Oh, the time has passed...

sit here, in a new house, with a fresh Budweiser, and I have to think back upon everything that's taken place over the last month. The picture? It's the "Grimpire". It really doesn't need an explanation or any connection to my story. I don't feel like grabbing appropriate clipart for this one, and this just seems to capture my feelings, so let's move on.

We're moving on up

So, we got a new house. Finally, I am an official homeowner. Now, mind you, this is with my fiancee, which carries a ton of other pending events and requirements along with the home. You see, before we ever stepped foot inside the home, before the ink dried on the paperwork, before we ever uttered the words "we'll take it", Anna has been watching TLC. That's right, every budget-free home improvement show that brings fireplaces into bathrooms and designs every cabinet with accent colors has laid inspirational groundwork for my Kochanie's ideas for the new home. Even before we could move furniture, she was planning a garden plan and how to decorate bedrooms. It was quickly apparent that a woman and a man have two totally different impulses with a new home: women want to design, and men want to set up a tool shop.

The man's tool shop is like a haven for our one secure station in any heterosexual relationship: we fix sh*t. We fix things, and women shower us with praise. That's what we do. We're men. It defines us, because that's what our Dad's did. They fixed things, and our Mom's rejoiced.

Which leads into the next station, Women, the "planners". Women plan things, like gazebos, and terraces, and shelving, and accent lighting, and innumerable items around homes that make them uniquely their own. And when everything gets old, they plan some more. Everything gets funneled as honey-dews, or "honey-do's", to the husband, and the great circle of marriage continues.

I can already understand why my Dad drank.

The home's awesome, and if you know me in any respect, you're invited. Email me, and you're on your way to a beer and food in Northern Georgia.

Escape from LA

Some people have a fixation with the life of Californians: the palm trees, the beaches, the celebrities, the weather, and all the glamour of Hollywood.

Everyone else couldn't give a damn less about the state. This is how I feel, personally.

But my brother's got a fixation with the weather and atmosphere of San Diego, and I can fully understand what he sees - the town has 72 degree weather year round. I mean, that's something straight out of a fairytale (without the threat of earthquakes, that is).

So, we recently made out second pilgrimage to the West Coast, only this trip was under the disguise of a "Los Angeles" vacation. We both knew there wasn't much worth seeing in Los Angeles, so our plans were 2 days in SD, and 1 day in LA. That suited us just fine.

Now I'm no airport conesure, but let me dispel any illusions you may have of what the Los Angeles airport may be like: LAX is a dump. However, one nice thing they've included is a outdoor area for smokers; instead of crowding 30 smokers into a small closed-in room and letting them turn the walls brown, LAX gives them an outdoor area with greenery and ashtrays where they can do their business, and the nonsmokers can watch from the inside like like onlookers of a California zoo exhibit (the endangered Californian smokers exhibit).

Aside from this, the airport is a dump. Why I stress this point is because my image of Los Angeles is almost entirely shaped by the 90's teen drama, "Beverly Hills 90210." There was no Peach Pit at the airport, only a Burger King and some tired Sports Grille with surly Mexican waitresses. Nuff said.

The Handlery

In San Diego, we stayed at the Handlery Hotel (and resort) in San Diego's "Hotel Circle." My brother Mike pointed out how odd the name was - he pictured some Hotel Attendant groping customers with sweaty palms asking for a chance to "handle" them and their luggage affectionately. "Welcome to the Handlery Hotel... "

As it turned out, the last night we were there, we discovered their pool and hot tub. Fortunately, there were no freaky couples in the hot tub. The funny thing about hotel hot tubs is that they're clearly big enough for a dozen or more people, but you'd never want to share one with a stranger. There's a reason they pump those things with extra chlorine.

So, what to do during the day?

Mike's "Gentlemen's club" agenda was mainly for after-hours, so the day time was left for sightseeing, smoking, eating and smoking. So, I grabbed The Internet, Googled tourist traps, and we went cruising. First stop was Balboa Park.

This place was like a Spanish version of Central Park. It had a lot of palm trees, gardens and museums, so it was a nice place to walk around and not spend money. True, strolling through a cultural district is a little gay for a vacation with your brother. But, it was free, the weather was nice, and we didn't hold hands.

The place had some nice architecture and "stuff", but like I was suggesting, when you're on a vacation with your family, this is perfect. When you're on a getaway with the guys, a walk in the park, as nice as it may be, is still pretty lame.

After that, we cruised around some more. We drove through Coronado, which is probably the prettiest place I've seen in California. It's like a strip of land of the San Diego coast, and land values are through the roof. The Hotel del Coronado is a big landmark in this town, but everything on that island could pretty much qualify as a landmark. Their friggin' police station is nicer than some city capital buildings.

That next day, we toured Universal Studios. That place is like Disneyland, only with a bunch of Hollywood pizzazz. When we were taking the "Hollywood Universal Studios Tour", we drove past sound stages where Katie Holmes was doing work for a new movie. The tour guide instructed us to be quiet as to not ruin her movie recording - but I think we realized if anyone was to ruin a Katie Holmes movie, it wouldn't be us.

We "maxxed and relaxxed" in the Marriot that last night, and headed back - lungs full of smog - to our origination points.

Large Coffee

Drifting a little, this morning I stopped at Starbucks on the way to work for a large coffee.

For the record, I'm not very discerning in many areas, but I do appreciate Starbucks coffee. It's just plain good. NOT that ice cream milkshake crap or brown milk they pass as coffee, but simple coffee.

I walk to the front door with my fiancé, Anna, I open the door, and continue to hold it open for another girl that happens to waltz right through without even acknowledging my presence. Whatever. Manners died long ago; it's nothing new.

So I follow inside, and with Anna standing in line, the princess lines up behind her. Instead of me cutting the line and joining her, Anna comes back to me and we wait in line behind the princess. When it's the princess's turn, she begins her order with the Starbucks clerk/maestro/barista/matador/whatever they call those guys. The princess's coffee order continues on for roughly 20 seconds, leaving the clerk squinting with confusion before a second clerk attempts to help out.

The princess continues explaining the sheer complexity of her juxtaposed java creation. At this point, me and Anna are leaning in to find out what the hell could take a full minute to describe. Balancing two cell phones in her left hand, the princess tries to gesture how she wants her milk configured with the rest of her conjured drink, while the second matador listens slightly confused. Two minutes later, the three finally come to a consensus, and the relieved maestro looks to me. "Next?"

"I'LL HAVE A LARGE COFFEE."

My second impulse was to ask for a Peruvian mochachino striated with the milk from a lactating Alaskan seal... but from the Northern province, not one of the Southern areas.

After it was done, Anna made a good point: If what your order can stump a clerk at Starbucks, you've got a SERIOUS problem. You need help.

- George