I go to drawing class last Tuesday (which is actually an open studio, there is no instruction, so it's a bit untrue to call it class) and am in the parking lot gathering up my supplies as a car pulls in, parking facing me. The driver gets out of the car, has a package under his arm and walks inside.

While leaving his car running.

I'm listening to the Clipse CD (wow, what a surprise) and watch. I suspect the gentleman will be running in, dropping off his stuff and leaving. But a couple of minutes pass and he doesn't reappear. I get out and look in the car. the engine is running, the keys are in the car and there is no one else in the vehicle.

I walk inside and set down my art supplies. And think. And then walk out to see if the car is still there. Yup. I tell the receptionist and she walks out with me to see. Still there, still running.

There are several classes going on, so she says she will ask around. I return to class. I ask during a break what the resolution was. I am told:

"I found him, he was in the photography class. I asked if someone left their car running. He said 'Oh, that's mine.' I ask if he would like to cut if off. He said 'no.'" The receptionist now adds a flourish — a quized, cocked-head look, not unlike that of the dog/His Master's Voice.

"Well," she continued, "with the price of gas what is it is and all, I just thought you might want to turn it off."
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'll only be a minute." (This is keeping in mind that it has been 10 minutes already at this point.)

The receptionist gave up and left.

Who does this? I can get maybe that the car is difficult to start. Maybe. But c'mon. Running, in the parking lot, with the key in the ignition? Oy, people.

Dusk is falling and right now there is a lightning bug trying to make out with the car alarm LED that's right next to the driver's side window. It's like a wild kingdom version of a teeny tiny peep show. That poor bastard is probably wondering if she'll ever get tired.

And while I'm sad to admit it, I think I might have actually learned a thing or two.

So a recent project has been to move most everything I have on video (VHS and DV) over to true digital bits — which explains these weekly posts of video projects. This one was shot in 2003, when I just had a camera with me and decided to shoot as I drove down Sunset in the rain.

No narrative, nothing but lights and darkness. The soundtrack is "Weak Become Heroes" by the Streets. It's actually what the original soundtrack was on the video, but since there are a couple of cuts, I just threw the track over the original sound. It's also apropos because I was still rocking the hell out of that album then; this was shot at the end of my love affair with it. (And by love affair, I mean I probably listened to it once or twice a week at least.)

I didn't do a ton of LA specific shooting while I lived there; this is one of the few pieces I have that puts me right back in the heart of that city. And yeah, sometimes I really miss it down there.

l.a. in the rain from tripp millican on Vimeo.

You might be a parent if, when dripping with chunky vomit that is not your own, it isn’t even your primary concern.

Or, I suppose, you might just be really drunk.

Yep, we got a visit from the Vomit Fairy again. I really hate that guy. Rebekah’s been going all Linda Blair everywhere. I must say that I’m really impressed with the spread she manages to get out of what must logically—if not by appearance—be only a couple of ounces. Poor little thing just looks so stunned when it happens.

Cough. Urp. BLEAAARRRRRGGHHH!!!SplOOOOshh…

That’s been my last 24 hours or so. But it does remind me of a funny travel story. And by funny, I mean horrible and nerve-wracking, but, hey, it happened a couple months ago so I can laugh about it now.

Or at least ride it for a journal entry.

So, back in November, we’re headed to Virginia for a week. Getting the kids into the car takes longer than expected (doesn’t it always? See, we even EXPECT that and STILL it takes longer) and we leave the house at 4:08 instead of 4. Relax, my wife tells me. We could have left at 4:30 and still been on time. My wife, knowing me, has lovingly lied to me about what time we needed to leave. I might have to admit that it is effective, even if duplicitous. Anyway, we’re making our way to the airport as rush hour is getting underway. Rebekah, having just woken up from a nap and it being close to dinner AND having not eaten much for lunch, is hungry. I’d grabbed the bananas on the way out the door because, face it, those suckers weren’t going to last the week. So, she eats one happily in the car seat and Reed has one. A little later, Amy starts in on one and Rebekah starts raising cane from the backseat. She saw Mommy having something and—hey—she didn’t have one! So, presuming she’s still hungry, we give her another banana. And she downs it. Like, we had to make sure she didn’t eat the peel.

We’re on the interstate exchange about ten minutes from the airport when I realize: Oh Shit. Yeah. That’s right. I capitalized it. It was that kind of Shit. We’d forgotten the car seat for the airplane.

Now, for those of you uninitiated in child air travel, ‘car’ seats are actually designed for land yachts. SUVs, minivans and such. Frankly, they’re motherfuckin’ big-ass things. I had to search to find one that would fit behind the driver’s seat rear-facing in our car, a family-sized sedan. Needless to say, these things simply will not fit in an airline seat. So, we’ve got this spare travel seat that is really minimal and fits in the airplane seats. We’d done 30+ flights with this thing without a problem.

Only, now, our problem was that it was still at home.

Shit. (See, still capitalized.)

So, I take the interstate exchange in the other direction back to our house. I am hauling. We do some mental calculations and can just make it back in time to get checked-in at the airport. I take the back, curvy way to our house, skid into the driveway, snag the seat, repack the trunk (shoving a bag on my wife’s lap so everything would fit), hop back in and peel out for the airport.

We’re slinging through the turns (here, my wife refers to me as ‘Mario Andretti’) when a curious sound comes from the seat behind me. I glance up into the baby mirror to catch the first discharge of digesting bananas roll out of her mouth, down her front and into the seat cracks like so much fruit-n-bile lava. Seriously, she only ate two bananas, but it was more like ten that came out. In hindsight, that exchange rate is really good and I might consider feeding her hundred dollar bills next time.

At this point, I pined for the knowledge and skill to pull one of those high-speed, 180 degree turns. We went straight back to the house and dived out of the car. I handed Rebekah to Amy, who sprinted inside, stripped her, hosed her down and re-dressed her. Meanwhile, I began feebly trying to FIND the car seat under that mountain of puked produce while simultaneously trying not to vomit myself. I gave it up as a bad job, yanked the entire car seat out, set it in the garage ("That'll be nice after a week!" I thought aloud), fished out the travel car seat and snapped it in just as Amy was coming out with the clean-if-still-a-bit-damp daughter.

All the while, I’m pretty sure we’re boned regarding our flight. Which is, pretty much, the only flight that will get us to Virginia in time for my Dad’s wedding. Didn’t I mention that part? Yeah. He kind of postponed it from it’s original date especially so we could be there.

As I navigate the traffic, Amy prepares me that we, in fact, might not make our flight. Fortunately, I’m outdriving the feeling of screwed-ness for the moment at least. We, being the engineering types, strategize our attack for arriving at the airport. There’s no way we can all go to long term parking, get out shit on the bus, then get to the terminal, check our bags and make the flight. We decided to go directly to the terminal, drop off everything and I’ll take all the bags and the two kids in, drop off the bags and make my way to the gate/plane while Amy parks the car and hopefully gets to the gate in time, unencumbered by any bags at all and aided by all kinds of uber-traveler first class status.

Though, in retrospect I’m thinking she was secretly hoping to get to fly solo.

Anyhoo, even though it’s about 40 minutes before departure, I’m able to check my bags curbside, whisk the kids through security (and, seriously, my 18-month-old is not a terrorist; why must I take off her shoes? All the dangerous stuff is in the diaper, anyway.), meet Amy and make it to the gate just as they begin boarding.

Oh. And Reed? He slept through the entire ordeal.
 

i try to keep my postings on this side of appropriate, but i have something to share of questionable taste. please, let's not make a fuss out of this.

1. a couple of weeks ago, i came across the best craigslist ad ever. ever. it came through a delicious link in my feed reader, before you go asking what i was doing browsing the houston casual encounters. this post was so good, i emailed the link out to a bunch of people.

but it wasn't enough. it became a huge topic of conversation among most of my friends and i had to go back and save the posting out to a pdf to ensure i had it in the future.

and now, i will share it with you. seriously. best ever. but it is a a bit graphic and def not safe for work. so tread carefully. i'm looking for a jo bud with a twist (m4m) [pdf].

2. you read that yet? your mind blown? ok, so kurt doesn't think this is real. john and i think it's about as real as it gets. either way, it's mind blowing.

but then last night in the car with mike, john, kurt, roxy and i, heading into the city, a new topic was born:

could you
a. j.o to helen hunt?
b. on 'mad about you'?
c. watching it on tv?
d. when any of the golden girls walk in?
e. in person, not into the scene on tv?
f. and would you stop after they made their entrance?

we were in tears, laughing so hard.

yes, we are a tasteless bunch.

but seriously — j.o.ing into a tornado? man, that is rad.
but no gay stuff.

Reed fell asleep in the car on the way back from the zoo today. Poor little guy was exhausted and started snoring. The funny thing is: I hear another little accompanying snore followed by a wee small giggle, then another little snore. Little Rebekah has lately been mimicking any sounds we make and I suppose thought it great fun to copy the sounds her fabulous big brother was making. My sister Kim and I were trying not to laugh too loud in the front of the car, lest we wake one and spoil the fun.

i know most of you are no longer in virginia, but:

the state will now fine you $1,050 for failing to use your turn signal

[via consumerist.com]