Posts Tagged ‘West Hollywood’

Ever looked around your place and wondered, “Hey, do I really need all this shit?” Like, say, that chest of drawers your grandmother gave you? Or the theatre chairs you rescued from a movie theatre in Selma, Alabama? Or that six-foot-tall carpeted cat tower that none of your cats will even sniff, much less sit on anymore? Well, here’s a good way to find out (whether you really need that shit).

First, decide to move yourself without hiring any outside help. Borrow a friend’s pick-up truck rather than renting a 20 foot U-Haul. Why? Because you are a MAN and you are SELF-SUFFICIENT. Now carry the belonging in question down a hallway the length of a football field and, after a hairpin corner, try to squeeze it into the elevator or down the stairs. Then drag the item through your parking garage, load it into the back of the borrowed pick-up, and attach approximately sixty-five bungee cords to secure it. So far so good? If so, rest your head against the steering wheel until the heart palpitations stop. Now drive the belonging in question 15 miles northwest (an hour and a half in Los Angeles traffic) to your new apartment. Unhook the bungee cords and haul your chest-of-drawers-theater-chairs-cat-tower through the parking garage and up a set of half-turn stairs (there’s no elevator here, sorry). Finally, lug it down another walkway and into your new living room, unless it goes upstairs, in which case you’ve got another staircase climb.

If you got through all that, congratulations: you and your belonging were meant to be. Like, say, Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon Courteney Cox and David Arquette Jim Carrey and Jenny McCarthy Romeo and Juliet. But if you didn’t, if at any point you looked down in contempt at this “thing” you were transporting, if you ever began to conceive of it as a symbol of human waste and consumption, if you pulled up to the first industrial dumpster you saw and threw it headfirst into the abyss, then your answer is, “No, you didn’t really need that shit.”

p.s. Hello, Woodland Hills!

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It’s Official

We’re moving this weekend. From West Hollywood to Woodland Hills. Which means we’re trading friendly gay people for more square footage.

Sometimes them’s the breaks.

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Apologies for the light posting. Since Monday, Leigh Ann and I have been traipsing through Greater Los Angeles trying to find somewhere suitable for Nate’s first few years. (For why our current apartment sucks, click here.) At this point, we’ve got it narrowed down to two places, both with something in common: they’re in the valley.

For those of you not familiar with California, “the valley” is the San Fernando Valley, a 260 square mile flatland bordered by 6 different mountain ranges. It’s where you end up if you walk up past the Hollywood sign and fall down the other side. I kid you not, that’s the way it’s regarded around here. You know that “farm” your parents told you your Golden Retriever was going to when he got real sick that one time? Well, that’s the valley. Where coolness goes to die.

Lucky for us, our coolness is already dead. We wear three-day-old clothes, for God’s sake, and smell vaguely of milk. But we’re about to get duly rewarded. With hardwood floors. A second bedroom. A den. Two and a half baths. A fireplace. A private patio. Granite counter tops. And a washer & dryer. All for the same price we’re paying in Weho.

As J. Alfred Prufrock almost said:

I grow old . . .
I grow old . . .
I shall move to the valley, oh!

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Some of the parking signs around here could double as questions on the GRE.

Can you park in this space if there’s:

(a) No parking Thursdays 8 AM to 10 AM
(b) 2-Hour Parking Weekdays 6 AM to 6 PM
(c) No Parking Saturdays and Sundays
(d) Permit parking all other times.

But today I noticed a sign I hadn’t seen before. Have a look:

Something tells me the city of West Hollywood didn’t put that up. I’ll check on it again tomorrow to make sure it’s not the freeway billboard in LA Story.

I can dream, right?

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We’re t-minus 6 weeks, folks. Which means that in the next couple days I need to install the car seat.

Now, I’m no Tim Allen, but I’m pretty handy with a toolbox. I can stop a toilet from running, a chair from squeaking, and a closet door from jumping the track. In my glory days, I even removed the Volvo’s ABS module, found a crack in the faulty circuit board, and got it re-soldered.

Yes, that Volvo.

But this car seat thing has me a little nervous. Maybe it’s because of this ruin-your-day article from Edmunds.com:

Amazingly, research from the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) shows that as many as 80 percent of all car seats are improperly installed and used. Eighty percent. It’s a significant factor in why automobile accidents are the number-one killer of children under 14.

Translation: You’re going to kill your child.

Naturally, I shared this concern with my wife.

“You can take it to the fire station,” she said, “and they’ll do it for you.”

Or so she’d heard from the slew of pregnant ladies she works with.

So now I’ve got to choose between (a) betting our child’s life on my mechanical prowess, and (b) slinking into the fire station and admitting to a bunch of manly men that I’m too chickens–t to do this myself. Keep in mind that we live in West Hollywood, the Castro District of Los Angeles, so I imagine the inside of our fire station looks approximately like this:

I’ll let you know what happens.

Either Pappa’s gonna get some grease on his hands.

Or Pappa’s gonna learn to pole dance.

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