Posts filed under ‘picture this’
somewhere between day four and the end of our summer’s vacation, the dominator and i went on a long drive, circling pretty much the entirety of hawaii’s big island. it took most of the day, three starbucks stops and about sixteen climate zones, but eventually we made it back to kona in time to grab a quick swim, a less quick dinner and about two episodes from seinfeld’s season nine dvds before falling asleep in front of the teevee at the oh-so-late hour of nine pm.
a lot didn’t happen on this drive. we didn’t see the turtles on the turtle beach. we didn’t get max the parrot to say “fat aaron” despite it being advertised on the sign hanging from his cage. we didn’t swim in any waterfalls and we didn’t spend more than the forty-five minutes it takes to eat some loco moco and pick up fresh strawberry mochi in hilo. but we did do some serious driving and we did stop to capture a few of the more, um, charming moments on camera.
this is a picture of a street sign not two blocks from the pe’epe’e waterfalls and a subtle reminder of how essential apostrophes are in maintaining the integrity of a street teetering on the brink of elementary school hilarity. and yes, i understand how immature this is, but i also understand how delightful it is in spite of its immaturity and, frankly, if you expected more from someone who not only writes “poop” to mark his golf balls, but photographs and writes about it, then you deserve to be disappointed. enjoy!
it’s either a testament to our brotherly bond or a sign of dominator’s utter submission to my ridiculousness, but the kid didn’t so much as flinch when i pointed at the sign, pulled over and subsequently began photographing it just because it said “peepee falls.” he just leaned back and pulled himself out of frame.
viva la dominator!
i’ve never been completely certain if it’s called a car-port or car-park, but it’s become less the place where guests to my apartment can park their cars and more the super-dope venice hangout/lounge/unisex toilet for the local – and occasionally wandering – homeless. i bring this up because as los angeles is on its third consecutive day of being kinda cloudy, but sorta sunny, but windy and rainy, but only sporadically at different intervals, in different locations with varying levels of intensity, i want to offer you – drivers/parkers of cars and blog-savvy transients – this image of sheltered unity, where compact cars and unabashed vagrants can rest together in peace and quiet, albeit not five feet from an ever-present puddle of improbably pungent urine and other miscellaneous fecal accoutrement.
photo courtesy of boredom, nerve and my blackberry bold.
i thought this was a book about spas. i mean, i assumed this was a book about spas. i didn’t REALLY look at it. i just kinda glanced over the swooping, cursive lettering and bleached white linens and thought, “okay. spa book. maybe mom bought this the last time she went to canyon ranch.” i really didn’t expect to be wrong. and certainly not this wrong. wow was i very, very wrong. yeah, so this is very much not a book about spas.
and as fitting as the phrase may seem, this is not an example of simply misjudging a book by its cover. there really is no way to approach this thing that would offer much predictability. i tried opening the book at random to see what kind of squalor/sadness existed between these pages. that’s when i came across this gentleman’s photo, sitting comfortably atop a quote about wisdom by confucious:
this man is part of the palm beach no one talks about? really? why the heck not? does palm beach have a problem with awesomeness? this dude looks like he went on a shopping spree in silverlake before the bottom fell out. so what if he’s got a little bit o’ crack smile? he could be a mannequin at fred segal’s mumbai branch. this picture doesn’t make me sad. or scared. it kinda makes me want to find out where this underbelly is and make a few friends. hell, i could probably learn some things from this guy. things about life. things about wisdom. hell, he probably DOES quote confucious. maybe THAT’s why they used that quote. maybe he actually said it. and suddenly optimistic about this collective underbelly, its characters, its book, i turn the page to find a quote about compassion by the dalai lama and, if my theory holds true, the man who recited it. and then i found this guy…
okay, this guy does not quote the dalai lama. and this guy does not get to go to fred segal. in fact, i’m pretty sure that there are people who go to fred segal to not see this guy. and yet he celebrates life. or perpetually tries to catch a giant, invisible beach ball. one or the other. too soon? i never know. anyway, this picture, above its dalai lama quote, following a picture of presumably the most fashion forward of the palm beach county homeless, trapped inside high-quality hardcover, in a household that subscribes to magazines that showcase fallen or forgotten child actors of the late eighties/early nineties and proudly displays its affinity for brooches, helps communicate the following:
there is no rhyme or reason behind the purchase of any of the coffee table items in my parents’ house. they’re all either purchased or ordered during some kind of impulse purchase blackout/torneado and, eventually, appear on a flat surface where they sit, undetected, unread, unnoticed, as if this was a starter home. but, alas, this is not a starter home. this is boca raton. and i’ve run out of things to say about coffee table books.
last night i walked into the guest room and caught the february issue of the boca observer in my periphery. “what’s jamie from top chef doing on the cover of the boca observer?” i wondered, after i’d decided that despite my initial suspicions the boca observer is likely a real magazine. i assumed jamie had a restaurant in boca or one of its neighboring geriatric playgrounds. curious, i walked over to the magazine and picked it up for a quick skim and, well, it turns out jamie from top chef is not actually on the cover of the boca observer. it’s friggin dj tanner. seriously. on a magazine cover. and it’s not nineteen ninety-two.
what was the deal with candice cameron again? i can’t remember. is she batshit crazy or is that completely something i made up? someone needs to put a chart together that points candice and kirk cameron, tracey gold and jodie sweetin to their respective less-than-stellar post-sitcom presents. just for moments like these.
pee ess: dj kinda looks like my friend sandypants. and yes, i have a friend named sandypants. and yes, she only drinks alcohol if it’s chilled patron silver. that’s how sandypants rolls. what of it?
begging the questions “is that how you spell brooches?” and “who cares about brooches?” i bring you the first item from my mother’s collection of things on coffee tables that seem like they where here when my parents moved in and for one reason or another never thrown away.
no, my mother is not eighty and she has not traveled to the present day from victorian-era great britian. she just likes brooches. so back off.
this picture was taken in april of last year on course two of boca west golf club in boca raton, florida. the golf ball is an LS and the grass is bermuda. this picture hangs proudly, irreverently on my office wall. although the picture is right side up, the writing on the golf ball is upside-down. and, despite what visitors have suggested, the writing does not say dog. it does not say dood either. that’s not even how dude is spelled. people are very strange sometimes…
i don’t know why i’d written poop on my golf ball. i think it’s in the same vein of thought that would have the golf ball photographed, uploaded into iphoto, exported to kodak to order prints, framed, hung and eventually written about. here’s the best (lack of an actual) explanation i can offer (that no one will actually care about):
at the beginning of each round, i’ll dig/steal three unmarked golf balls out of my father’s friend danny’s golf bag and mark each one individually/ridiculously/uniquely so that no one mistakes my golf ball for their own.
if i’m feeling especially confident in my ability to keep the balls out of the water, away from the skylights or off the adjacent highways, i’ll mark the balls with something that holds (some) meaning… like characters from the west wing or bell, biv and devoe. generally, sam seaborn, toby ziegler and josh lyman perform better than the new edition guys, but ricky bell is still the most consistent off the tee and ronnie devoe is great out of the sand.
if i’ve been inexcusably erratic on the driving range, i might go in a different direction. one that has a humble, apologetic nature to it. on one such outing, i’d name my golf balls oops, sorry about your window and i’m a 21 handicap. on another, i might just scribble a few smiley faces on the balls, in hopes that an apparently happy ball might make someone less irritated about a titleist rolling across their driveway.
and, as it seems, on this day i’d written poop, which was more an indication of my (in)ability to process thought than my outlook on the upcoming round of golf. and now that thought is proudly displayed on my wall, this post and, um, nowhere else.
i suck at golf.