Dances With Ducks

"Quack" (as defined by Dictionary.com):

1. to utter the cry of a duck or a sound resembling it.

2. a fraudulent or ignorant pretender to medical skill.

I decided to go out for a walk to get my creative juices flowing. I usually jog, but I thought I'd walk, just for a change of pace. Walking down and around the block, I eventually stumbled upon a family of ducks.

The greatest thing about them was their confidence. They strutted down the middle of the street, ten of them, unaware of the dangers the road has to offer. I spotted them from maybe fifty feet away (maybe less, I'm no mathematician).

It was clear they had a matriarch, as her head surpassed all of theirs in height, if even by only a half inch. Their heads bobbed almost in unison as they crossed the street diagonally, and I followed them, eagerly wondering where they were headed. I justified my presence around them as a sort of protector, a shepherd (or a duckherd, if there ever was such a thing).

They hopped from the street onto the curb in order, creating a sort of jazzy beat as they ascended. Their twenty webbed feet pitter-pattered on the concrete sounding like an army of disorganized babies wearing little boots, or the sound of a rainy day, as heard from outside, inside.

I followed them for a short while. I had no means of keeping track of the time, but I knew couldn't have been following them for too long. I found them around the sunset, and it was dusk when we parted ways.

One thing that fascinated me about them was their zen level of patience. While they were crossing another street, I waltzed around them to the other side. They noticed me standing there and waited. One of them sat down. The leader was just a foot or so ahead of them, and they wouldn't budge until she did. Once I moved back behind them, they continued on their way.

We eventually walked by a house with a 50's retro feel. The ducks took a particularly peculiar interest in it. Without hesitation, they veered left toward one of its gates that visibly led to the backyard and ducked their heads as they "covertly" sneaked in. They stopped, looked around, dumbfounded. To their left was a green recycling bin and right side of the house. To their right, a massive brick wall. But they were curious, or maybe they smelled something delicious in the backyard. Either way, they ventured deeper onto the property, and I wasn't going to follow them. I realized it was time for me to duck out.

Quack Quack,
-Philip

The Great Usquebaugh Heist

Having heard a rumor that you don't need a Costco membership to buy alcohol, I pulled into a conveniently located Costco lot on my way home.

"Pay no attention to the the In-N-Out to your right", said my brain to the rest of me. "Nor should you crave the free peanuts and infinitely customizable burgers at the Five Guys Burgers and Fries on your left."

I fought the urge. I don't know why, or even how, but I fought the urge to eat at those joints-- even though I'm addicted to burgers and everything peanut butter related.

The wheels kept turning. I found a parking spot in front of Costco, but not the closest one possible because I really don't mind walking an extra ten steps if it means not waiting an extra ten minutes. The people who try and get as close as possible are horrible and need to change their New Year's resolutions.

In case you've never been, Costco's entrance alone is a grand spectacle. The warehouse looks like something out of a science fiction flick, where the local denizens collect their goods from a central facility that provides them with sweet food products to be ingested that night, as well as new computers, tennis racquets, and if they're running low, affordable socks.

There is always someone guarding the entrance to ensure the folks pouring in are paying members of the club. It's like an underground society where only those wise enough to pay the initial $55 are welcomed with open arms to the secrets of the cult (or just a country club minus the access to a golf course).

The people around and in front of me were exposing their membership cards to the guard. Except she wasn't a guard in the classical sense. She didn't carry a gun or a badge. She simply verified everyone's eligibility to enter. I did the same thing working events at Disneyland, only we verified colored wristbands.

She didn't seem to notice me, so as if in a way to turn my self in, or maybe to justify my over thought out goal, I proclaimed "I'm just here for alcohol", which is probably the worst thing I've ever said.

"Okay", she replied nonchalantly.

I made my way down the gigantic aisles on my quest for a golden bottle of whiskey (or usquebaugh, as it's called in the Scottish and Irish islands). I snagged a bottle off the shelf and paraded toward the cashiers, knowing full well that the only way I could have looked less like an alcoholic was to carry a bottle in each hand.

Party planners buy in bulk.

On my way to the front, every unshaven, balding guy said this to me: "Enjoy it!" with a smile that suggested they were geniuses for thinking those words. Even in the parking lot, the dude leaving his car couldn't wait to say it, too. "Enjoy it!", he exclaimed as I walked by, which I think says something about our culture. Alcohol seems to have this mysterious, whimsical personality that excites people. It's like an acceptable taboo, a magical juice that brings out everyone's true colors, while conveniently making them sleepy.

But really, it's just overpriced melatonin.

Buses Incorporated

"In 21st-century English, buses is the preferred plural of the noun bus. Busses appears occasionally, and dictionaries list it as a secondary spelling, but it’s been out of favor for over a century. This is true in all main varieties of English." -Grammarist.com

Now, onto more pressing matters-- the bus. Why should you take it? You don't have to. But I like it.

I like the feeling that I'm "on a ride", not having to worry about driving, parking, tickets, red lights, green lights, the car behind you that's riding way too close for comfort, the car beside you with a cell-phone obsessed young adult who is sure to cause an accident this year while in the middle of texting something like "lol that 2 funny dude".

I love Los Angeles. I think I'd be happier in New York, but who knows? I've lived in L.A. for a solid 25 years, and I've lived in New York for zero days, so if I know one thing, it's that New York is an alien planet... at least to me.

But I'm always finding interesting people on the bus. Like the silent old man who nervously made his way down the aisle, looking for a seat until deciding it would be best to sit somewhere without a stranger right next to him. He sat in the middle, on one of the seats that face the center. He had something tattooed on his forearm, I couldn't tell what. It was withering with age. His head jerked around as he frantically rubbed his own arms, stopping to think every so often, only to go back into his trance.

I reached my stop and started walking home. At the intersection, an older Hispanic lady was picking the inside of her ear. I was blank faced. I stared, judgingly, I admit. But which one of us should be embarrassed? Is it worse to do something weird, or to stare at someone doing something weird? Who am I? The king of etiquette? I waited for the little walking man to light up while I anticipated the lady catching my stare. Sure enough, she turned her head at what felt like the speed of light and caught me looking at her. Neither of us moved. We were both itching to see what happens next. Or so I thought. She went right back to picking her ear at two in the afternoon, on a Thursday.