Ironic

If you're a lobster, welcome to the seventh ring of hell.  The below is an up close of a lobster vending machine.  If you're a lobster, presumably, there are several man-made contraptions you hope you never see, like wire cages, over-sized pots, and, of course, the lobster vending machine.

As should be evident from the graphic, the lobster vending machine works much like its stuffed toy in arcades counterpart.  Whereas, a clawing attempt to win your sweet a fuzzy bear may cost a few dollars, if your sweet has champagne taste and wants a lobster, a try with the claw will dent you 20 bucks, and that's assuming you catch it.  One would think the water factor complicates things. 

Supremely, if you are among the lobsters awaiting the inevitable, you sigh relief every time some overzealous hotshot comes up with empty claws.  Yours (your claws), of course, are rubber banded.  You are dually precluded from challenging the metal claw or from succumbing and hitching a ride out voluntarily.  A fate worse than death?  Just ask a lobster in a lobster vending machine; they may be practically boiling over with the irony of it all.

Life sometimes can be ironic.
Ironic: --adjective
  containing or exemplifying irony

Underestimated

Some things are obviously impressive, like Ferraris and the flexibility of a Cirque du Soleil acrobat and the jawline of a Great White.  Then there are things that are impressive, but in an off the radar sort of way, either because they're simple, or simply abundant or simple to miss.  For example...the pleasing aesthetics of the palm tree...and...

...the afternoon views from Dana Point (the word "point" isn't thrown in there by way of coincidence)...or...

...cute signage, even if you're not following the heart paved road, and...

...weather vanes--a considerably forgotten and overlooked mechanism that fulfills not only an actual purpose but also really classes up most four-walled acts...and...

...of course, sunsets.

Life sometimes can be underestimated.
Underestimated: –verb (used without object)
  to make an estimate that would be lower than that which would be correct

Converted

Observe the "Ocean Express".  This is the "trolley" that cruises through town on some simulacrum of a schedule, although, this blog is pretty convinced the only real timetable is dependent wholly on being in my way.  Furthermore, I can discern no particularly good reason for this mechanical annoyance to exist.  No one appears to ride it, and I'm pretty sure the only place it goes is to the mall, so I'm reluctant to cast a public transit vote of confidence its way.  And "express"...total misnomer.  Get stuck behind this atrocious trolley wanna be behemoth and your regularly scheduled program will be bumped to delay.  I do not care, Sam I Am, for the "Ocean Express".  In fact, I'd toyed with the idea of an anti-trolley petition, but then I had a divine run in that gave cause for reconsideration.

Observe a baked potato.  Just a run of the spud mill steaming hot edible canoe of comfort.  This particular one isn't even particularly dressed up.  As long as they're hot and baked, they don't need to be, but, of course, part of the allure of this edible tuber is that it can be customized to any wild extent the consumer desires.

So, without further ado, it is this blog's suggestion that the unnecessarily burdensome "Ocean Express" be promptly converted to a food truck specializing in baked potatoes.  Being as there is no one riding the trolley, this will surely be of greater fiscal gain for whatever municipal functionality manages the four wheeled red beast, and it would make the general vicinity of my immediate surroundings a lot happier.  Imagine being able to acquire a steaming hot baked potato any time you want (they take a while to prepare at home and never seem to be as moist).  I'm no trolley-transform-to-baked-potato-food-truck expert, but I'm calling that a win/win.

Life sometimes can be converted.
Converted: –adjective
  to change (something) into a different form or properties; transmute; transform.

Shady

Q: Why did the firefighter cross Highland St. on Saturday night?  A: To get to the fire, of course.

Observe the shady side of the street.  This blog will be the first to admit that even before the devil cast his wrath on this strip of Highland, it was shady. 

The massage place (always suspicious for reasons inherent to the trade) and the dentist office (with the neon tube lights of cowboys riding bulls--maybe the cowboys are getting their teeth knocked out (?)) suffered full-blown burnout.  Building bookends, Mark Nason and The Koffee Kart, suffered by proximity.

Observe the building formerly known as "Mark Nason".  Not unlike Mike Jones, my question persists: who is...?  According to Google's virtual sources, Mark had something to do with footwear, but I always had greater suspicions that the facade of 1100 lends not to revealing on a publicly trafficked blog.  Suffice to say, shoes?--perhaps...just shoes?--me thinks not.

Observe the window of The Koffee Kart.  This window was an eight ball short of a triangle since pre-fire.  The inexplicable break in the writing of "Breakf ast" remains a cerebral hangnail for this blogger.  The meal is not misspelled, so it's not missing any letters, so, why then the unnecessary superfluous space between the f and the a?  If you walked past it every day it just might drive you crazy.

On the sunny side, who could object to the litany of firemen and official looking investigators flocking daily to the scene?  It's enough to make someone want to open a lemonade stand (or in the spirit of The Koffee Kart, a lemo nade stand).

Life sometimes can be shady.
Shady: –adjective
  of dubious character; rather disreputable

Andean

As if the plane from Lima had barely touched down, the black and white and fuzzy llama (yes, LLAMA, as in como se...?/rhymes with Obama/let's hope this isn't your baby's mama...) that I encountered on Manhattan Beach's strand (yes, STRAND, as in the beach--California's) was cruising on foot, as quadrupeds are prone to, like he may (or may not) just be a spoof on an overgrown mastiff (typically that's an oxymoron) out for an afternoon stroll, same as it ever was, as if it ever was.  This llama made a Becker's custom long board look insignificant.  He was frisky too.  Granted, there were several ladies flanking his flanks for pics, but he had definite hop in his step--which, perpetuates my theory that he was fresh off the plane (cramped legs and stale air (no doubt he got a deal on Taca which compounds cramped and stale to = immobilizing and suffocating (read: no peanuts for you)), so he needed a good stretch and some fresh beachy air).  Ah-ha...which, leads directly into, of course, the question of the day, what was this llama actually doing on the strand?  This, dear reader, I cannot begin to answer.  Let's start with was I not completely chuffed and then some to make his Alpacan acquaintance?  Most definitely.  Do I think he was "allowed" to be there?  Most definitely not.  Therefore, do I think he will be spotted again?  Most definitely unlikely.

My conclusion of his illicit presence is drawn based largely on the fact that his owner looked south of sane.  How do I know she was his owner?  Well, she was the one leading him down the strand by the rope around his neck and she was wearing a llama t-shirt (and at least one of them smelled a lot like llama).  LA County municipal code 10.28.020  says that one must have a license to keep a wild animal.  Gonna go out on a pretty sturdy limb and call a llama "wild" for all intents and purposes re/ LA municipality.  I'm an animal lover at heart, so I wasn't gonna be the jerk to demand to see this guy's papers, so I can neither confirm nor deny his civilian legitimacy.  I will add that the code goes on into a section titled "Running at large prohibited--Exceptions".  This seems both deliberately vague and remarkably intriguing.  For the sake of this blog I'm gonna throw the strand llama into the "exceptions" category.  He was, after all, so cute, and looks can get you very far in LA.

The question that should still be on your mind is why this blog isn't sporting a sporty pic of said llama.  For all you know, I'm full of llama s*it.  Well, dear reader, the proof in my blog pudding shouldn't surprise you: If I can miss a blimp, the llama was probably off my radar too.

Life sometimes can be Andean.
Andean: –adjective

  of or like the Andes

Serendipitous

Cruising down Jefferson, as I have countless times before, in order to get to where I was going (of course), my newly tsunami sign trained eye glimpsed the counterpart signage to Hermosa's warnings.  Jefferson, Fiji and Mindinao are lined with "Evacuation Route" signs bearing the same [friendly looking] wave graphic.  Ok, coincidental as it was that I found the better half to Hermosa's signs, I have several problems right off the bat...

#1)  Shouldn't the tsunami wave graphic be a bit more akin to the disaster and less like a Disneyland ride ad?  I'm just saying...most heads-up-it's-a-hazard sort of signs are yellow and black.  Maybe blue and white should be reserved for friendly skies and Portuguese ceramics.  Also, I think the waves look pretty soft and, in fact, to be honest, inviting.  This graphic may as well be saying, "jump in and let's play".  I think if the sign artist wanted to throw in a kid with a broken arm and a dog with a bloody head (or a kid with a bloody head and a dog with a broken arm, either way) that might be a bit more effective.

Which brings me to my second point.  #2)  If the signs were more noticeably noticeable and honestly representative of the threat they're professing to warn against, I would have noticed them about five years ago.  I'm driving; obviously my eyes are open, and I've never before noticed these signs, never mind been aware that I have to go all the way to the marina for my relief route.  #3)  If these signs really do lead those fleeing [inescapable] natural disaster, they sure as heck better end up at the marina's El Torito.  (Ever been to the marina El Torito on a Tuesday night (not that disaster will necessarily strike on a Tuesday)?  That place goes off like the Pope's pager in the catacombs.)

Life sometimes can be serendipitous.
Serendipitous: –adjective
  come upon or found by accident; fortuitous

Monochromatic

I was in Marina del Rey last March in a building overlooking the, yes, marina.  The office I was in belonged to a mediator, so I was there for, yes, a mediation.  As is par for the legal course of mediation, it was s-l-o-w moving, so I had time to ponder the world.  More specifically, I had time to ponder the world's sailboats.  With a view of the marina and all her boats-a-docked, I mused aloud to the attorney in the room that I wondered why all sailboats were always white.

The attorney echoed my inquiry and then did what attorneys do so well, he asked someone else for the answer.  He asked the boat owning, justice toting mediator.  Needless to say, as this inquiry stands on terra firma (albeit virtual) and continues to plague me nearly a year later, he did not have an answer either.  If you took the same picture of any parking lot anywhere, you'd have a gumball array of different colored vehicles, so why only white sailboats?

So, I poked an electronic spade into my virtual terra firma and did some mild digging.  A certain Captain Herreshoff was once to have said, "There are only two colors to paint a boat, black or white, and only a fool would paint a boat black." (http://wiki.answers.com/Q/Why_are_sailboats_white#ixzz1CB9RgmqO)  Be that as it may or may not be, that still doesn't explain why; I mean I can speculate, but Nature doesn't seem to harbor the same fool mentality towards black.  Take the all black penguin, one of my favorite all time monochromatic examples.  Have his one in a billion genes made a fool of him, Captain H?  Personally, I find him quite handsome and unique, to which I will conclude that sailors have no sense of individuality, and, furthermore, they probably share the opinion that all cats are grey in the night (and anyone who's been to San Francisco's Castro can well attest that cats come in a rainbow of colors, just like cars, and just like sailboats should.)

Life sometimes can be monochromatic.
monochromatic: –adjective

  of or having one color

Catastrophic

Inevitably, somewhere, right now, the sky is falling, and Chicken Little is, well, running around like a chicken with his, yup, head cut off.  Personally, if the apocalypse (or, for you die-hards (no pun intended) who prefer the formal version, Apocalypse) strikes I want to be among the first to be taken out.  The people who make it through the obstacle course of any apocalyptic story always seem to ultimately suffer the worst and the most for it at the end.  So, count me out, right away.  I don't have a rope ladder; I don't have a back-up supply of food and water; I don't think my CPR skills are up to snuff; and, I don't have the fire department on speed dial (ok, actually I do, but not for emergency sake).

If you're not the Chicken Little variety, it's very likely you know a Chicken Little.  I do, and my Chicken Little was very (albeit, seemingly randomly) worried about tsunamis as of late.  CL asked me (and there is no good reason to ask me because I am, as previously professed, not an expert (nor do I care to be) on disaster preparedness, but the mind of a CL does not discriminate in seeking reassurance or refute alike) if I thought the block of Manhattan Beach where I currently reside would be taken out if a tsunami struck.

Without hesitation, I took full advantage of this CL's vulnerability.  I replied in full-blown affirmative that I absolutely had no doubt that a tsunami would wipe out the 11th Street block of Manhattan Beach.  CL took my opinion as conclusive and inquired what one should do during said tsunami.  Oh, how I couldn't resist; again, without hesitation, I said that in the event of a Manhattan Beach tsunami it would be best to "hold on".  CL accepted this advice.

About a week ago I ventured down the Strand into Hermosa Beach territory.  Much to my untrained for signs of potential disaster's eyes, I beheld tsunami warning signs.  I am currently in the process of determining the best after hours time to return, retrieve them and post them along the 11th Street block of Manhattan Beach--just for kicks of course.

Life sometimes can be catastrophic.
Catastrophic: –adjective

  a sudden and widespread disaster;

  any misfortune, mishap, or failure; fiasco