regular bus route wasn't running its normal route, and was unsure of timetables or alternative routes that late at night (it was around 1am).

I walked down to one stop and a lady there said she'd been waiting about 20 minutes and hadn't seen any busses. I walked to another stop and a guy there said he saw one bus in the past 40 minutes.

I waited for maybe ten minutes, then decided to walk off the hill to downtown, because surely the bus from downtown to home would be running.

I went towards downtown, and turned around about half a block off the main path just in time to see a bus pass behind me like the last helicopter out of Saigon. After a brief pause, I ran.

Surprisingly, I didn't fall in the snow since I was wearing my dress shoes. I caught the bus, out of breath, and lucky that I had the bus fare in my wallet.

It dropped me off about a half-hour walk from home. I stumbled in my front door finally, still mostly drunk, and collapsed on the couch.

Summer Blues

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Sun, 08 Aug 2010 10:32:00 +0000

It's August, it's Seafair weekend. The Blue Angels are roaring overhead; and it's cold, windy and rainy.

And everybody's like, "What the fuck? Where's summer, motherfucker? I wan't my sunshine, I want my tan."

And I want to say, "This IS summer, motherfucker. This is what happens. We have some sun, we perhaps have a short heat-wave, and sometimes it rains. Sometimes it rains on your wedding. Sometimes it rains on your barbeque party."

And that's just fine with me. Growing up here, I don't have grand expectations of summer weather.

The only reason I'm bummed about bad weather during summer is that I know someone has planned something important for that day which the weather has ruined. And I feel bad for them.

But as far as barbequeing in the rain? I'm all for it.

My strongest memories of camping as a child (and through adolescence, teenage years, and beyond) is that when you camp, it rains.

You want to go set up a tent? It's going to rain.

You want to go fishing? It's going to rain.

You want to cook outdoors? It's going to rain.

The smell of a campfire underneath the cool, constant drizzle of a northwest rain is what camping is all about for me.

It's what summer is all about.

You want 105 degree heat and sun? Go somewhere else. I'll take 65 degree drizzle anyday.

Because that's what summer is.

The Lusty

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Mon, 14 Jun 2010 06:03:00 +0000

I have a couple of strong memories attached to the Lusty Lady, which is closing this week.

The first is when I was fresh out of college. My friend John wanted me to go with him to the Lusty. I wasn't too interested, but I agreed because hey, naked girls.

As we were walking down 1st, I ran into an old college acquaintance of mine (and by "old," I mean we had been in a class together about six months before). We exchanged pleasantries, then John and I continued on our way.

When we got in front of the Lusty, I couldn't move.

"Hussein's going to see me go in," I said to John.

"So?"

"So I don't want him to think that I'm down here to go to a nudie bar."

"So what? That's why you're down here."

"I know, but..." I said, trailing off, not really finding any excuse to grasp onto.

John then bent down, pantomiming tying his shoe, and when he saw that Hussein was not looking our way, he shoved me through the front doors.

The second strongest memory I have is when I was actually ON STAGE. I can't remember what the event was called, but for some reason, my friend who worked there asked if I wanted to come down and be on the stage while the girls danced around me.

Of course I said yes, and when it was my turn, I was more nervous than if I had been in one of the booths where the ladies could see you. I sat in a chair in the center of the stage, and as the three naked ladies danced around me, I had no idea where to look.

Do I look in their eyes? That seems weird.

Do I look at their chest? That seems impersonal.

Do I look at their, ahem, other ladyparts? That just seemed rude.

So I stared straight ahead, and when the window opened up and I found myself looking at some dude, I then averted my gaze to the lady right next to me, and found myself darting my glance between her eyes and knees - stopping every once in awhile to allow my eyes to rest on certain obvious landmarks of her landscape.

It was pretty awesome.

And pretty weird.

Shameful, Absolutely Shameful

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Sat, 29 May 2010 23:45:00 +0000

I was talking with a friend the other day and of course the conversation turned to the topic of "Facebook vs. Blogging," and how people (mainly, me) don't blog anymore because so much energy is spent trying to come up with witty little sentences for status updates.

I think I covered why I don't blog anymore in the previous post, dated nine days ago.

However, I was thinking about blogs I used to read, and how mine compared to all of them. And I realized that a majority of my posts were very self-effacing - describing situations in which I embarrassed myself and whatnot.

I wrote those kinds of posts because those were the sorts of blogs I enjoyed reading, posts where people described - usually in painful detail - about how they put their foot in their mouth during an awkward social situation.

One can only read a series of "I'm awesome and here's why" posts before getting bored.

So in that vein, here's what happened to me this morning.

I'm driving into town, and in my neighborhood there's this awkward little intersection with no stop signs.

View Larger Map

You're looking south along Woodland Park Avenue, an arterial through Wallingford. The cars entering from N. 39th straight ahead generally yield.

Generally. You still need to be on your toes here because perhaps someone new to the hood doesn't know what's what and will plow right through without yielding.

And sometimes, a bicyclist will plow into the street without yielding from the right hand side, from behind those parked cars as you in your big stupid car are driving right for them.

As that's what happened today. He was an older gentleman, probably in his mid- to late-60s and wearing a helmet. I didn't see him before he screamed into the intersection, and didn't really have a chance to react until he was already on the other side of the street. I didn't see him look, either, until after he had crossed my path.

"Jeep!" I said, when I saw him. Then later reflected, Why did I say "Jeep"? Was that a combination of "jeeze" and "eep"?

If I had been two seconds faster, I would have hit him, or he me.

And that's when I realized that I would have been too seconds faster, except that at the previous stop sign (and this is the shameful part), I noticed a lovely young woman weed-eating her yard, and found myself sitting pretty longer than normal to sneak a peek.

About two seconds longer.

So yeah, I didn't hit the bicyclist because I was ogling someone.

I'm a bad person.

The Internet's A Larger Place Now

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Thu, 20 May 2010 19:47:00 +0000

I'm a collector, and I like to keep things I collect in one place.

I wasn't really satisfied with my baseball card collection until I was able to put it all on the same shelf, that kind of thing. With the monster boxes under my desk and the notebooks on the shelf across the room, things just weren't "right."

For some reason, I decided to revisit the inbox of an e-mail address I no longer use. It's now become a repository for newsletters and ads for online businesses I used to frequent and neglected to change when I stopped using that particular e-dress.

Lots of Amazon.com, Bias, Lexar. Spam, essentially.

But I do have legitimate correspondence in there, mainly stuff connected to this blog when I started it more than nine years ago. And part of me wanted to move all those e-mails to a different place. Specifically, to my Mail app. But since Yahoo charges you for POP and forwarding, I'd have to do all that by hand. Almost 600 messages.

So I'm not going to do that.

However, I did go back through those early e-mails, and would find lengthy correspondence strings with seemingly random people. "Who the hell is that?" I wondered, and reading the e-mails come to remember that these were people who contacted me because they randomly came across the shoebox gallery and liked it enough to begin a conversation. Most from late 2002 to around 2005, when my blog started getting some traction.

And that's what surprised me. My blog got some traction and actually had a bit of a following.

Granted, these were the years when I had an administrative assistant day job and was chained to a desk for nine hours a day, so I wrote more.

But, 2003 is a trillion internet years ago, when not every single person and their brother's kid had their own blog, facebook page, twitter feed, etc. Where if you updated daily and wrote somewhat coherently, you could attract some decent readership.

I think that's a bit harder these days without writing for a specific niche. Just reading some random stranger's blog isn't the pasttime it used to be.

Not that I want to try to do that. I don't want the stress of having to spit out brilliant daily drivel.

Maybe every other day.

Thoughts From The Office At 2:15 AM

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Mon, 10 May 2010 09:17:00 +0000

Ever want to just give everything up, move to Texas, buy a bar, and spend your spare time rebuilding a 1959 Nash Metropolitan convertible?

Bringing Blogging Back, Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 09:27:00 +0000

Yeah, I'm full of shit apparently.

I was driving home late one night and, parked across the street from my house, was a red Toyota with its flashers on. A fella was leaning up against the fender flagging down passing cars. He flagged me down, but I didn't stop. I turned the corner and found a parking spot.

I didn't want to talk to him, help him, make a call for him, or interact with him in any way. I was actually glad that my roommate had already taken the house driveway so this guy didn't see me pull into it.

Actually, even if the driveway was empty, I probably would have found a parking spot around the block anyway.

Like I said, I didn't want to help this dude.

So, I parked on the other side of the block, and walked around to my house. He was still there, talking on a cell phone. I was afraid that he would see me walk into my house, and so I made the decision to not go in through the front door, but instead go around back.

Luckily, a bus passed right when I diverted from the sidewalk to my driveway, so even if this guy had seen me, after the bus passed in front of him, I would have appeared to have disappeared.

I was really thankful for the 44 at that moment.

Like I said, I didn't want to deal with this guy. I didn't want to be a good samaritan. Karma will probably come back and bite me hard for this, but I don't care (at the moment).

That's the only interesting thing I've done lately. In other interesting news, I'm showing a Gude/Laurance film this Friday, March 5th, at Spin the Bottle.

But you, faithful reader, you get a sneak peak. You can view the film we're showing here.

Take care.

Bringing Blogging Back

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 08:53:00 +0000

I've made this promise to journal more. Not necessarily to blog more, but to at least write something everyday. I made the same promise last year as well, and that lasted until about mid-January.

So I'm giving it another shot. I have a Pages document in my dock (right next to the trash icon), and I'm making an effort to at least open it everyday and write something.

I started my anti-resolutions early, I guess, since I've also begun to do a Pilates workout each morning followed quickly by practicing the piano. I figure if I started these things before the first of the year, they didn't count as resolutions. Therefore, I'd keep doing them.

We'll see how long that lasts.

So I'll write in this document, and whatever I feel is blogworthy (i.e. whatever I don't mind letting loose into the wild) will make it to the blog. Otherwise, it's just for my own edification and enjoyment.

****

I've not cleaned my office since I moved into the basement about 6 1/2 years ago. It has been getting rather gnarly lately, and I've wanted to paint it for the last five years or so, so today I made major steps towards that goal. I've moved all of the contents (save for the desks and chairs - of which there are two each - a file cabinet, and the cumbersome CD display rack) into the hallway.

The room now has that cold, echoey feeling - just itching to be cleansed thoroughly and painted with what Olympic paints call "Brick Dust" (it's the same color my sister's kitchen is, and I figure it would be a nice warm shade for the office).

I'm also trying to get rid of a whole bunch of stuff, and since I hate strangers I'm going to offer everything to friends and acquaintances first. The first item is this annoying CD display rack.

I know, I'm a great salesman.

There's a small photo gallery here if you're interested. It was something we acquired for a sketch on "Almost Live!" that I assumed ownership of after we were done with it. There's nothing wrong with it, I just don't want it anymore.

So if you, or anyone you love, wants a CD display rack that's been on television in a sketch with the famous Joel McHale (The Soup, Community), Lauren Weedman (The Daily Show, Curb Your Enthusiasm) and me (10 Things I Hate About You, Borrowing Time), then let me know.

Inert

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Mon, 28 Dec 2009 06:26:00 +0000

I know I've entered the throes of inactivity when watching Battlestar feels like "doing something."

Happy Holidays

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 08:37:00 +0000

I just had one of those moments where I thought "I should call Gramps to wish him a Merry- oh right, he's dead."

Insensitive Joke

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Sun, 13 Dec 2009 20:46:00 +0000

It still amazes me that skydivers are killed in plane crashes.

You're wearing a parachute. Jump!

Hoax

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 08:03:00 +0000

Everything's a hoax. I can't trust anything anymore.

The balloon boy. The man who was in a "coma" for 23 years.

Now, how long until the story breaks that the Japanese dude who's "marrying" the character from a DS game is revealed to be a hoax?

I give it a week.

Quick and Violent, part 2

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 23:51:00 +0000

The more I think about this, the more angry I get.

First off, I'm not interested in pursuing litigation against the driver. I'm sure he's going through enough (he even wants to meet us, my first reaction to hearing this news was "fuck no"). You accidentally hit someone, live with the memory every night of seeing them smash through your windshield, and possibly what was left of the person on the street afterwards, and you've gone through enough. I kind of feel sorry for the guy.

I still don't want to meet him, though.

If anything, the city of Austin should pay up for having a poorly-lit crosswalk with an inadequate crossing time (approx. 25 sec) for a 40mph five lane highway.

But here's what we know: It was about 6:50am. Gramps was using his walker to cross Burnet Road at Richcreek. He was still crossing the Northbound lanes (so I assume he was going East on Richcreek, giving him the benefit of the doubt that he was able to cross at least 3/5ths of the road in those 25 seconds). The light for Northbound traffic turned green, and the red Honda hit him in one of the two Northbound lanes (the road consists of two lanes in either direction, and a Northbound left turn lane). The driver of the car says he didn't see Gramps until he had hit him.

Here's what we also know. Sunrise over Austin on October 14th was approximately 7:30am. Burnet Road is a straight, flat highway with no trees or tall buildings. And road conditions were dry. Assuming this driver had his headlights on, and even assuming Gramps was wearing dark clothing, why didn't the driver see him until impact?

I have a hard time believing that the conditions were such that this guy, driving 40 miles an hour during twilight couldn't even see the road ahead of him in time to either hit the brakes or swerve (again, assuming that is what one would do if one saw a pedestrian immediately in front of one's car).

There are laws in some states regarding talking on a cell phone, or texting, while driving. I'm not going to assume this guy was doing either of those things, but I do think he was distracted in some way. Either fiddling with the radio, or perhaps something on the side of the road caught his eye, or maybe there was an oncoming truck with bright headlights.

I have my own theory, and for some reason - not knowing any pertinent details - I've clung to this theory. I don't know, for instance, how far away from this intersection the driver lived. And I don't know, for instance, what the humidity was that morning. But I know that on some mornings my windshield is fogged over, and if I have to be at work by 7am and I'm running late, I'm not going to sit in my driveway and wait for the defroster to kick in.

And for those first few miles, I can't see very well out of my windshield until my car is able to warm up and properly defrost my windshield.

I think about this a lot when I'm driving home on Aurora Avenue after dark, which has a posted 40 mph speed limit, is lined by trees, is curvy and hilly, and I still see jackasses in dark coats and pants jumping the jersey barrier and running across the highway about a quarter mile ahead of me.

So why the fuck didn't this guy see Gramps, who was in a lit (albeit, poorly) crosswalk? If you can't see where you're driving when you're going 40 mph, you shouldn't be driving, and if you hit anything (or anybody), it most certainly IS your fault, even if a pedestrian is where he shouldn't be.

But no charges are going to be filed against this driver, and like I said I'm not interested in pursuing anything of that nature.

It just makes me angry.

Quick and Violent

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 07:25:00 +0000

When my parents leave me voice mail messages, they're usually both on the phone and cheerily request me to call them back when I have a moment.

But every once in awhile it's just my father with a terse "hey, it's Dad, call me back when you can."

Thankfully, these don't happen very often, as it usually means that either someone in my family has passed away, or they had to put down one of the dogs.

So I called back. And indeed someone in my family had passed on. My 83 year old grandfather.

When he told me the news, I was silent. Receiving word that an octogenarian member of your family has died is usually neither shocking nor unexpected. And in fact since Gramps's mild stroke about 3 years ago, I had been expecting this call.

What Dad said next was unexpected.

"He was hit by a car and killed while crossing the street."

"Oh my god," was my only response.

Mom so far seemed to be taking the day's circumstances well, as she was on the phone at the time too. I expect when they fly down to Austin to go through and organize Gramps's things that she'll have her breakdown, but for the moment everybody was calm and collected. We talked about what happened, then the conversation moved on to other non violent death talk regarding family members.

After the call, I went back to sleep and woke up later thinking maybe I had dreamt the entire conversation.

That's when I looked up the Austin, TX news sites. And indeed I found "Pedestrian killed while crossing street" headlines, some of which cited his name.

One, even, had a video of the story, which I watched. This news story showed the car with a Gramps-sized hole in the windshield, his glasses on the street, and a lone shoe by the curb. (Can be found here if you're curious.)

I don't know why, but I've watched that video about a half-dozen times now. Perhaps later this entire thing will hit me and I'll have my own breakdown, but for the moment I can't stop watching this video and thinking about the event. Did he see the car coming? Did he know he was going to be hit? Did he accept it or was he angry at his fate? Did he feel anything or was it "quick and painless"?

I'll never know the answers, so in the meantime I just watch this video over and over, paying special attention to his glasses and the shoe by the curb.

Chalkdust Torture

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 13:30:00 +0000

I'll admit it.

I got into that line in the supermarket because I thought the checker was cute. There were shorter lines, but it was a busy day and I'd probably only save a couple minutes if I tried to find a shorter route between aisle three and the car. So I queued up for the cutie.

I hadn't intended on making small talk or trying to have a conversation with her. I'm not very good at the small talk anyway. Last week while getting my hair cut, it felt like trying to run underwater participating in the forced conversation the barber was trying to have with me. I just wanted a little pleasantness to enter my day.

"Find everything alright?" she asked. A boilerplate ice-breaker, the answer to which is usually "yes". Though I hate forced conversation, it is a little odd when your grocery store checker doesn't say anything at all. You both just stand there in silence, listening to the beeping of the point of sale machine.

"More than enough," I replied.

"It looks like you're buying the whole store," she says.

"It's a little overwhelming," I say, watching the glacier of groceries slowly make its way across the scanner and into the bags.

We went on to talk about the theory I was putting into practice regarding buying a week's worth of food at once, instead of what I had been doing which is going to the store every day to get lunch and dinner (hey, I've been in tech all week). And though you're spending more money at once, you're spending less in the long run. And how they say you should never shop for food when you're hungry, but if I did that I wouldn't buy anything. And when you first get home, you have all this great food and you want to eat it all right away. And she mentioned how once, in regard to a couple of frozen pizzas I was buying, she ate two pizzas in one sitting by herself. I declared that feat "impressive", but stopped short of saying I didn't believe her because of her fit figure.

She finished tallying up my order and smiled gracefully when I sighed over the cost. As she handed me my receipt and wished me a pleasant day, I realized I had just made "small-talk" with a stranger, and it wasn't a horrible awkward experience.

So thanks cute checker girl at the Fred Meyer. You made my day a little better.

Spies Like Us

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 19:26:00 +0000

An e-mail thread has been going around my family recently, mostly on my Aunt's husband's side, announcing a member of the family becoming a doctor and a party for her down in Texas.

Now, I've never met most of these people, so I had to restrain myself from replying all and correcting someone's mistake.

So I'll post my reply here.

"Yes, Congratulations. Stuck in Seattle, I won't be able to make it to the party. However, I do want to say one thing:

Ahem.

'No name actors'? Those other two doctors happen to be Monty Python alum and director Terry Gilliam and special effects pioneer Ray Harryhausen.

Again, contratulations."

Priorities

noreply@blogger.com (benlau) — Sat, 12 Sep 2009 09:02:00 +0000

When I first met Felicia Day, she didn't take her iPhone out of her hand when I shook it. I thought it was incredibly rude.

Now that I have an iPhone, I totally understand.