It’s about time
By Paul Mantee
It is precisely 10:04 a.m., Jan. 9, 2003 as I type this very word. I know because the clock on my television, my CD player, my portable voice recorder, my microwave and my computer screen all tell me so. I no longer need to depend on the charming Timex on my wrist or the deco timepiece on the bed stand. Today, everything but my toilet has a clock on it; one that must be programmed before the item it inhabits will perform its primary function-which is not to rub my nose in the time of day, month and year.
I don’t need to be reminded that life is ebbing, while I’m grooving with Dave Brubeck, conducting a little interview for The Malibu Times, reheating my coffee or responding to e-mail. And especially not when I’m kicking back, enjoying film noir on TV, which is just about all I can bear to watch these nights. I would, however, appreciate being able to pinpoint exactly what channel I’m on-a convenience unavailable on my cable box and yours. Yes, I am indeed fortunate to have hundreds of venues at my fingertips; but I am a little perplexed that I’m not allowed to know where the hell I am, at present, because the space that should logically display the channel I’m watching does so only during the instant I switch to it, then goes back to constantly reminding me what time it is. And I forget. Okay, it’s a high-class problem. But I’m less than comfortable faced with a flashing reminder that life is whipping by while I’m lying around wishing I were half as cool as Robert Mitchum in 1947.
Today is my birthday and I’m not crazy about the idea. I feel ancient and cranky and scattered.
Permit me to wander all over the place.
A friend of my girlfriend claims to be a psychic. Which rattles my frame of reference in the first place. Yesterday, she phoned and I picked up the receiver, said hello, and she asked, “How are you?” Does that question strike anybody as bizarre, considering her chosen field?
It bugs me that each month I get my credit card bill from Exxon Mobil and along with it I am invited to purchase a set of 20 low-mintage quarters, a toy tanker truck, a vacuum cleaner, a set of self-stick labels (choice of color), a wristband blood pressure monitor, a 3-speed turntable, a video transfer system (I’m not sure what that is, but I’ll bet it’s got a clock on it), a genuine leather handbag, a color TV, a signature ring, a hooded jacket and membership in a flower club. What frustrates me is that I’ve kept all the extensive and colorful literature involved in this waste of time in a file in order to write an article about it one day. And, of course, there’s very little to write about other than what I just did. Boy, did I enjoy throwing all that crap in the recycle bin.
I spend 25 minutes a day, five days a week on the treadmill at my gym. That’s 2.083 hours per week engaged in an activity-healthy, sure-but slightly more involving than humming through the “spin” cycle. Each day, I time the process. How can I not? I play peek-a-boo between the big clock on the south wall upper right and the little timer lower left on my Life Fitness 9000 contraption. I obsess on all the things I could be doing instead. Then I tell myself, life itself is a time constraint, so relax and keep moving though you appear to be going nowhere. I catch myself aiming sweat droplets as they leave my face and giving myself points for the ones that hit the cross bar, while wishing precious minutes would evaporate. Go figure.
I miss the old Moonshadows. Steak, baked potato, generous salad bar and perhaps a great big artichoke on the side, with a choice of melted butter or mayonnaise, or both. What serves Malibu least is yet another over-priced nouvelle experience.
Things I never expect to see locally:
An ugly child
A plain woman driving a BMW
A happy-go-lucky face behind the wheel of an SUV
A homemade cup ‘a Joe at the Coffee Bean (et al.)
Half a chicken containing the bones it was born with at a Malibu restaurant (What distinguishes a restaurant from a coffee shop for the purpose of this gripe is a tablecloth.)
A more spectacular New York cut steak than is available at Taverna Tony’s (but you have to ask for it)
A more generous pour than is available at Guido’s (and you don’t have to ask for it)
Mashed potatoes without the garlic nonsense
A personal trainer who is articulate on a second subject
An under-priced shrimp cocktail
A hearty meal at Geoffrey’s
Thicker bacon than they consistently serve at Marmalade
A tastier cheeseburger than you can get at Steve and Maurey’s Country Kitchen (inconspicuously wedged between A&B Hardware and Country Liquor)
I’m hungry.
I feel better now.
Thank you.