DJ52 Stories

South America Trip - Fun Facts and Link to Peru Pictures

2007-02-14T02:20:00.000-08:00

Hola, amigos!

We're finally ready to start posting pictures from our trip to South America! Sorry for the delay, but YOU try weeding through almost ten thousand pictures. That's right. We took approximately 9,670 pictures over eighty-five days. Yeah. The final count blew our minds as well. We're still not done yet, but we're ready to show you pictures from the first country we visited--Peru.

By the way, on average, that's a little over 113 pictures per day. (Whatever...don't try to pretend you didn't just calculate that yourself.)

Our trip in a nutshell: We left Los Angeles on October 4, 2006 and returned on December 28th. We spent two and a half weeks in Peru, five days on Easter Island, about three weeks in Chile, and the last six weeks in Argentina.

Since we've been back, everyone's been asking us more or less the same question: What was your favorite out of all the places you visited? The truth is that it's hard to say, because we saw so many amazing, wonderful things. If I had to narrow it down, I'd have to go with the breathtaking Machu Picchu ruins in Peru, the awe-inspiring giant stone statues on Easter Island, and the majestic forested mountains of Torres Del Paine National Park in southern Chile. My favorite country as a whole, though, was probably Argentina, with eye-popping scenery, diverse and interesting wildlife, friendly people, great wine, and the most unbelievably flavorful and juicy steaks I've ever tasted.

The link to our Peru pictures is at the bottom of this post. But first, here are some fun facts about our trip:

Peru

Machu Picchu altitude: 2,430 m (7,970 ft)
- similar to base elevation of Mammoth Mountain in northern California

Lake Titicaca altitude: 3,812 m (12,507 ft)
- highest navigable lake in the world

Highest altitude on Inca Trail: Dead Woman’s Pass, 4,198 m (13,769 ft)
- similar to summit elevation of Mauna Kea, Hawaii

Distance we hiked on the four-day Inca Trail: 49 km (30 mi)

Date of "discovery" of Machu Picchu: July 24, 1911 (Hiram Bingham)

Best pollo a la brasa (Peruvian rotisserie chicken) we ate: El Pio Pio in Arequipa

Number of cities/towns/areas visited: 6 (Arequipa, Puno, Uros [the “Floating Islands”], Isla Taquile, Cuzco, Aguas Calientes [Machu Picchu Pueblo])

Most delayed bus departure: 4 hours
- bus was scheduled to leave Puno at 12:30 a.m. but didn’t leave until 4:30 a.m.
- and then broke down halfway to Cuzco causing delay of one more hour

Number of daypacks stolen: 1

Easter Island

Distance from Easter Island to Santiago, Chile: 3,600 km (2,200 mi)
- similar to distance from Los Angeles to Hawaii

Number of moai (stone statues) discovered by researchers, to date: 887

Size (area): 163.6 km² (63 sq. mi)
- slightly smaller than Catalina Island off California coast

Population: 3,791 (2002 census)

Only town on the island: Hanga Roa (with 3,304 inhabitants)

Number of ATMs on the island: 1 (and it didn't take our card)

Chile

National cocktail: Pisco sour (pisco brandy, lemon juice, and sugar)

Number of cities/towns visited: 14 (Santiago, Valparaiso, Pucon, Villarrica, Lican Ray, Conaripe, Valdivia, Osorno, Castro, Dalcahue, Achao, Puerto Varas, Puerto Montt, Puerto Natales)

Exchange rate: 1 USD = 545 Chilean pesos

Distance hiked on the “W” Circuit in Parque Nacional Torres Del Paine: 76 km (47 mi), over four days

Total hours on buses: 30 (approx.)

Argentina

Number of cities/towns visited: 26 (El Calafate, El Chalten, Rio Gallegos, Puerto Deseado, Trelew, Camarones, Puerto Madryn, Gaiman, El Bolson, Bariloche, San Martin de los Andes, Villa Meliquina, Mendoza, San Juan, Cordoba, La Cumbre, Jesus Maria, Alta Gracia, La Cumbrecita, Puerto Iguazu, Corrientes, Resistencia, Rosario, San Antonio de Areco, Buenos Aires, Tigre)

Number of penguin habitat areas visited: 4 (Isla Pinguino, Cabo Dos Bahias, Punta Tombo, Peninsula Valdes)

Area: 2,776,890 km² (1,072,157 sq. mi.)
- 8th largest country in the world

Distance traveled by bus: 8,216 km (5,094 mi)

Total hours on buses: 135 (approx.)

Distance traveled by rental car: 2,307 km (1,430 mi)

Total distance traveled: 10,523 km (6,524 mi) - similar to driving from Los Angeles to Fairbanks, Alaska, and back again

Longest bus ride: 24 hrs (Cordoba to Puerto Iguazu)

Best Argentine steak dinner: Cerro Lindo in El Bolson

Best Patagonian lamb: Tarquino in Bariloche

* * *

More fun facts to come! And here's the link to some of our Peru pictures, posted on Shutterfly:

http://share.shutterfly.com/action/welcome?sid=8AasmblmzYs2HC

Please comment! We LOVE comments!

Downtown at Twilight

2007-02-11T00:50:00.000-08:00

Bus Driver's post about downtown L.A. prompted me to post this picture I took a few months ago. Bus is right - the skyline can be really beautiful from certain angles. I took this one from the corner of 1st St. and Beaudry Ave.

South America: Camping or Hostel?

2007-02-09T16:09:00.000-08:00

(This is an old post, from Nov. 26, 2006.)

Say you're traveling (with your significant other, if applicable), and you come upon a small town with only two options for lodging for the night. Would you rather (A) sleep in a hostel in a shared room with strangers, or (B) camp outdoors in a tent? That is the question of the day. Which would you choose?

For anyone who's interested, right now we're spending a couple of days in the charming town of El Bolsón in Argentina's Lake District. Nestled among gray mountains capped with (melting) snow and lush green fields full of these dazzling purple and pink cone-shaped wildflowers, El Bolsón has a totally laid back vibe, which I understand is in stark contrast to the bustling and cosmopolitan resort town of Bariloche, just a couple of hours to the north. This morning we perused the weekly artisans' fair, where local vendors were selling handcrafted leather bags, handmade silver jewelry, and homemade beer, among other things. After lunch, we had what Lonely Planet describes as arguably Argentina's best ice cream (at Heladería Jauja, if you ever find yourself here). It was pretty damn good.

Okay, back to the question. This situation actually came up for us during our four-day/three-night hiking trek in Torres Del Paine National Park in southern Chile (Nov. 10-13). Because the only indoor accommodations along the park's popular "W" trail are shared rooms in the refugios (mountain refuges), we would have to sleep in a shared room for the first time EVER. This gave me pause. Share our sleeping space? With people we don't know? My first thought was security. Will our stuff be safe? Do I need to sleep with my money belt on? Do I need to put R's camera under my pillow? And then my second thought was...

Ew.

What if our roommates are slobs? What if they have B.O.? What if they take off their nasty, sweaty socks and put them on the window sill, precariously hanging above my water bottle? What if they snore? What if they fart in their sleep? Can I really sleep with a stranger's fart just hanging there, lingering in the air in the crowded, stuffy room?

I never liked the idea of sharing a room with strangers, and neither did R. Before we decided to hike the "W," we had ALWAYS booked our own UN-shared room, double accommodation. Five years ago, when we tromped around Central Europe for six weeks after I took the bar, we booked private double rooms on that trip, even though hosteling was and is extremely popular in Europe and is supposed to be a great way to meet fellow travelers. Now, I'm five years older and five years grumpier, and I have five more years of habits and idiosyncrasies that I feel like only a private sleeping and living space can accommodate. Like, to use one of the previous examples, what if I'm the one that needs to fart in the room? Those are some nice choices there in a shared room: I can let it out as silently as possible and hope no one notices, all the while living with the guilt that I foisted upon these unsuspecting strangers the very thing that I detest and fear about the shared room situation; I can hold it and be uncomfortable all night, and try not to burst out laughing at the idea that I'm trying to hold it ALL NIGHT; or I can get out of bed, walk to the shared bathroom, and fart on some sleepy-eyed backpacker who just wanted to brush his teeth in peace. No thanks to all of those. At least in a normal double room, I can do what I always do when the gas needs to be passed: calmly inform R of the situation, politely excuse myself, and hurry to our private bathroom to let it out silently. (Yeah, right.)

Anyway, my first inclination was that I would rather camp than share a room. Then I remembered a split-second later that I don't like camping. We were totally pampered on the Inca Trail in Peru: the tour company provided the tents, sleeping bags and mats for us, and their porters carried all the equipment and set up and took down everything for us. And even on this, the cushiest camping trip you could possibly imagine (they also cooked all our meals and woke us up gently with coca tea every morning), I concluded that I don't really enjoy camping. It's cold in the tent. Things get wet when it rains during the night, or in the morning from the dew. It's dirty. The campsite's bathrooms are usually nasty. And it's crowded in the tent, what with your bags and shoes and the sleeping bags and all that.

So, in short, I was not happy with either option. However, in the end, the idea of a warm bed with blankets and a pillow won out, and so we decided to try the shared room thing. We found spaces in the refugios for the first and third nights, but the refugio we wanted was full on the second night, so we would need to rent camping equipment and camp outside anyway. So I would get to try both, and weigh them against each other.

And where did I come out, after all of this?

I'd say it's a draw.

The first night (shared room) was a little weird. After dinner, R and I walked into our room to find that the lights were out and that the four others in our six-person shared room were already asleep. We hadn't even met these people yet, and now we were going to crawl into our adjacent bunk beds and just go to sleep. It was a bit unnerving. In the morning, we met them briefly and saw that they were just normal people, but we didn't know that lying there during the night.

I didn't like the lack of control I had over what I could be doing right before bed. Because the lights were out and the others were asleep, I couldn't read the Lonely Planet, or talk to R, or do any of the other stupid little things you can do when you're by yourselves. We had to try to get ready for bed in the dark, using only R's muffled headlamp as a guiding light. To entertain myself, I made a game out of it and pretended I was a secret agent in training, moving as silently as a cat and only as much as necessary to complete the mission. Don't wake the strangers. It's amazing how much body control you need to change out of travelers' pants quietly. They're made out of this nylon-like synthetic material that's really loud when you crinkle or rumple it. It took me like five minutes to take my pants off because I was moving so slowly, but I didn't wake anyone up, so I decided that I won the game.

And on the third night (our second night sharing a room), we met a delightful Australian couple who were in the last month of a year-long round-the-world trip (!). (Damn, those Aussies know how to live.)

As for camping, the tent was already set up for us, and we could use the indoor bathrooms in the refugio, so it was cushier than normal. It was crowded in the tent, and I had a sore back the next day due to the extremely thin mat, but for the most part it was fine. There was one gas-related incident that I'm sure R will blog about someday. It makes me chuckle just thinking about it.

Neither sharing a room nor camping were as bad as I thought they would be. So, in the end, although they're still not my first choice, I would be willing to share a room or camp outside if we need to. And if I have to choose between them, I think I'll take the clean sheets, warm blankets, and roof over your head that come with sharing a room. I just need to make sure the hostel doesn't have beans or cabbage on the dinner menu that night.

D

South America: DJ Fujimori

2006-11-01T05:47:00.000-08:00

In our travels, we've grown accustomed to the local people not being able to figure out where we're from. At times, this has frustrated me, but lately it's mostly just been mildly amusing. Like, when a local vendor or tout spots us, he or she usually will shout out one or more of the usual Japanese or Chinese greetings.

"Konnichi wa!"

"Ni hao ma?"

When I reply in English (or, down here, in accented Spanish), it confuses them for about a split second. But the dollar signs quickly return to their eyes and they go back to their usual selling mode, now in their best broken English (or, down here, slow Spanish with lots of baby words).

In South America, we´ve been getting a lot of "Konnichi wa." I like to think this is because of my distinctive Japanese-y features, which, in fact, Rita tells me have been greatly enhanced by the new wild and wiry facial growth. But it's probably more because they get tons of Japanese tourists here, and hardly any Chinese ones. Give it time. At the rate China is growing, soon the souvenir hawks will be bowing and chanting "huanying guanglin" when any Asian walks through the door.

On this trip, we've been getting all kinds of interesting and funny greetings and comments in passing from the locals. A popular greeting from vendors who either don´t know any Japanese phrases or don´t want to use them on us has been, "Hola, amigo - where you from, Japan?" (One time I responded, "No, los Estados Unidos," and the guy laughed. It was weird. What's so funny?) On Easter Island, a group of schoolchildren made random kung fu/karate noises when they saw us. The next day, I could have sworn that one guy on a horse mumbled the word "Ninja!" as he rode by. In Peru, one guy who noticed me made a quick, barely intelligible reference to Alberto Fujimori, the controversial former president of Peru. (I wish I had understood what he had said there!) And, of course, there were the touts along "Gringo Alley" in Cuzco, Peru, whose sole marketing pitch was to intone "hapa hapa hapa hapa..." as we walked by. (Rita's blog explains this one - click on the above link for her post.)

I would imagine other Asian Americans get this treatment as well. I'm fine with it. What else are the locals supposed to think? I look Japanese. And I am, sort of. And no one's being malicious or racist - at least it doesn't seem like it to me.

Ninja. That's good stuff.

Signing off, from Pucon, Chile,
D

South America: The Post Office (Day 24)

2006-10-20T16:52:00.000-07:00

One thing I'm learning on this trip is that when you're in a foreign country, sometimes it's nearly impossible to perform even the simplest tasks. For example, how hard is it to mail a postcard? Apparently, on Easter Island, this task is comprised of at least five steps.

(Note: I absolutely LOVED Easter Island. Once in a lifetime. You will cry when you see the pictures. Now, back to my post.)

Step 1: Drop by the main post office in the center of town. The clerk will tell you that postcard stamps are either 320 or 390 Chilean pesos, depending on the destination. The clerk will tell you that it's 320 pesos to send a postcard to the U.S. However, the clerk will also tell you that they are out of stamps for the day, and that you will have to come back in the morning.

Step 2: Return to the post office in the morning, where a different clerk will be assisting a customer, who also appears to be a tourist. The clerk will dutifully take this other customer's twelve postcards to a small adjoining room and pound her cancellation stamp loudly on each one. She will do this in plain view of you and the other customer. When she finishes, she will bring the postcards out and hold them up to the customer to show him her handiwork. The customer will extend his hands in front of him, palms up, and ask, "Is that it?" The clerk will smile and nod, and will carry his postcards gently to the other room and place them in what appears to be a pile of "mail to be sent." You will be heartened by this display of postal competency.

Step 3: When it's your turn, show the clerk your own twelve postcards and tell her you want to send them to the U.S. She will tell you it's 390 pesos each to send them to the U.S. You will quickly decide that despite the discrepancy between what she's saying and what the guy said yesterday, you should overpay just to be safe. You will pay the money and receive the stamps.

Step 4: Tear off the first two stamps along the perforated lines, lick them, and apply them to the first two postcards. At this point, the clerk will admonish you for your stupidity and will point to the wet sponge on the counter. Be sure to use the sponge to wet the adhesive and apply the rest of the stamps, or risk being shunned by the clerk forever.

Step 5: By the time you finish stamping your postcards, another customer will come in - this time a local - and the clerk will turn all her attention to that person. Due to this unexpected turn of events, you will not receive the same competent, personal service as the first customer. Instead, when you gesture to the clerk that your postcards are stamped and ready to be sent, she will point to the red box in the corner and gesture for you to drop them there. You will comply, but you will be confused.

Step 6 (optional): You may feel the urge to continue to hold your postcards out to the clerk and smile, and gesture like you're saying something like, "Now? Ahora? Can you do...ahora?" You should probably resist this urge.

Who would have thought that in South America, mailing a package would be easier than mailing a postcard? There are vendors outside and sometimes inside the post office who are there specifically to help you bundle up and send your package. Granted, in Peru the girl at the kiosk sold us used banker´s boxes that obviously contained paper or computer parts up until just a couple of hours before, but hey, I'm not complaining.

Chile is fantastic. In Valparaiso right now. More when we get further south.

D

South America: Day 1

2006-10-05T01:03:00.000-07:00

Alas, I never got around to finishing my post on the fabulous Midwest Tour. You´ll just have to believe me that it was awesome. Whatever. I know you´re jealous.

I didn´t want to turn this into a travel blog, but I guess I´ll have to. At least for the next two and a half months or so. I´ll try to keep it to travel stories, how´s that?

Anyway. So it begins. Day One of my big adventure in South America.

Right now, I´m at an internet station in Jorge Chavez International Airport, in Lima, Peru. It is 3:11 a.m. local time (two hours ahead of PDT). Our connecting flight to the southern coastal city of Arequipa leaves in a few hours. The typing is slow-going. There´s an "ñ" where the semicolon is supposed to be. Heck, it took me fifteen seconds just to find the quotation marks for the previous sentence. I am exhausted yet excited, wary yet wide-eyed. Day One of eighty-five. Just saying it out loud gives me chills. The good kind.

I´m noticing that this computer has a USB port. So, I could conceivably upload a picture from my camera to my Flickr account and post it in this blog. My head is spinning.

This airport is great. The restaurants in the food court, the shops, and the internet station all stay open twenty-four hours. The main waiting area is clean and brightly lit. Now, if I can just stay awake until our flight leaves...

52

Midwest Tour - The Cast of Characters

2006-08-01T00:55:00.000-07:00

On July 21st, Rita and I and four of our close friends set off on our highly anticipated Midwest Tour. Many non-believers, when informed of our plans, winced at the thought of traveling -- voluntarily -- to Chicago, Indiana, and St. Louis in the middle of summer. Those who didn't wince, jeered. Some guffawed. Anyway, screw you all. It was fabulous. The other five intrepid barnstormers will soon be peppering their blogs with funny pictures, charming anecdotes, and the like. I will also try to do justice to this soon-to-be-legendary trip. For now, though, I just want to introduce this motley crew to the blogosphere...

CAPTAIN INDIANA (aka The Medalist, Tetris Master, The Cub, HipGayChemistryTeacher)
Our tour guide in the Hoosier State, this furry fellow medaled in all four cycling events he entered at the Gay Games in Chicago (July 15-22, 2006). He likes Star Wars, cereal, waterskiing, and a dangerously addictive card game entitled Killer Bunnies and the Quest for the Magic Carrot. Little-known fact: The Captain brought seventeen complete changes of clothes on the trip and, to the best of my knowledge, wore all of them. Twice.

THE SPIRIT OF ST. LOUIS (aka Rubberface, The Fluxx Capacitor, Little Toes, Mister Jackhonky)
No, not Lindbergh's famous single-engine plane. This guy IS the actual Spirit of that great Midwestern city. Also known as Mister Jackhonky, this Wash U alum showed us that there is so much more to the "Gateway to the West" than just The Arch (although looking down from 630 feet up was pretty cool). He also introduced the group to Fluxx, the wacky card game with ever-changing rules! The Spirit reads Us Weekly religiously, but also enjoys pontificating, deconstructing, and creating portmanteaux.

THE LAUGHING ASSASSIN (aka The Valedictorian, GPS, Da Pingguo)
Don't let the sweet smile fool you. This New York native first earned her nickname during a seemingly innocuous round of Mille Bornes, the classic auto race card game. Her signature giggle -- the one she unleashes right after demolishing your car, trashing your Keeper, or flaying your bunny -- still haunts me at night. She is also known as GPS because of her uncanny knack for always knowing exactly which direction the SUV was pointing. The Assassin is exceedingly fond of big sunglasses and fishing hats.

THE SLEEPSTANDER (aka The Opinionator, The Former Human Garbage Disposal, The Fuming Doctor)
Med students learn a host of immensely valuable skills during those long, arduous years of training, but only a select few acquire the grotesquely unnatural ability to fall asleep while standing. We are proud to call The Sleepstander our own. Surprisingly, he stayed awake for most of the trip, although we had to remind ourselves to poke him sharply every once in a while to make sure he was really awake (he can fake it well). When he's not checking on his fantasy baseball team, The Sleepstander can be heard mumbling an insightful opinion ("oh, really? what's that about?" "wow, that's cool"), or fuming over the fact that another waitress called The Laughing Assassin "sir."

THE CRAZY HAT LADY (aka The Initiator, Lemon Tea, The Shutterfly, RH Crayon)
She forgot the welder's helmet her paranoid mother gave her, so The Crazy Hat Lady brought along this crazy yellow hat. But I love her anyway. Can you imagine that? My wife is also the brainchild behind the Midwest Tour. A few years ago, when we learned that Gay Games VII was going to be held in Chicago and that Captain Indiana was planning to compete there, The Initiator had the wacky idea that we could all tag along, and that we could also tour the hometowns of the Captain and The Spirit of St. Louis. Did I mention the wincing? Well, we had a wonderful time, so count me as a doubting Thomas no longer.

THE DRIVER (aka The Game Master, The Muscle Tracer, DJ52)
Yep, that's me. I drove almost the entire way. There was one morning in St. Louis when the Captain took the white Chevy Trailblazer LT around the corner to grab some coffee and bagels, but the rest of the time I drove. What can I say? I like to drive. Especially on freeways and highways, and most especially on roads I've never been on before. Legend has it that I was giving my parents driving directions from my car seat when I was an infant. I almost believe it. We played some of the games we brought, but we never got to try Settlers of Catan or Lord of the Rings Risk. I guess those will have to wait for our next trip.

Here's a picture of the entire group:

More soon!

DJ52

What Do You Call Your In-Laws?

2006-07-31T10:30:00.000-07:00

Since my last post, I haven't run into the guy at the gym -- yet. Just in case you were wondering. Also, no, I don't believe he was gay and hitting on me. I'll admit that my last post was badly worded, to the point where the running joke for the last couple of weeks has been for Rita or my other friends to cast a sensuous glance at me and "trace a line" along their bicep, or tricep, or other bulging muscle and make inappropriate come-on lines.

An update on last week's FABULOUS Midwest Tour is forthcoming. Until then, I just have one question...

What do you call your in-laws?

Mom and Dad? Mr. and Mrs. Wife's Maiden Name? Doris and Fred?

This came up on our trip and it's been nagging at me ever since. I've been skating along for almost four years trying not to address Rita's parents directly, because honestly I don't know what to call them.

All the married people in the house -- speak up now.

D

The Guy at the Gym

2006-06-27T01:07:00.000-07:00

So I went to the gym with Rita last night. It was really crowded, and most of the free weights stations were being used, so I circled back to the cardio equipment and settled onto the Precor machine next to Rita for a quick warmup. After several minutes, I noticed that the free weight crowd was thinning out, so I hurried over and grabbed an open bench. I was in the mood for Chinese music, probably because we just caught up with our friend Ariel from our days teaching English in Taiwan, so I dialed in a peppy Kelly Chen song on my iPod and started on a set of bench presses.

When I finished, I noticed a guy gesturing like he wanted to work in with me. I took out my earbuds and said, "Sure." He asked if he could take forty pounds off of the bar, because he was just starting back up after a month off. I said that was fine and helped him adjust the weight. I then spotted him for his set.

We continued to chat. He apparently learned from another guy at the gym that pushing the weight up slowly will give you the best results. I commented that I also had heard that, and then strained to do my next set more slowly than the last one. At one point during our third set he asked what my name was. I learned his name -- we'll call him Robert. He was a real nice guy -- Latino, a bit shorter than me, and I guessed about the same age as me or maybe a little younger.

As we finished our last set, I started looking around to see what I wanted to do next. Usually, I do back and biceps on the same day as chest. (I have no idea why -- it goes way back to when my buddy Ray and I used to work out at Bally's in Buena Park during the summers when we were home from college. I'll have to ask him.) I was about to thank Robert for spotting me and head off to do some back exercises, when he piped up:

"So what else are you working on today?"

Meaning, of course, what other muscle groups. Which, to me, seemed to imply, "hey, let's do something else...TOGETHER." This took me by surprise and, for some reason, freaked me out. I had this weird fear of commitment thing right then. But I just met you! I thought this was just a one-exercise thing! My mind quickly went to work and cobbled together some semblance of an excuse:

"Uh, actually, I just have about, um, ten minutes left here. Yeah, I only had like thirty minutes to work out today...you know, got here late 'cause of work and...well, you know." (What the hell are you doing?!)

"Oh. What time did you get here?" Robert asked, innocently.

"Uh, about ten, fifteen minutes ago, you know, like around 10:15," the idiot stammered. "Yeah, um, I'm probably going to go finish up with like ten minutes of cardio, and then I...I gotta go. But hey, it was great meeting you, and maybe I'll see you around again, here, you know, and we can...work out again together, or something."

"Yeah, okay. See ya!" Robert replied and turned to start on another exercise.

As I walked back to the Precor machine next to Rita, where she was finishing up her cardio, all I could think was IDIOT! IDIOT! IDIOT! What the hell is wrong with me? Am I socially retarded or what? I totally could have used a workout partner. In my own experience and as I've heard countless times from others, it's ALWAYS better to work out with a partner. And here was a nice guy who also obviously needed a partner. And he knew how to strike up a conversation. Not like the IDIOT.

I stewed over my idiocy in the dry sauna. What happened out there? Why was I choosing isolation over interaction? I started thinking of all the potentially friendly conversations I've avoided lately. Chitchat with the checkout guy at Ralphs. A tasteful joke and a laugh with the two young female clerks at our local public library. Innocuous morning banter with the smiling parking attendant in our garage at work. Nope. I'd have none of it. It was a sad realization, and it made me mad.

I have completely forgotten how to interact with people.

That's an overstatement. What I mean is that I have forgotten how to interact normally with friendly strangers. I blame it on my iPod. I used to be able to strike up conversations with people I didn't know. Now, I seem to have lost that art. I'm out of practice. I've become the person that I used to look down upon with disdain -- the guy with his earbuds securely in place, immersed in his own selection of sounds and thoughts and ignoring the world around him. What a putz.

But wait! It can't be the iPod's fault! It just can't! I mean, that thing has absolutely revolutionized my workouts! Since I got it I've been lifting heavier weights and running harder, pushing my body to the next level. Trying to keep pace with Janet and BT and Erasure and the Chemical Brothers is tricking my body into shaping itself up.

But at what price?

I continued to stew. There was one other guy in the sauna, a bald-headed white guy in maybe his mid- to late-thirties whom I had seen around before. I suddenly hated the hot, stifling silence. I wanted to say something. Something genuine. You know, not just, "Wow, is it hot in here or what?" But I couldn't form any words. (I really wanted to ask him, "Hey, do people ever just start talking to you here, at the gym? What if you don't want to talk, I mean, what do you say to them?" Then it occurred to me, whatever he replied, I wouldn't know if that's what he would actually say, or if he was actually saying it to me because he didn't want to talk to me. That thought made me smile. I hope he didn't notice.)

The bald-headed guy left the sauna after a few minutes. Another chance at social interaction, lost. So I made up my mind. Usually, I push myself to stay in the sauna fifteen minutes for maximum detoxification, but this time I got out early. I showered quickly, got dressed, and hurried back out to the main gym area. I was going to find Robert and make up for my earlier stupidity. The place had cleared out considerably, as it was now well after 11. I didn't see him at first, so I discreetly ambled over to a drinking fountain nearer to the free weights area. Then I saw him. He was in the middle of a curl set when I approached him and called out his name.

"Hey, Robert. So, how often do you come here?"

He finished his set and mopped his brow. "Oh, you know, I try to come every day and just work out different body parts. You know, I did chest today, so tomorrow I'll probably work on legs or something. How about you?"

"Oh, I usually try to come like three times a week," I answered. "So," I asked, "do you usually come around this time?"

"Yeah, after I get off work, so like around 10 o'clock."

"Cool. Hey, so, you know, maybe I'll try to come find you when I come here, and we can work out together. 'Cause, you know, it's always better to work out with a partner," I offered.

"Yeah, sure!" Robert seemed excited. "I'm going to try to set up a routine where I hit all the different muscle groups, so like maybe do this on Monday" -- he pointed to his right bicep and traced a line up to his shoulder -- "and then this on Tuesday, and..." Robert continued like this all the way through the week. I was half listening, but mostly I was feeling better about myself. I am not a social retard. I still know how to make friends and talk to people. Yeah!

"Cool," I said, after Robert had gotten through Friday, which may have been wrists and calves. I'm only half joking. "Sounds like a plan. I guess I'll see you next time we're both here."

"Hey, why don't you give me your cell number?"

"Uh..."

I felt that same Fear of Commitment again.

The exact same thing. AGAIN!

Wait, what am I committing to here? Dude, I just met you! But this time, I caught myself. In a split second, I did the necessary mental gymnastics. Stalker? No, doesn't seem like one. Just a friendly guy at the gym. Latino. What's that mean? Nothing. I have Latino friends. Gangbanger? NO! There's absolutely NO evidence of that. I've obviously been watching too many bad movies. He's a nice guy! Give him a fake number? NO! Why would I do that? I'm not a hottie trying to blow off a guy at a club. What if this doesn't work out? Do we have to stop coming to this gym? Rita will be mad!

I ended up giving him my number.

Maybe I overcompensated. Was this TOO MUCH all at once? Well, whatever. I was glad to shake things up a bit. It's time to get back into society and start connecting with people again. I'll continue to use my iPod at the gym, but not all the time.

We'll see how this works out. I'll keep you posted.

TPIR Episode - Act I, Scene 1 (Intro)

2006-06-15T13:37:00.000-07:00

[The following is the first part of a fictitious episode of "The Price is Right." As you can tell, I'm not a screenwriter, so bear with me.]

ACT I

SCENE 1 - "Come On Down!"

[Fade in. A shiny gold border frames the television screen. White and yellow light bulbs line the border and blink randomly. The somewhat recognizable intro theme music begins, the camera pans slowly across the screaming audience, and the announcer, Rod Roddy, begins his voiceover.]

RODDY: "He-e-e-e-ere it comes! Television's most exciting hour of fantastic prizes! The fabulous sixty-minute Price is Right!"

[Cut to a wide shot of the first contestant and start zooming in slowly.]

RODDY: "Bertha McFeely, come on down!"

[Camera zooms in on a moderately overweight, middle-aged Caucasian woman wearing an oversized green sweatshirt that reads, "Barker's Beauties - Topeka Branch." She stands up, screams incoherently, waves her large arms in the air and bear hugs her husband on her right and then a surprised complete stranger on the left. She squeezes her portly frame between her husband and the row of seats in front of her, awkwardly makes her way down her row past seven other wildly cheering and back-patting audience members, and rumbles down the aisle to the first spot in Contestants' Row. Winded, Bertha spends her two seconds of solo airtime with her hands on her knees, panting heavily.]

RODDY: "Ashish Patel, come on down!"

[Camera pans up and to the right, to the farthest rear corner of the audience, where thirty hyperactive college students rise as one and go completely bonkers. Each is wearing a T-shirt or sweatshirt with the same logo consisting of three Greek letters. One young man, a tall, lanky Indian fellow, makes his way to the closest aisle and races down to take his place next to Bertha. They hug while simultaneously jumping up and down, a rare skill that the producers screened for before the show began.]

RODDY: "Michael Washington, come on down!"

[In the middle of the audience on the left side, eight uniformed members of the United States Navy stand up and start cheering. A tall, muscular, clean-shaven black man leaves his shipmates and joins the others as the third contestant in Contestants' Row. Michael high-fives Ashish and grins broadly at the camera.]

RODDY: "And Estelle Pinkerton, come on down!"

[Camera zooms in on the second row, where an elderly Caucasian couple sits quietly. The frail woman looks to her left at her husband, and then to her right, where the jolly Hispanic woman sitting next to her sees Estelle's nametag and realizes that she has been called and needs to get on stage. The Hispanic woman jumps up and screams joyously, tugging at Estelle to get up. Realizing that her name has been called, Estelle smiles, clutches her woolen shawl a little tighter over her shoulders, and moves slowly toward the aisle. Despite the fact that she's only twenty feet from Contestants' Row, it's a good fifteen to twenty seconds before Rod can finish his introduction.]

RODDY: "You are the first four contestants on the Price Is Right!" [Zoom out and show the TPIR logo. The INSTANTLY recognizable theme music starts. You know, "dat dat da-daaah, dat dat da-daaah," etc.] "And now, here's the host of the Price Is Right... BOB BARKER!"

Come On Down (To Fairfax and Beverly)

2006-06-12T16:51:00.000-07:00

There was a great article in the New York Times the other day about my favorite game show, "The Price Is Right" (or "TPIR" for short). Like millions of others, I've been watching the show since I was a small child. The set is like a playground for adults, full of life-sized games with flashy, multi-colored pieces and backgrounds. I love the frantic, pachinko-like action in "Plinko!"; the gaudy, oversized fuzzy dice used in the "Dice Game"; the bizarre game that I can't remember the name of right now where your pricing guesses can't be too far off or the mountain climber will tumble over the edge of the cliff. (Also, the background yodeling music for that one is way cool.)

When I was in elementary school, I used to watch TPIR with my stepdad's mother, whom we affectionately called Gram or Grammy. Gram would come out to California from New Hampshire during the summer to catch rays by the pool and get her daily fix of soap operas and game shows. Our favorites were TPIR, "The Young and the Restless" (because it came on right after TPIR and we were too lazy to change the channel), and "Sale of the Century" (another ridiculous but brilliant game show).

Children's television experts say that young kids are comforted by the predictability of their favorite programs. I get that. For example, I saw my first episode of "Dora the Explorer" the other day while waiting to help finalize an adoption at the Children's Court in Monterey Park. From what I can tell, the formula is that Dora goes on an adventure/mission (in this case, helping a lost baby dinosaur find her mom - awwwwww!), she accomplishes it, and then Dora and her friends sing this inane song that goes "We did it, we did it, we did it!" I can see how that would be comforting to a kid, knowing that Dora was going to do what she set out to do, and that the payoff - the stupid song and a lot of jumping and dancing - was coming at the end. My client's three kids knew the song and sang along happily. Even the dad sang along. (I resisted the temptation, even though I also practically knew the song after about three bars.)

That's kind of what game shows, and especially TPIR, were like for me. During summer vacation, I looked forward to 10 a.m. on weekdays, and it was comforting to know that I was in for a predictably good time. I knew that the announcer, Johnny Olson (or later, Rod Roddy), would pick four people from the audience to "come on down," and that Bob would emerge from behind one of the doors onstage to a standing ovation. Sometimes he'd pay some lame compliment to the fawning audience, who would eat it up completely and go even crazier. Sometimes, though, he'd forgo the banter and immediately ask for the "first item up for bids." After hearing the ten-second commercial for the item (including the brand name, of course), the four contestants would bid on the ladies' watch, or barbecue grill, or television set, or whatever. Someone inevitably would screw their neighbor by bidding one dollar more than the previous bid, or would bid $1 if they thought everyone else was on crack ($850 for tennis rackets? WTF?). Eventually, someone would win and join Bob on stage to play one of the games.

I knew this would happen three times, and I'd get to watch three games, before the "Showcase Showdown." This is where the three contestants come back onstage to spin the Big Wheel to see who gets to be in the Showcase at the end of the show. Then three more games, another Showcase Showdown, and then the Showcase. That's it. Formulaic. Comforting. Predictable.

Even things Bob or Johnny or Rod would say during the show were predictable. Any casual TPIR fan can tell you that Bob signs off every show with the signature line "Help control the pet population - have your pets spayed or neutered." The more devout watcher can rattle off the address where you can get Tickets, which Johnny or Rod would mention about halfway through the show: CBS Television City, 7800 Beverly Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA 90036. Growing up, the address didn't mean anything to me - no one from Orange County knows where the hell anything is in L.A.

But it's a block and a half from where we live now. The late-night lining up for tickets on Fairfax that's mentioned in the article? We see it all the time, usually on our way home from the gym. When we first moved to the neighborhood and saw it happening, I knew exactly what it was. Sometimes, in the morning, I see small clumps of similarly dressed people walking west on Beverly toward Fairfax. Sunburned folks with fanny packs and matching red T-shirts that say "Tulsa, OK Loves Bob!" Frat boys from USC with their Greek sweatshirts. Old people. Young people.

A block and a half away.

If I get tickets, will you come with me? You can crash on the futon. But we will need a gimmick...

Puzzle #1: Word Squares

2006-05-25T12:47:00.000-07:00

I love games and puzzles. I'm reading a book right now on word games, and I thought it might be interesting to post some of the things I'm learning. The chapter I'm on right now is talking about word squares. A word square is a square grid of letters that spells out words going both across and down. For example, here's a simple 3 x 3 word square:

P A T
A C E
T E N

Word squares became popular in Britain in the mid-1800s. Someone eventually thought of adding clues to try to get the player to build a word square from the answers -- thus, word squares are the direct predecessors of the modern crossword. For instance, the following clues might be used for the above example:

1. A unit of butter
2. The highest card
3. Five twos

Bored at work? Try coming up with one. It will keep you occupied for at least several minutes. Hey, it's better brain exercise than checking ESPN.com for the twentieth time today...

PUZZLE #1:

1. Unpleasant sensation
2. Facial eruption
3. More than one B&B
4. Eagle's home

_ _ _ _
_ _ _ _
_ _ _ _
_ _ _ _

Post a comment if you have the answer!

Unwanted Visitors

2006-05-15T00:19:00.000-07:00

Ever walk into a complete stranger's home? I've done it at least twice. Both times were pretty uncomfortable. At least this last time was funny, too.

I know there are times when it's socially acceptable to allow a stranger into your home. I've let in the guy from the gas company, the apartment building handyman, the LAPD fingerprint specialist after our place was ransacked (who, by the way, lifted a nice fat print off of Rita's jewelry box, which led to a positive I.D., which led to an additional 3 years probation for the bastard and a $50 "restitution" check every month for yours truly). Of course, these people all had my consent to come on in and do their business.

What is not cool, however, is going in to someone's house uninvited. I did not know this in second grade. I remember it like it was 24 years ago. It was a hot summer day, and my mom and I were headed toward the community pool in our condo complex to go swimming. I guess my mom forgot her watch or didn't want the tan line or whatever, but she wanted to know what time it was, so she told me to go find out. I whined that I didn't want to walk all the way back to our place, which was six whole condo units away. So she said fine, just go ask someone. As my mom continued toward the pool, I circled back and came upon an open garage a couple of units down the street. It looked just like my garage (imagine that!), so I squeezed between the cars, opened the door that led to the downstairs hallway, strode into the living room and saw a blonde woman sitting at her breakfast table. She was either smoking or eating a sandwich, or maybe her hair was in curlers (gimme a break, it was 24 years ago). Anyway, she was startled and asked who I was and why I was there, and in response I awkwardly mumbled something like, "My mom wanted to know...what time it is, and...came through the garage..." In my mind, she chased me out with a broom while screaming incoherently, but I think it was actually less dramatic than that. SO awkward. (Involuntary shudder and cringe.)

That was pretty traumatic. And then there's the kind of encounter like what my friend Dave and I experienced on Cinco de Mayo, just last week. Not traumatic, just bizarre. Dave picked me up after work in downtown L.A. and we headed toward our friend Bob's surprise birthday party in Fullerton (Orange County). Bob has a really nice place in one of those new neighborhoods where each home is a different style but somehow they still all look the same. Unfortunately, Dave wrote the address down wrong, so we were screwed from the get-go. We found the wrong house number - 1812 - and just as we were reaching to ring the bell, the door swung open. So Dave and I walked in, and we saw four Asians in the living room, and the older man who opened the door was smiling and looked happy to see us. So we said "hi," introduced ourselves to everyone and, instinctively, took off our shoes. I didn't see Bob's girlfriend...or anyone else I recognized. Hmmm. Weird. The one who looked like the "mother" greeted us and asked who we were there to see -- "Jonathan" or some other boy's name. Vague sense of confusion setting in. She said, in a kind manner, "I don't think I've seen you here before -- no, I'm pretty sure I haven't seen you two around. Have you been here before?" At that point, I think I mouthed the word "Bob." Dave may have asked, "Is Bob here?" It's all a blur in my mind now. I think at this point, Dave had started putting his shoes back on, but I was still befuddled -- probably with my mouth agape. Then "Jonathan" and the other boy with a name came running down the stairs, and I realized the gig was up. "Sorry, I think we're in the wrong house," one or both of us said, and I grabbed my shoes and bolted outside. We heard them cackling behind us in the house as I hopped around and put on my shoes as fast as I could. Then we both just busted a gut laughing at our idiocy. All I could think was, "Dammit, I took off my shoes!" For some reason that was hilarious.

Inside Our Minds

2006-05-05T23:52:00.000-07:00

Of the two of us, Rita is more prone to burst out laughing spontaneously during a car ride. This usually happens when she has "gone to the theater": lulled into a half-conscious state through a potent combination of the car's gentle rocking motion and the soothing familiarity of one of the three CDs we keep in the car (and never switch out for some reason), she replays a prior event or conversation in her brain over and over again. It's a fascinating phenomenon that could take up an entire blog by itself -- her eyes dart back and forth, not focusing on anything in particular; her lips move along with the scrolling text in her mind's eye. I know it's happening because she's stopped talking, stopped singing. Sometimes I catch her, in the corner of my eye, and I ask, "What are you thinking about?" Often the burst of laughter is because she knows I've caught her again. Other times, however, it's because the memory was really, really funny. So she'll remind me of the funny, and soon we're both laughing.

I suppose the rough equivalent of "going to the theater" for me is when I "see the train coming." This usually happens when we're eating at a restaurant. According to Rita, there are times when I zone out in mid-conversation -- my gaze falls off to the side, my mouth parts ever so slightly, and my eyes grow just a tad bit bigger and rounder. But I'm not doing anything cool like re-living a wonderful memory or trying to re-create a snappy piece of dialogue. It's just a blank gap in my consciousness. I'm lucky I don't drool. When Rita says, "You see the train coming again?" I snap out of it and grin sheepishly.

I hope I never see the train coming while Rita's in the theater. We may never get back here!