Notes from the Road #1
This PA job (which is almost over) requires a lot of driving around, which means I'm often behind the wheel from 1 to 5 hours of the day. The free time is great, but difficult to use. I've been calling friends and family more. I have a few albums on repeat ( #1, #2, #3) and I even listened to an self-help audio book, The Fine Art of Small Talk (ironically, it left me more self-conscious of my conversation skills).
Still my idle mind would wander. Paired with the colorful parade of Los Angeles life outside my window, I regularly would want for a place to write down my thoughts and observations. Taking both hands off the steering wheel to scratch on a small notepad was dangerous, and led to regular close-calls on the road. If I didn't write it down, the thought would be gone by the time I got to my destination.
So, I spent a couple of my bucks on a simple-to-operate digital voice recorder:
The Sony ICD-P320. It fits nicely in my hand, has a decent microphone, and the 32 hours of storage seems perfect for the copious amounts of nonsense I expect to fill it with.
Here are a my first few "entries":
Why is the distinctly north eastern Mayflower Moving Company painted in the distinctly Jamaican colors of green, red, and yellow?
* * *
On the Culver Studios lot, there is a choice parking spot out front marked by a small sign that reads "M. Brooks". I assume this is Mel Brooks. But then I wonder, why did they abbreviate his first name? Is that "M." so much quicker than "Mel"?
* * *
Giant Drag does an awesome cover of "Wicked Game", originally by Chris Isaak.
* * *
There are several gadgets in my car that I use daily: cell phone, digital camera, voice recorder (now). Along with that, the car itself has the standard controls, knobs and sticks for controlling the AC or wipers, the radio/sound system, and several little devices in its computer: temperature, milage, remaining distance, average speed, etc. Given the various controls (knobs, buttons, pedals, sliders, and switches) and the ways they can be manipulated (on, off, a little more air on my feet), I estimate I have several hundred choices I could make at any given moment, none related to driving. It's a wonder I don't careen off the road at least several times a day.
* * *
Forest Lawn is a large cemetery on a hillside that faces the Disney lot. Most of the grounds are on semi-level ground, but the lawn closest to the road is as steep as a house roof. The headstones there are the low ones, that lawnmowers can pass over, and are lined up like loose tiling. I try to picture a funeral at one of these unfortunate plots: People lurching against one another, slipping down the grass. The casket isn't lowered but has to be slid into the grave.
* * *
A stick thin woman is stands and stares down the street with squint-eyed, slack-faced expression. 20 feet away, a tiny dog is tethered to her by a thin lead, watching her.
* * *
Is that Dennis Hopper in line at Trader Joe's? A women taps his shoulder, asking if she could squeeze by. He only stares back, coldly.
* * *
A Corolla and a Porsche, both with front-ends that look like crumpled balls of paper, sit half on the sidewalk, half hanging in traffic. Glass and red plastic bits are scattered across the street. But no people are around. No cops. No dazed drivers. Just the cars, discarded like candy wrappers.
Still my idle mind would wander. Paired with the colorful parade of Los Angeles life outside my window, I regularly would want for a place to write down my thoughts and observations. Taking both hands off the steering wheel to scratch on a small notepad was dangerous, and led to regular close-calls on the road. If I didn't write it down, the thought would be gone by the time I got to my destination.
So, I spent a couple of my bucks on a simple-to-operate digital voice recorder:
The Sony ICD-P320. It fits nicely in my hand, has a decent microphone, and the 32 hours of storage seems perfect for the copious amounts of nonsense I expect to fill it with.
Here are a my first few "entries":
Why is the distinctly north eastern Mayflower Moving Company painted in the distinctly Jamaican colors of green, red, and yellow?
* * *
On the Culver Studios lot, there is a choice parking spot out front marked by a small sign that reads "M. Brooks". I assume this is Mel Brooks. But then I wonder, why did they abbreviate his first name? Is that "M." so much quicker than "Mel"?
* * *
Giant Drag does an awesome cover of "Wicked Game", originally by Chris Isaak.
* * *
There are several gadgets in my car that I use daily: cell phone, digital camera, voice recorder (now). Along with that, the car itself has the standard controls, knobs and sticks for controlling the AC or wipers, the radio/sound system, and several little devices in its computer: temperature, milage, remaining distance, average speed, etc. Given the various controls (knobs, buttons, pedals, sliders, and switches) and the ways they can be manipulated (on, off, a little more air on my feet), I estimate I have several hundred choices I could make at any given moment, none related to driving. It's a wonder I don't careen off the road at least several times a day.
* * *
Forest Lawn is a large cemetery on a hillside that faces the Disney lot. Most of the grounds are on semi-level ground, but the lawn closest to the road is as steep as a house roof. The headstones there are the low ones, that lawnmowers can pass over, and are lined up like loose tiling. I try to picture a funeral at one of these unfortunate plots: People lurching against one another, slipping down the grass. The casket isn't lowered but has to be slid into the grave.
* * *
A stick thin woman is stands and stares down the street with squint-eyed, slack-faced expression. 20 feet away, a tiny dog is tethered to her by a thin lead, watching her.
* * *
Is that Dennis Hopper in line at Trader Joe's? A women taps his shoulder, asking if she could squeeze by. He only stares back, coldly.
* * *
A Corolla and a Porsche, both with front-ends that look like crumpled balls of paper, sit half on the sidewalk, half hanging in traffic. Glass and red plastic bits are scattered across the street. But no people are around. No cops. No dazed drivers. Just the cars, discarded like candy wrappers.