I was almost given a costly parking ticket yesterday. I had foolishly parked the Yamaha Majesty next to a red curb and a fire hydrant, directly in front of the main entrance to West Hollywood Pavilions. I’d parked in the same spot many times, and for my own mystical reasons I’d never considered the possibility that I might be risking a fine.

One, the fire hydrant was painted almost the same bright yellow color as a nearby pair of metal posts, and it didn’t look like a hydrant as much as an object d’art of some kind. Time and again I’d considered the yellow hydrant and posts and thought “those look very nice” but not once did I say to myself “that’s an actual fire hydrant so I’d better park somewhere else.”

So if you ask me it was basically the fault of the City of West Hollywood for making things look too pleasant and attractive and spiffy.

Two, the bright red paint on the curb was also pleasing to the eye (yellow-red contrast) and again this was WeHo’s fault. The designers distracted the eyes of Average Joes. Most of us are inclined to obey the law, but it’s unfair, so to speak, to use camoflauge and vivid colors to throw people off. Not to mention the attractive cactus plants between the yellow posts and the hydrant.

Luckily I came out of Pavilions and greeted the ticket guy before he’d begun writing me up. I didn’t argue with him, and I certainly wasn’t dumb enough to insist that I was innocent, or to accuse West Hollywood of distracting law-abiding citizens with bright, attractive colors. I just said it hadn’t occured to me that I was breaking the law because the hydrant didn’t look hydrant-y enough.

“But you’re also parked next to a red curb,” he said. “How could you possibly miss that?” I said I didn’t know how, but that somehow it hadn’t occured to me.

Then we started talking about the rumblehog, and he wanted to know the manufacturer and model. Then my “Pete Buttigieg for President” bumper sticker, followed by a discussion of my 1960 “Kennedy for President” sticker. And this and that and before you knew it the ticket guy decided not to ticket me, and I told him I was very grateful.

Hollywood Elsewhere and the rumble hog rarely pay for underground parking. In the vast majority of cases there’s enough room to squirm past the plastic white barrier gate; ditto on the way out. This is one of the many delights of two-wheeled travel in this town.

Before last night’s Irishman premiere the three of us (Tatyana, myself and the Yamaha Majesty) managed to barely squeeze past the barrier going in, but upon leaving the space to the right of the gate looked too tight. (Or so it seemed at the moment.) So I maneuvered right behind a scruffy Toyota or Honda of some kind. The guy paid, the gate want up and I followed him right out — standard opportunistic procedure in parking lots across the globe, I presume.

There was a security guy (white shirt, black tie, badge) who was standing around. As Tatyana and I sped off, I could hear the security guy express alarm (“heeeeyyyy!”) but even with my helmet on and the engine roaring I could sense he wasn’t that into it. Maybe he was amused. He gets paid either way.

A while back I hired a shifty outfit called Arrow Moving and Storage to haul some stuff (including my trusty Yamaha Majesty) from Wilton, Connecticut back to West Hollywood. I told them exactly what the items were and their size. (Arrow had moved many of the same items last summer.) There was no ambiguity about the load or their estimate — they said it would set me back $1350, give or take.

My total packed-box count was 14 instead of 10 so I knew there’d be an overage charge, but after the stuff (including a big TV and a wooden shoe rack) was loaded earlier today I was told by the local subcontracted movers that the total hit would be a hair under $2700 — $1350 paid today and another $1347 when the stuff arrives in WeHo. But add the $270 deposit I sent to Arrow a few weeks ago, and the tally is $2967.

In other words, I was charged more than double what had been estimated by an Arrow guy named “Thomas”.

In my humble judgment, Arrow’s way of doing business is, at the very least, sloppy and careless. We all understand that moving estimates can sometimes be a bit off, but when you wind up getting charged more than double the original estimate, something is seriously wrong.

I think it’s a scam — deliberately under-estimate in order to land a sale and a deposit, and then refuse to answer the phone when the movers charge much, much more due to a higher cubic-foot and weight count than originally estimated.

Two and a half hours of sitting-up “sleep” on Saturday morning’s LAX-to-JFK flight, which left around midnight and arrived just after 8 am. Everyone had to walk a mile and a half to get to the baggage carousels. Alas, my suitcase was missing. The Delta guys knew it was somewhere in the terminal but alas, they knew not where. I filled out the forms and took the Air Train to Howard Beach, and then waited over 20 minutes for the miserable Manhattan-bound A train to arrive. The NYC subway system is pathetic — the worst anywhere.

I didn’t get to Grand Central until 11:15 am. I was so whipped from the flight that I slumped over and crashed on the NYC-to-Westport train. Good friend Jody scooped me up, drove to the Southport automotive garage where the Yamaha Majesty and the Nissan Maxima beater have been sitting all winter. In 38-degree weather I drove the Yamaha back to Wilton — delightful icy wind cutting into my cheekbones.

I crashed on Jody’s living room couch, and did so, mind, while sitting up with a remote in my hand. Jody drove me back to Southport to pick up the Nissan. Movers are arriving Monday morning to take stuff back to Los Angeles (Yamaha, big TV, Blurays, clothing, shoes, framed art) so I drove to a local mall to buy cardboard shipping boxes, bubble wrap and packing tape. Again I crashed on the couch. Woke up, had some dinner, watched some TV.

The missing suitcase was finally delivered to Jody’s home by a Delta subcontractor at 12:10 am. I had filed a couple of stories this evening but I need to wake up early tomorrow. Face facts — today was a wash.

I’m flying to JFK late tonight and Metro Northing up to Wilton tomorrow morning. I have to sell a Nissan Maxima that I bought last fall and send stuff (the beloved Yamaha Majesty, my 65″ 4K HDR TV, Roku player + 4K Bluray player, Blurays, sub-woofer, oriental rug, wooden shoe rack, clothing, framed photos) back to Los Angeles via Arrow Movers, who are picking up on Monday or Tuesday. It’s a pain in the ass but I have to do it. I’ll also be catching a couple of screenings in Manhattan and probably hang with friends a bit. Returning to Los Angeles next Friday, 3.29. I’ve gotten used to the warmish (recently almost summery) Los Angeles weather so I’m not looking forward to those frigid Connecticut climes.

Selling this 19 year-old rig for a cool $1500 sometime this weekend.

For three or four years I’ve been riding a big fat Yamaha Majesty 400, which you might as well call a motorcycle. It’s large and fast and makes a nice rumbly-gurgly sound, and it has leather saddlebags and a mounted snap-shut carrying case on the rear. Between ’07 and ’08 I owned a BMW yellowjacket motorcyle, which wasn’t a substantially different thing except that it had a little more power and made more noise plus you had to constantly shift gears with your foot.

For whatever reason the foot-shift thing is hugely important to some guys. In their minds foot-shift vehicles are ridden by men, and non-foot-shift vehicles are ridden by dilletantes, and so anyone riding a large, Harley-sized, bloop-bloop scooter is somehow relegated to the realm of dandelions and dingleberries.

Scooters are smallish, Vespa-sized vehicles that sound like a swarm of hornets when you rev them up. If a two-wheeled bike is big (even heftier than some motorcycles) and studly and powerful enough to achieve speeds of 70 or 80 mph without breaking a sweat, it’s a rumblin’, easy ridin’, two-wheeled beast. Period, end of story.

Exactly two weeks ago (Friday, 2.24) I went to catch Jordan Peele‘s Get Out at the Pacific Grove plex. After the show mercifully ended I realized I had lost my keys somewhere between the outdoor Grove parking lot and the theatre, and it was no small loss — my Mini Cooper ignition/door key, a Yamaha Majesty ignition key plus a carrying case and chain-lock key, two apartment door keys, a laundry room and bicycle-lock key.

I got down and crawled all over the theatre floor with my iPhone flashlight on, certain that they must have fallen out. But I couldn’t find them. I whined and bitched at God, and then left my name and phone # with Pacific management. Then I gave the same info to the Grove valet desk as well as the Grove security office, which is adjacent to the Farmer’s Market grocery area. Nobody called over the next two or three days so I figured “okay, I’m fucked.”

Sometime last week I made some low-cost copies and then had to shell out $150 for two new bolt-lock apartment keys, and I would have had to pay a little more than $250 for a new Mini Cooper key. But yesterday afternoon (right after a screening of Terrence Malick‘s Song to Song) I went by the Grove to ask around again, and lo and behold the Grove plex guys had them. The sight! My eyes all but bounced out of their sockets. Elated, walking on air, shook everyone’s hand, “thank you!”, etc.

I ride a big fat Yamaha Majesty, which you might as well call a motorcycle. It’s large and fast and makes a nice rumbling sound, and it has leather saddlebags and a mounted snap-shut carrying case on the rear. And I do what I want when I ride around, believe me. I rarely stop for traffic. I just ride between cars (i.e., splitting lanes), and I never, ever pay for parking. When I’m on that beautiful machine Los Angeles doesn’t own me or tell me what to do — I own it.

Anyway when I’m too far back in a left-turn lane waiting for a light, I’ll just move forward and slip in front of the first car waiting to turn. If he/she doesn’t like it, tough.

Two days ago I rumbled in front of a left-turn guy who was sitting in a hefty gray muscle car (Dodge, Camaro, Mustang). As I was idling there the guy inched forward while turning slightly to the right. He squeezed (the word is actually semi-crushed) my left thigh and damn near pushed me over. This asshole was telling me he didn’t like my cruising in front of him, and that I had compromised his feelings of masculinity.

I’ve decided to sell the Yamaha as I’ve spotted something a little better as well as reasonably priced. Had it four years, bought it for $3750 plus paid for new windshield, mounted top case, Kryptonite lock. One estimate says it’s worth $3100 retail. Nada guides says it’s worth $2000, but if you add the top case, windshield and chain lock (at least $400) the price is $2400 firm. I’ve been maintaining it like a baby all along. Never took it on a long trip. Sticker on license plate is good until next February.

Bernie Sanders is claiming momentum in the wake of yesterday’s wins in Alaska, Hawaii and Washington. But they mainly happened because Alaska, Hawaii and Washington don’t have large black populations (i.e., low-information, “we don’t know him,” etc.) I can do the delegate math as well as anyone else. We all know how things’ll shake out in the end. But for the time being I sure feel proud about that Bernie sticker on the Majesty. Will I replace it with a Hillary sticker when the time comes? I’ll vote for her, of course, but I just can’t feel the passion. Never have, probably never will.