Pie factoid: Sources say Bob Hope celebrated his 100th birthday with pie. He apparently doesn’t like cake.

Ya know, I didn’t expect a world-wide spasm of loss and pain when I announced that I was ending the ’stake after 5 years with a readership that numbered in the hundreds at one point, but I thought there might be some reaction. You know, maybe a couple of emails from people saying “we’ll miss you,” or a couple of RIP-style link-backs. Some kind of reaction.

Apparently not.

One person reached out. One. So, thanks Deb for saying “bye-bye.” As for the rest of you mooks… Well, thanks for letting me know where I stand, I guess. The ol’ ego’s been appropriately deflated.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on there, campers. Don’t let that last entry make you think I’m all bent out of shape - I’m not. I was just being a little petulant, that’s all. Don’t pay it any mind.

The Pumpkinhead Beast that is my ego would love to think the ’stake’s passing would result in much woe and gnashing of teeth — but let’s get real. If you’re anything like me, you read the final ’stake entry and went, “Oh. Huh. Bummer.” And then you calmly deleted the bookmark and moved on with your surfing, never to give it another thought. So if that was you, don’t worry about it, that’s the most natural of reactions and that’s how it should be.

But if you’re anything like my close personal friend Paul in South Africa, who wrote to reassure me that the ’stake would be missed and my writing is wonderful and my spelling skills exemplary and that he’ll now be a regular reader here… Well, there’s a special place in heaven for ego-feeding angels like you.

And I apologize for calling you a mook.

Overheard at a backyard BBQ this afternoon, an adult yelling across the yard to a group of children:

“Hey! Don’t put nail polish on that lizard!”

Scene: A quiet office, worker bees quietly working away at their cubicles, the only sound heard is the clicking of keyboards.

Until I read this, about buying the sleeping mask, and burst out laughing.

Who? Me? Surfing on company time? Nooooo.

Had a fabulous day today, really top-notch: On the way home from work this evening, I picked up a nail in my rear tire. Result: flat. Great.

I discovered this at the halfway point on the ride home when I pulled off the freeway because I was falling asleep (again) (there’s a future entry in that asleep-at-the-handlebars thing) and had to get off the bike and walk around to wake up. The halfway point is exactly 33.5 miles from home. (Yes, I have an insanely long commute.)

So I’m 30 miles from home with a flat tire on my motorcycle at 5:30 pm in friggin’ La Mirada, where the only thing I know is around is the Jack in the Box parking lot I’m parked in. Great.

Fortunately, I have AAA, so I called them. True to form, they couldn’t help me. When my truck crapped out 60 miles from home last year they wouldn’t tow it further than 5 miles because I hadn’t paid for some obscure option. I paid for the obscure option and they towed me — and charged me by the mile to do it. This time, the girl said she was sorry but they couldn’t help me because I don’t have RV coverage.

Yeah. RV coverage.

“I don’t have an RV,” I pointed out to her in as calm a voice as I was able to muster. “Like I said, I have a fucking MOTORCYCLE!!!” She took a moment to swab the blood from her now-punctured eardrum and then explained to me that Triple A requires RV coverage to tow motorcycles. I took a moment to take a deep breath so I could yell very loudly and use many curse words and utter long, angry sentences, then I explained to her that my MOTORCYCLE doesn’t have a fucking SHOWER or MICROWAVE OVEN or fucking SLIDE OUT LIVING ROOM or BREAKFAST NOOK or even a goddamn CAPTAIN’S CHAIR because it’s a MOTHERFUCKING MOTORCYCLE, not a TWENTY-FUCKING-SIX FOOT LONG RV, so why the fuck would I even HAVE RV coverage???

Poor, brave, underpaid little girl. She stuck to her script, I have to give her credit for that. She started to explain again that motorcycles are covered under the RV con– And then I hung up on her. Because I couldn’t get my hands through the phone to strangle her.

Fortunately, there was a Lowe’s right next door, so I walked over and grabbed a tire repair kit and a can of Fix-a-Flat (Who know a Home & Garden center carried that crap?) and got to work on repairing my tire and fixing my flat.

No joy. Fix-a-Flat is nasty, evil stuff that doesn’t work on spoked wheels. It inflates the tire just barely slightly and then oozes out around all the spokes. The instructions also said, however, that after driving for 2-4 miles the fix-goop stuff would plug the hole and the tire would somehow magically reinflate, so I climbed on board and gingerly got back on the freeway.

2-4 miles later, I pulled over at the next gas station. Tire: still flat, not even slightly reinflated anymore. I tried putting more air in it. Spokes: vigorously oozing evil, nasty stuff. Tire: still flat, not even pretending to be inflated anymore.

Fuck me sideways. 30 miles from home, 6 pm in friggin’ Commerce now, and I’ve still got a flat. My options were few and they all ended with … “and get the bike to a shop” and all involved somehow transporting myself from home to where ever the bike was in the morning.

So I rode it home. 30 miles on a flat tire on Southern California freeways in rush hour traffic. And I made it home alive (obviously). Not the smartest thing I could have done, but coordinating the repairs tomorrow from home is going to be much easier than if I’d left it in Commerce. Plus, I know it’ll still be there in the morning, so I’ve got that going for me.

And just so you know, what they say about there being no human kindness in the world anymore is wrong. Three people tried to help me on my terrifying 45-mph ride home in the slow lane — they all helpfully pulled up next to me to tell me my rear tire was flat. Because, you know, maybe I hadn’t noticed and was only going 45 because speed scares me. But hey, they tried to help, they were being nice.

Everyone else tried to kill me.

While “working from home” today, I went out on my “lunch hour” to see The Italian Job. It’s been very high on the “Must See” list around the house lately, but Beth pointed out the other day that the reviews have been savaging it, so I thought she didn’t want to see it after all. So I went solo. Because, reviewers or not, it’s got Charlize Theron in it. And I do like me some Charlize Theron. (With long hair. And a tan. And a skimpy white tank top. And that sultry just-woke-up look she has when we first see her in the movie. And… Um… Oh. Hang on, gotta change the shorts now.)

Charlize, the dear girl, is currently occupying the entire roster of my “Top Ten Smoking Hot Babes Who Are Completely Out Of Your League You’d Sleep With If The Rules That Govern The Universe Were Suddenly Suspended” list. (Call it the TTSHBWACOOYLYSWITRTGTUWSS list for short. Or just “The List” for really short.) She IS the list because:

1. I’d probably suffer from premature ejaculation the first time around, so
2. I’d need a second chance, and
3. The Rules That Govern The Universe have been Suddenly Suspended, so I’m going to use that in my favor and stipulate that I rock her world so hard on try #2 that
4. SHE wants
5. another
6. couple
7. of
8. goes
9. with
10. me.

Anyway…

So it was better than I expected. The reviewers were wrong and it’s actually a pretty good movie. I mean, come on — it’s a heist film. How can you go wrong with that? I knew 20 minutes in that Beth would like it, so I knew at that point I’d be seeing it again with her. My wife at my side and a 20-foot tall Charlize in front of me. Talk about your delicate situations…

Anyway…

The whole reason for bringing it up here is that there’s a series of shots in the movie that gave me serious Angeleno Vertigo. If you’ve seen it, you’ll know what shots I mean, if not, then… Well, just think about Charlize. I do.

There’s a big chase scene where the bad guys are chasing the good guys in their Mini Coopers, and the vertigo starts as the Minis come flying out of the tunnel system and land in the Sepulveda Flood Control area. So far, so good — that’s about 4 miles from my house, I pass it on the freeway all the time, I know where it is. They spin around, blast over something that launches them into the air…

…and they land on 6th Street in downtown LA, about 15 miles southeast. Whoa, vertigo! They roar around a corner, skid through an intersection and…

…they’re whizzing past the Staples Center, about 5 miles west. Skid, crash, screech…

…and they’re in Silverlake, about 10 miles east.

And so on. I forget everywhere that car chase took them, but I guarantee you you’ll never in real life follow whatever route they took in this movie. I’m used to seeing LA’s layout misrepresented like that in TV and movies, but they really went wild with it this time.

But I can forgive them. Because, you know, Charlize. She was driving. With blonde hair. And a tan. And a skimpy black tank top. And…

Uh oh. Shorts again.

I did jury duty yesterday. I was tempted to go all Forrest Gump on you and end it right there: “I did jury duty today. And that’s all I got to say about that.” But apparently I got more to say because I’m still typing…

I guess I’m just not a People Person, because I seem to get into minor altercations everywhere I go. Today’s beef was with some pinhead who stole my seat.

Early in the day I staked out a prime spot where a chair was tucked into a little alcove in the back of the room away from everything else. It had a wall on the left and cubicle walls on the right and rear — it was basically a little cave where I could stretch out with my feet up on a chair in front of me and isolate myself. I camped out in there with my book and my headphones and was in full anti-social splendor all morning.

After the lunch break, though, I came back to find Nipplehead squatting in my spot. It was a deliberate violation of my morning territorial markings — I knew he knew it was my spot because I’d seen him cruise it a few times in the morning session. I knew then that he was scoping it out for possible squatting after lunch, and that’s exactly what he’d done. I came back early just to prevent this, but he’d beaten me to it. The fucker.

I gave him some stink-eye and sort of threw my bag down in disgust and generally made it pretty clear that I wasn’t happy with his squatting, and then I parked myself right next to the mouth of “his” cave and said to anyone who might be listening that “You’d better not move, then, because I’m taking it back if you do.” He pretended to ignore me and we proceeded to share an uneasy detente for the next hour or so, me reading a book and listening to Mark Cohn on my MP3 player, him listening to his Music For Seat-Stealing Nippleheads CD on his headphones.

And then he had to go to the bathroom.

He made a big fuss about staking out the spot before he left. He arranged the seat just so, positioned his backpack perfectly in the middle, balanced his newspaper on top of that… He made it clear to me and everyone else around that he was Coming Back and this was His Seat. Basically, he flagged it as Saved, and any of you who grew up with brothers and sisters know that a Saved seat is inviolable — you don’t sit there. You just don’t. You can’t. So I didn’t. Instead, I moved his stuff.

I put it all on a chair just outside the alcove, positioning it it there just the way he’d done it himself. His seat was now open. But technically it was still Saved, at least for me. because I’d been there for the Saving process. But not the woman who came by a few minutes later and noticed the empty seat.

“Is someone sitting there?” she asked me.

“I don’t think so,” I replied innocently. “I think he left.”

And so she sat down.

When Nipplehead got back, he clearly didn’t know what to do. He hemmed and hawed for a couple seconds, and made a big show of being pissed off about losing his seat, but the woman didn’t move — and probably never even considered it — because she didn’t know what his problem was. He eventually gave me some major stink-eye and then grabbed his stuff and moved to a different seat on the other side of the room. Ha!

Me, I was satisfied. I’d lost my seat, but now he couldn’t have it either. I could live with that kind of balance.

I never did get picked for a jury. Probably just as well — you wouldn’t want someone this juvenile on your jury, would you?

Beth and I went out on the motorcycle to a new sushi bar tonight. (Well, new to us — it’s apparently been there for years.) Good stuff, we’ll be back. At the end of the feast I told the chef I wanted one more piece of sushi and asked him to choose for me. I do this frequently and the results are mixed. I’ve had sushi chefs give me some really weird shit this way, but tonight I scored big-time. He made me something I’d never had before: seared toro soaked in soy sauce.

Oh. My. God.

It’s 1:20 a.m. and I’m in boxers and dirty socks, but if the phone rang right now with him asking if I wanted another piece, I’d be out the door like a shot. I wouldn’t even stop for shoes.

Before they gave us the check, Beth and I guessed what the total would be. Beth guessed $45, I guessed $134. Total: $140. Ouch!

But, man, that seared toro… I’m drooling now. Poor and drooling.

You so want to be me.

If Clinton was prosecuted for lying about a blowjob, shouldn’t Bush be prosecuted for lying about Iraq’s “weapons of mass destruction”?

(I’m sure that’s going to land me on Ashcroft’s “Enemies of America” list — I’ll probably disappear into a gulag soon, at the rate things are going here in America lately.)