The Laid-Off Peripatetic (LOP)

Diego is the newest member of my inanimate family, joining the ranks of such items as a rubber chicken, an invisible friend named Li’l Rambo and a stuffed black and white bird that squawks when squeezed just so.

Let's rock out, bitches!

Diego accompanies me wherever I go wreaking havoc, making friends and generally becoming the proverbial mayor of wherever he happens to be at the time. He’s a rebel with a unibrow and follows only his own rules, one of which is that he only dates women who shave.

If you’d like to follow Diego, you can do so at the following:

• www.doitdiego.com.
• Twitter: DoItDiego
• Facebook: Diego VonTrickster

Diego loves you.

I didn’t think any pairings existed that could surpass the exquisite perfection of chocolate and peanut butter, but alas, I have found a couple—jazz in the Caribbean, blues in the Caribbean, or just generally, live music in the Caribbean. What better place to hang out and listen to some crazy musically inclined cats (that’s stage talk, by the way) than a tropical island (sans major weather event).

I happened upon the events below whilst planning and dreaming of my annual happy-birthday-to-me tropical sabbatical that I won’t be taking at the end of January this year. Oh well, there is always next year. MOPE. Okay, I’ll stop digressing and whining…

Whether this list is exhaustive, I don’t know, but it seems fairly extensive. And I do hope that someone who reads this can go in my stead because I yearn for the swaying palm trees of Antigua and St. Lucia and Grenada and Bonaire…

(oh, and by the by, several of the Web sites haven’t been updated with the respective event’s 2010 info, but I included the link anyway just because…I’m assuming the info will be updated eventually.)

Barbados Jazz Festival, January 11-17 (yeah, I know, the info is a tad late to plan a getaway unless you are the spontaneous sort with a private jet, but if you happen to be venturing to Barbados already, check it out.)

Air Jamaica Jazz and Blues Festival, Ocho Rios, January 24-30

Mustique Blues Festival, Mustique, Grenadines, January 27-February 10.

Bequia Music Fest, Bequia, Grenadines, January 28-31

Plymouth Jazz Festival, Tobago, April—I couldn’t find specific dates because I believe they have yet to be confirmed.

St. Lucia Jazz Festival, May 1-9

Heineken Jazz Fest, San Juan, Puerto Rico, May.

Bonaire Heineken Jazz and Salsa Festival, June 4-7

Ocho Rios Jazz Festival, Jamaica, June 13-20

St. Maarten/St. Martin Summer Fest, two weeks in July..now which two, I have no idea and couldn’t find much current info on the 2010 event.

Curacao Jazz Fest, Punda, Willemsted, October

Bermuda Music Festival, October. Also, I’m not sure how jazzy or bluesy the lineup is, but really, even if you had to endure listening to Yoko Ono, wouldn’t the beaches in Bermuda make up for it?

Dominican Republic Jazz Festival, Playa Cabarete, November.

Tranquility Jazz Festival, Anguilla, November

Riviera Maya Jazz Festival, November

Martinique Jazz Festival, Fort-de-France, December

Havana Jazz Festival, Cuba, December 12-21 (I trust by then, Americans won’t have to sneak into Cuba via Canada, Mexico or other islands in the Caribbean…not that I would ever condone such illegal goings on.)

Pointe-a-Pitre Jazz Festival, Guadeloupe, December

I’m not sure if I’m in the midst of a mid-life crisis or a career change or both. Though my Mom fears the worst and has already found a job for me at the Dodge City Casino either slinging drinks to drunken rednecks or serving fried chicken and ’slaw to men fresh from work at the meat packing plant. (Completely pointless factoid: Dodge City, KS, is known as the meat-packing capital of the United States. A lofty title to be sure, but one to which I’d rather not be associated.)

As tempting as either of those occupations sound, I’ve opted to stay in LA. Call me crazy.

Nature's fertilizer...Praise to the bovine!

My foray into the world of the free has given me insight into other financial opportunities besides sitting at a desk listening to the rants of an inept, probably impotent boss with a goiter. That’s not to say I plan on robbing a Gas N’ Sip or mugging a Girl Scout; though if I could unleash my potential as an alchemist, life would be stellar. Some way, somehow, I will make millions this year and when I do, I’m heading to either Hawaii, Cote de Azure or the Caribbean to buy my first seaside villa. I imagine it will look something like this little gem.

If I like you, you are welcome to use the guest bedroom, my tequila chair and snorkel equipment

Of course I could always buy out the Dodge City, KS, casino—as one of the few sources of entertainment in an idyllic town, it might just be a cash cow.

Ha! I kill me…

Four months ago, I could think of nothing else but leaving Los Angeles—a God forsaken city innundated with weird guys on the street randomly dressed in bedazzled costumes, bad air quality and lopsided boob jobs everywhere, even on store mannequins. But after being subjected to the -20 degree windchill and the Arctic tundra in Kansas, I pined for the asymmetrical and cracked-out denizens of LA because with them comes 65 degrees, all the Vitamin D I can absorb and palm trees. I love a good palm tree.

But Southwestern Kansas was bedazzled in its own way—all sparkly and shiny and slippery, kind of like a stripper.

High Plains Frosted Wheaties

I shan’t bitch too much because I had a grand time having met the newest members of the Burke household. Might I introduce (Guinness) Stout and Gus(toline Octavia), my parents’ 3-month-old Great Pyrenees puppies.

Sleeping off a wild night at the cock fights

Junkyard Dog

In all, Christmas was fine. I ate my weight in sugar and almost every possible avenue for protein, i.e., ham, beef, deer jerky (yes, I ate Bambi, but I didn’t shoot it) and some other mystery meat that was a little gamey—it could have been a jack-o-lope for all I know.

Beware: They carry tazers

Now I must prepare for my first New Year’s Eve in LA LA. If it’s anything like Halloween, the crazies will be out en masse, even more so because it’s a full moon. If I owned brass knuckles, I would take them. I guess I could take my ninja umbrella. It’s just terrifying enough to make me look as though I’m a bad ass with a ghinsu, or that’s what the front-desk guy at the gym said. Speaking of which….

People who have been both awed and terrified of my ninja umbrella that looks like a sword especially when people are drunk even though those mentioned below seemed lucid save for one who might have been taking prescription drugs because her eyes were strangely darty but she didn’t scare me because she was more scared of my sword (hee, I said sword):

• The security guard at Ralph’s (for you non-Californians, that’s a grocery store)
• Front-desk guy at the gym
• Random geriatric lady at the gym who also told me the umbrella was bad ass, which was strange hearing a blue-haired lady speak Street

Happy New Year, kids!!

Fa lalalalalalalalala jingle jingle ho

How is it that Christmas is a week-and-a-half away? It’s as though someone shoved me through a time warp while showering in my old Chicago apartment. Though I’m not blogging naked—that would be weird and a little uncomfortable because there is a slight chill in the air. My kingdom for a Snuggy.

So, I’m traveling home for the holidays via plane and like many of you, not looking forward to the throngs of people that will descend on the airports. Of course, my presence will add to that number and therefore, I will probably be annoying someone else; but at least I can offer my seat-mate hygiene and an ass that needs only one seat.

My destination is Wichita, Kansas, via Dallas—home of Wranglers and the male camel toe. For two hours I’m stuck in the mundane world of ya’ll and fixin’ and have nowhere to go but the bar. It’s not my druthers, for the majority of my time at home is going to be spent drinking, eating and smoking cigars with Pappy Burke. So starting the process early isn’t in my best interest, physically speaking, that is.

If only I had a cubby hole in which to hang out away from the crowds, maybe take a nap, read without the incessant surround-sound whining of children who’ve had too much sugar and too little parenting. Enter the day room. This concept is found in airports around the world and now has been introduced in the States. Atlanta Airport is the first to introduce Minute Suites—rooms that can be rented by the hour. Sure it sounds sleazy, but each new renter gets cleans sheets, so try not to think about the creepy guy with the comb-over in the polyester suit who just walked out of your room zipping up his pants.

These rooms are equipped with daybeds, wi-fi, satellite TV and rent for $30 an hour. Nappers can use the in-room alarm clock or call for a wake-up call. Fascinating. I don’t know if Jeeves comes with the package, but wouldn’t it be a bonus if he did and had the accent to boot?

I’ve traveled enough to covet solitude in an airport, so I would definitely pay the $30. I would probably spend that much or more at the bar; and if I could catch an old episode of The A-Team, then it would be doubly enticing.

On an aside…

Who deems them classics?

I want to know who has the power to grant certain books Classic Status. I ask because I just finished reading Lolita. It was fine and I learned several new words (kudos to Vladmir for having such an amazing grasp on the English language), but I’ve read far better. Maybe there were intricate details that I somehow missed while being privy to the innermost thoughts of a pervert. Or not. And don’t even get me started on Anna Karenina.

Here’s a couple factoids, by the by (compliments of Deutsch): Hitler only had one nut (which explains a few things.) And it is National Cupcake Day. I want to know if there is national holiday set aside for the nuclear cream inside Twinkies. Is there? Huh?

I believe I blogged previously about the movie New Moon. But just in case you missed it, here’s a recap. It dragged interminably for the first half, picked up the pace a bit in the second half, but mostly sucked. Buff boys were half-naked the vast majority of the time, which made the perpetual moping bearable. Anyway, the link below is the abridged version only much funnier and with LOL cats.

http://microsuede.blogspot.com/2009/11/movie-review-twilight-saga-new-moon.html

Also, if you have a chance, watch Late Night With Conan O’Brien. He’s incorporated Cody Devereaux, the depressed, brooding vampire who experiences death by sunlight on every show (R.I.P. 1598-Today); and Wolf-Boy, who is dumb as a box of rocks, but can move his pectoral muscles…almost as though he’s doing Morse Code.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=mj4PWV1v3II

Water-resistant Ninja gear

Christmas came early today. I hate trite sayings, but I can’t help but use them when they are true. The Happy Couple and I exchanged gifts and guess what I got—ninja accoutrement…picture a ninja sword handle on an umbrella. The best part is that it came with a carrying case so that it is both easily transportable and also looks like a sword. Hee hee. This increases the possibility that a roving officer of the law might stop me for carrying what appears to be a deadly weapon. But, for the opportunity to be a waterproof ninja, I’m willing to take that chance.

Never mind the Cheetah flannel pants and the fuzzy pink slippers—even ninjas need comfortable loungewear

In Europe, it’s not uncommon for parents to allow their chitlins to partake of spirits. I know this only because someone I once knew told me a story of a crazy Frenchman who became irate when the waiter at a restaurant in Chicago wouldn’t serve his 12-year-old son a glass of wine. I realize that my source sounds questionable, probably because she is. She was completely unhinged in a need-electric-shock-therapy-and-drugs kind of way, but the story is still funny.

Anyway, Europeans aren’t the only ones who like to feed their kids some sauce. Below is my Dad’s Hot Toddy recipe—the same one he served to me and my sisters from the time we could hold a cup. His magical healing elixir wasn’t doled out for our breakfast or on a nightly basis—that would smack of bad parenting. No, we only received the mug of love when suffering from a cold/flu-type thing. Dad’s concoction was the panacea for all that ails, or so he said. In truth, he loaded it with enough whiskey to knock us out for the night. What’s the saying? Ah yes, sleep is the best medicine. Now that cold and flu season is upon us, I thought I’d share. I hope the Toddy’s tremendous healing properties work as well for you.

Martin’s Hot Toddy Recipe: Mix hot water, a shot of whiskey, honey and a squeeze of lemon. It’s basic, but effective; even moreso if the liver is unfamiliar with the effects of Maker’s Mark.

Culture in Transit

I had my first LA bus experience this week—well, two actually. Though the transit system isn’t anything close to what Chicago has to offer, it still offers the same curious sights, sounds and smells. I didn’t see anyone without pants or puking, so it wasn’t quite the same. But the cost is only $1.25 a ride. Not bad. As far as my destinations, well, trip one was to play the part of makeup ginnea pig for a makeup artist who needed a mug on which to let her client practice. Um yeah, in the end, I looked like a member of the Insane Clown Posse. Trip two was to the chiropractor. It wasn’t exciting, but it was necessary.

Unlrelated funny sign

I overheard this conversation between two early 20-something women while hiking down Runyon Canyon and wanted to share. (Editor’s note: Though it may seem unlikely, I have neither embellished or paraphrased.)

“Some guy is taking me out tonight.”

“What’s this guy’s name?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you, like, not know his name?”

“I totally just talk to my dates until I figure out their names and then I put them in the customer file.”

[no segue, but the same girl is speaking]

“When I, like, totally get famous, there will probably be a photo of me, like, picking my butt and I, like, totally won’t care. I’ll be like, yeah, this is totally me.”

“Totally.”

THE END (Thank God)

I love all things ninja. Why this is, I have no idea. My parents didn’t ship me to a covert ninja camp at a Bhutan monastery when I was a child. Yet, I have a ninja outfit (official ninja speak) that I have worn on more than one occasion and am constantly looking for other excuses to wear it. I dream, eat and sleep in ninja. I own throwing stars and a cross bow. Granted, they are plastic and the crossbow shoots suction-cup darts, but those are silly technicalities.

When I heard about the movie Ninja Assassin, I waited with bated breath for its release. It was the fight scenes and the stealthy crawl of the ninja that I love. I watch. I learn, for I am a ninja in training…one that needs guidance beyond what “Ninja for Dummies” can offer. And I couldn’t have asked for a more comely teacher than the lead in Ninja Assassin. Rain is the actor who plays Raizo—bad ninja turned good after killing only a few people—and has officially become my new hunk crush for obvious reasons.

Rain was kind enough to take time out of his busy schedule to pose in my living room. Of course, I was happy to lend him a ninja-esque weapon to ensure the photo was authentic. We later compared six packs.

The gore and gratuitous violence was to be expected—the promo poster gave that away. Typically I cringe and watch through the slits in whichever hand is covering my face when heads are lopped off and blood gushes like Buckingham Fountain, but not so much in this movie. Probably because the blood was an unnatural shade of red…possibly a nice Sherwin Williams Fire Engine Red matte. The odd color wasn’t comforting by any means, but it wasn’t realistic either, which is why it was bearable to watch it spewing from necks.

Michele and I loved the movie, but Deutsch was less than thrilled, probably because the premise consisted of minimal plot with a focus on maximum shirtless Rain. And I was just fine with that. But it was a fun action flick with beautifully choreographed fight scenes. And what a concept—the actors actually had mad martial arts skills instead of the typical Hollywood-cut-and-paste-create-a-martial-artist software program used for those who’ve never thrown a kick other than when they’ve accidentally slipped on ice.

I was either walking away with a photo or a story about getting my ass kicked by a guy wearing a lamp shade on his head. But, this was a happy ending, for my stealthy, ninja ways kicked in and I was able to snap a few photos before he knew what had happened. He turned around once, but we pulled the old “group tourist photo” trick. Lamp shade guy had no idea…or it’s possible that he just didn’t care.

Only in LA. And to think I documented all of this fodder enroute to the Arclight Theatre where we saw 2012.

As for my review—the movie was campy and ridiculous. Save your money and wait until HBO features it two years from now. There were great actors in it: John Cusak, Amanda Peet, Oliver Platt, Danny Glover, yada yada; but it still isn’t worth it. The writers interjected levity where there should not have been levity; and it was drowning in cheese. The previews were my favorite part.

Here are a few things that I could have purchased with the money I spent on a 2012 movie ticket:

• half of what a PVC French maid outfit would cost (not that I’ve researched it)
• 7 rawhide doggie bones
• 4 bottles of Boones Farm (there’s a fan club by the way)
• bribe to stay out of a Mexican prison
• one hour’s worth of Pai Gow poker (if you know what you’re doing)
• a Man Groomer
• one Wiglet from CVS, two from Walgreen’s
• a Kenny G CD
• an appetizer at the Chicken Ranch