There were times when I couldn't wait for them to get older.

To be able to hold up their own head.
To crawl or walk.
To eat with their own hands.
To clean up after and dress themselves.

Though they still haven’t mastered the last one, they are quite proficient at the others. Heck, I still have trouble dressing myself.

Spring, with all its rebirth, renewal and awakening, is upon us. It’s right up there with winter, summer and fall as one of my favorite seasons. A time to look forward with hope and anticipation, even though the end of the school year is looming. An end that comes far too early in Burbank – Memorial Day weekend. Which means starting the next school year in mid-August with heat waves, smog alerts and kids sequestered unhappily in air-conditioned classrooms. But that’s a rant for another column another day.

Second, third, fourth. School years are perhaps the best benchmarks for the recall of childhood memories. The external building blocks of our personality are formed in the daily routines and structure of each semester and grade, mysteriously seared into our genetic code.

Spring and the waning school year also bring Open House, a chance to walk through someone else’s world and investigate their rooms, see how they’ve painted them, decorated them and  taken care with what they’ve been given. Loved ones pierce the veil of their children’s lives to briefly glimpse who these little mysteries are, what they do and how they conduct themselves when not under our watchful eyes.

We parents gather to ooh and aah at their achievements, to marvel at papier-mâché masks, plaster models and watercolor countrysides of imaginary lands; to beam with pride at handwritten essays about their role models, crayon self-portraits that bear striking resemblance to Modigliani masterpieces, science experiments and demonstrations graphing the popularity of favorite pets.

But through the crowded halls, past the artwork and scribbles, the demonstrations and presentations, all I see in my mind’s eye are babies.

Babies.

Yours and mine.

When did this happen?

Thing 1 came into the world begrudgingly, past her arrival date, coaxed from the womb and cheering her own entrance with a joyous noise. The nurses told us that of the nine babies born that night at Verdugo Hills Hospital, ours was the loudest. Wise beyond her years and with much to say, she remains as strong of mind, intense and exuberant, ten years later.

Thing 2 had much to do and so she made her arrival quickly, eager to explore this new world, climb its trees and run upon its dirt paths and concrete sidewalks. A young lady with a never-ending agenda is she, always in motion with no fear of adventure. Now eight years on, “seize the day” seems an insufficient motto to contain her.

Their striking, compassionate and penetrating blue eyes watch the world, study their surroundings and create castles where once were windmills. Eyes that see so much more than I ever thought possible. Eyes that see straight through their father, piercing his heart in painful sentimentality.

Those same eyes that looked up at us in wonder, fear, awe and dependence on day one, look at us now. So much wiser and self-reliant, but still the same. It was 100 years ago. And it was yesterday.

And now as summer draws near, another chapter of school too quickly comes to an end; one more invitation to walk through their open house sadly past, and I see the door getting that much closer to shutting. The specter of teenage years, middle and high school is unstoppably bearing down on us faster than I can comprehend.

And I look at these two Things dashing through grade school halls, amazed by their very existence, marveled by their creation and utterly dumbfounded by their beauty, wit, grace and spirit.

I wish I could stop time now.

To catch my breath and remember them forever just as they are today: Annoying and lovely. Stubborn and gracious. Loud and so tender.

And sweeter than golden honey.

Because next year is coming fast. Far too fast.

And with too few opportunities to tell them just how proud I am of them, to be welcomed in their open house in spring.

There were times when I couldn't wait for them to get older. There were.


PATRICK CANEDAY is author of the book “Crooked Little Birdhouse.” Friend him on Facebook. Contact him at patrickcaneday@gmail.com. Read more at www.patrickcaneday.com.

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Dear Kim,

I hear you want to run for mayor of my hometown: Glendale, California.

I’m sure by now you’ve discovered one doesn’t "run for mayor" of Glendale. No. One first runs for city council and then wins the annual intra-council Rock-Paper-Scissors contest to become mayor. Or loses it. No one’s really sure how it works.

Though I now live in neighboring Burbank, as a Glendale son (a “Glendalian?”) I felt compelled to write to you and say this:

Run, Kimmy! Run!

At this moment, all nine of my readers are angrily sending me nasty-grams asking if I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have. But I welcome your ample, well-rounded assets occupying a chair in our local star chamber. No pun intended.

I will admit, however, that my motives are not entirely unselfish. Your brand… er… family is one of my guilty pleasures. I’m not a fan of the K-shows, nor is my DVR set to record them. But I marvel at your faux-lebrity; I find it hard to change the channel when I see a Kardashian in their penthouse or mansion agonizing over what to wear to the photo shoot, who’s pregnant and who’s not, or which rapper/professional athlete is rumored to be next in line for speed dating.  

We’re all human.

Besides, bringing your special brand of sexy, personal drama to our little corner of the world would give this columnist a bountiful source of material. The possibility that you might repost this to your 8.5 million Facebook followers and 14 plus million Twitter-heads hasn’t escaped me either. Nothing would make me happier than to see this newspaper’s website crash under the ensuing inundation of hits.

You like to be seen. I like to be read. I think we understand each other.

Glendale has always had a case of Los Angeles envy. Becoming the first step on your catwalk to higher office may go far to satisfy those cravings. Not since the Mario Lopez fence height scandal have feathers been this ruffled in our humble berg.

You see, unlike your detractors, Kim, I don’t think you’re unintelligent. I know you’re smart. Everything you do has the intended purpose of further advertising your brand. You know exactly who you are, what you bring to the table and how to get what you want. You are as qualified for office as any other concerned Californian who wants to make a difference.

Frankly, after Schwarzenegger got elected – twice! – I pretty much gave up on our voter credibility anyway.

Wanting to be mayor of Glendale because, “It’s like Armenian Town,” as you put it, is a noble cause. But Glendale is so much more than that. We already have a respected history of Armenian representation in local politics: Larry Zarian, Bob Yousefian, Rafi Manoukian and Ara Najarian to name a few.

So, if you’re going to run, Kimmy, please consider a wider platform. Again, no pun intended.

Before you qualify, though, you’ll need to establish residence and get to know us. I’m looking forward to bumping into you squeezing avocados for freshness at Whole Foods, noshing late-night after-party waffles at Conrad’s or getting our stiletto heels fixed at Zinke’s Shoe Repair.

I know you like to shop. No doubt you’ve heard of our elegant trend-setting fashion mall. People drive from all over SoCal to shop there. But if the Eagle Rock Plaza isn’t up to your standards, you can always try the Americana on Brand. It’s OK too.

Haute cuisine, oui! Check out Mario’s Deli – the house combo sub is the greatest sandwich you’ll ever have – Big Jim’s Donuts and of course Damon’s Steakhouse. Just be careful with the Mai Tais at Damon’s. One is not enough. Two is too many. Three is… not enough.

And I highly recommend Ernie’s Barbershop for your hairstyling needs.

If the wild life of Glendale ever gets to be too much, let me be the first to invite you next door to Burbank: the biggest small town in greater L.A. I’ll buy you a slice of pie at the Coral Café, then we can take batting practice at the Batcade. But, unless you like secondhand clothes, don’t get your hopes up for couture shopping. Rumor is we have a decent mall in Burbank, but I’ve never seen it.

So, do this story-starved local newspaper columnist a favor.

Run, Kim. Please run.

Not just for 30% of the population, but for all of us. Not just for the ratings. And not just to get a good seat at Carousel Restaurant. You’ve got a great seat no matter where you go.

OK, that pun was totally intended.


PATRICK CANEDAY is kinda serious. His book “Crooked Little Birdhouse” is available on Amazon. Contact him at patrickcaneday@gmail.com. Read more at www.patrickcaneday.com.  

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“You are lucky to be one of those people who wishes to build sand castles with words, who is willing to create a place where your imagination can wander… This is what separates artists from ordinary people: the belief, deep in our hearts, that if we build our castles well enough, somehow the ocean won't wash them away. I think this is a wonderful kind of person to be.” ~ Anne Lamott

Last week I was honored to serve as the master of ceremonies for the Cabrini Literary Guild’s creative writing awards luncheon. With a mission to stimulate interest in Catholic literature, thought and action through their philanthropic endeavors, the guild holds an annual writing competition open to Catholic high schools in the L.A. archdiocese.

In today’s climate of diminishing support for the arts, not enough can be said about such benevolent groups that foster the dreams and aspirations of those who have stories to tell and are compelled to present them as a humbling, enlightening mirror to the world. And here, briefly, are a few of the rhinestones of wisdom I gave to the gathered young writers:

Writing is a solitary art, birthed in the frightening space between one’s own ears before exposing it for all to see. So it is imperative that writers, like all artists, seek each other out. Few others will understand what demons and angels compel you to take raw substance and alchemize it into coherent expressions of fear, love, anger, jealousy and humanity. You need to know you’re not crazy for finding joy sitting at a computer for hours on end mashing and remashing words together.

And like all craftsmen, you’ll need adequate tools in your tool chest. I’m not talking about a laptop with Wi-Fi so you can join the other squatters at Starbucks all day. The real tools are more elusive than that.

The first is courage. You must be willing to say things that you are afraid to say; to expose parts of yourself you find so embarrassing, hideous and repulsive, that you’d sooner watch a Pauly Shore movie marathon than have anyone find out.

But, your feelings, emotions and thoughts are real. And universal. So you must be willing to be honest, vulnerable and even disliked in order to express the truth as you understand it. Because, when you do that, you speak for countless suffering strangers who can’t.

And once you find that courage, you’ll need the next tool: thick skin. Preferably, this comes as a kryptonite coat repelling every demoralizing thing you hear about the quality of your work and the hideous, repulsive and embarrassing things you’ve made known about yourself. When people post snide comments or de-friend you on Facebook because of something you’ve written, you’ll need to be able to take that and move on. Scarred, but undaunted.

And last is humility. Though thick skin is crucial, you must avoid the pitfall of thinking you are right just because you believe you are and have broadcast it to the world. You must be able to filter what people say, keeping what works and respectfully tossing what doesn’t.

You must be willing to look at your own work critically, through someone else’s eyes, and see that sometimes, perhaps more often than you’d like to admit, they may be right in their criticism.

You need to have others read your perfectly composed prose and provide gut-wrenching, honest feedback. And I’m not talking about your mom, sister or best friend. You need people to read your work that won’t be afraid to hurt your feelings.

Unfortunately, courage, thick skin and humility are not tools anyone can give to you. You earn them by sitting at your favorite spot and letting the things in your head slowly, painfully dribble onto the canvas, day in and day out, whether you feel like it or not, and letting others beat you up for it.

Writing should be as painful as it is enriching.  

Truth has many voices: science, facts and statistics, to name a few. But when cold data is not enough to express the intangibles of this world – and it never is – we must rely on art, literature and poetry in all its forms.

Everyone builds sand castles. Whether you are an athlete or scholar, businesswoman or repairman, wood carver or jewelry maker, everyone has memories and emotions they use to build some structure of sanity around themselves.

It’s been this way since the beginning, and perhaps now more than ever, we need the next generation of artists to courageously and humbly claim their voice in our time.

PATRICK CANEDAY is author of the book “Crooked Little Birdhouse.” Friend him on Facebook. Contact him at patrckcaneday@gmail.com. Read more at www.patrickcaneday.com.

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I am about to break one of the cardinal rules of modern mankind.

I am going to tell you what happened in Las Vegas.

This isn't easy for me. On the flight to Sin City, I told my girls they may see disturbing things that would seem evil and unnatural. But, no matter what they saw, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

And then I needed a spring break topic for my column this week. So here's "The Hangover, Part III: Caneday Family Vacation."

Though my youthful days of nocturnal casino carousing are long gone, the siren song of the craps and blackjack tables still beckoned. That is, until I saw the room service menu prices, and that quickly faded.  

$26 for a hamburger?
$18 for a pot of coffee?
$9 for a bottle of water?

But, cost was no matter. We were going to make the most of our three days and two nights of G-rated debauchery. Within 20 minutes of check-in we saw the Brooklyn Bridge, the Statue of Liberty and a rollercoaster coming out of the New York skyline; a pyramid, a giant golden lion, the Eifel Tower; a castle, a rainforest and a Transformer willing to be photographed for a nominal fee.

Our first stop was a place all three of my ladies had been dreaming about for months: the M&M Store. No ordinary candy counter, this is a four-story monument to the lovable candy-coated chocolate morsels. Time stood still as we perused the selection of key rings, underwear, plush toys, multi-colored jumbo packs and full-sized NASCAR replica emblazoned with the sweet treats logo. I may never eat one again.

Getting around Vegas is easy if you're a competitive walker or professional running back. Otherwise, with kids and limited time, taxis are the only (yet costly) way to go. The monorail is a nice idea, but borderline useless at $5 per person one-way with stops a half mile from the attractions you want to see.

Besides, the most enlightening conversations you'll ever have are with cab drivers. Among them was a Viet Nam vet conspiracy theorist ("Wanna know what I think about UFO's?") and a too-friendly former school teacher with encyclopedic knowledge of the city ("Did you know that Vegas visitors consume 60,000 pounds of shrimp per day?")

Oddly, besides the weather ("Was it cold where you came from?"), the most frequent topic for Vegas cabbies is how horrible traffic is in L.A. Who knew?

But taking cabs doesn't mean you're not going to have endless walks in order to see the many fascinating sights. In the marathon from the monorail station to Circus Circus, Thing 2 mused about her expectations for the most family friendly resort in town.

"I hope there are no creepy clowns and blood everywhere," she said as we approached the time-worn big top.

"Me too," I told her, suddenly scared.

No murderous clowns were found, but plenty of money-sucking games and rides operated by permanently employed carnies.

Whether on the Strip or through the many casinos you're forced to walk in order to get to the family entertainment, it never ceases to amaze me how oblivious tourists are to the other people around them. When masses of humanity converge, the ability to see one and other miraculously disappears.

Yet, simply walking through the casino with a ten and eight year old, fielding their many questions, is entertainment in itself.

"Why do people gamble?"

"Why is that lady dancing in her bikini on top of those machines?"

"Should I double-down on fourteen if the dealer shows a seven?"

It’s never too early to teach kids the basics. I’m just preparing them for middle school.

"This place smells like smoke and desperation," Thing 1 observed while playing penny slots at the Flamingo. Wise beyond her years.

But we wanted to ensure our daughters would never get sucked into the abyss of gambling culture. So, for aversion therapy, we took them downtown, the last stop in a gambler’s long, hard life.

Despite the work they've put in to Fremont Street, downtown really is no place for kids. Save one thing: the zip line. And it was worth the taxi ride, unseemly shops and recently released convicts thereabout, just to see mom and daughter screaming overhead in a 30 second thrill ride.

We saw the water show at Bellagio ten times while dining alfresco at a Paris bistro; we rode a gondola through the faux canals of Venice; we witnessed a volcano erupt outside our taxi window.

Frankly, the only thing I wish hadn’t stayed in Vegas was our hard-earned cash.

PATRICK CANEDAY is author of “Crooked Little Birdhouse” available on Amazon. Reach him at patrickcaneday@gmail.com. Read more at www.patrickcaneday.com.

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                In 2008 when I started writing this column, I had no idea what I was doing.

                Luckily neither did the editors of this paper, so I’ve been allowed to ramble on each week since.

                I'm not a journalist and never set out to be a columnist. When the honor was offered to me, I took it with fear and trepidation.

                Like parenting, or any life hurdle we’re woefully ill-prepared for, it's helpful to turn to those that came before us for advice. But I didn’t know any newspaper columnists. So I blindly reached out to one for advice. Luckily, columnists like hearing from readers.

                Since I'm naïve I aimed high, looking to a writer I’d admired for his decades of work, his ability to reveal the brutality and beauty of humanity in the most mundane, tragic, entertaining and important of topics. A columnist with Pulitzer Prizes buried in his cluttered office among the treasures gathered in a life long lived.

                I sent Al Martinez an email.

                And he wrote back. Columnists like to do that too.

                "I have a hunch, Patrick, that you're a natural," He said. Columnists enjoy a little creative license also. "Keep doing what they like, then branch out from there."

                Simple advice from a man who makes the debilitating task of writing look so simple. I’ve been taking that advice ever since, and four years later the editors still haven’t caught on.

                Not ready to fade into the sunset after the Los Angeles Times bid him a not-so-fond farewell in 2009, Al now writes for the L.A. Daily News and created the Topanga Writers Workshop. He invited me to that workshop in his beloved Topanga Canyon retreat.

                With Al's credentials I thought I'd be surrounded by imposing literary figures and writing masters. But the folks I met sitting at Al's rustic dining room table eating cheese and crackers were from all walks of life; brilliant published writers with several novels to their credit; mothers trying to make sense of their frantic worlds; teenagers full of great expectations; retirees looking to add their unique voices to the library of man.

                But what they all had in common was an unquenchable desire: a need to put pen to paper in order to add meaning and purpose to our time on this rock. I'd found my people. And we all found encouragement in the legendary writer we'd come to meet.   

                That's when I got to know Al as a man who speaks to and for the people. All people. Each with a story to tell, and he's always been happy to help us tell those stories.

                Through the last few years I’ve been blessed to call Al a mentor, whether by simply reading his work to see how a true wordsmith does it or by seeking his advice. His support has been unflagging. But that doesn't make me special. He's that way with all writers and artists that cross his path. And we’re all writers and artists of some sort.

                I once asked Al what it meant when you didn’t get feedback to a column, fearing a declining readership. As he’s done for years in his columns, Al found the silver lining in what I assumed was a storm cloud. “Take it as a compliment," he said. "Most readers only write to you when they want to tell you off. And I've had plenty of those.”

                A couple weeks ago I was honored to attend the opening reception of an exhibition of Al’s work at the Huntington Library in Pasadena: Al Martinez: The Bard of L.A. Again, I thought I'd be surrounded by the elites of journalism, intellectuals and high-brows. And they were there. But so were hippies and professors, business leaders and common folk, literati and the mixed bag of nuts so often the subjects of Al’s musings. People. Al's people.

                And there was Al, slowed by time but ever gracious

                "Amazing how many people turn out for free wine and crackers," he quipped.

                The exhibit is on display until June 25. You can see handwritten letters to his young bride from the foxholes of the Korean War, drafts of scripts for "Hawaii Five-0" and other TV shows, edited copies of his books and original columns. If you're lucky you may even see Al.

                It's a touching tribute to a man who's done more for me than he will ever know. I still don't know what I'm doing when I churn out 800 words each week. But I do know I have an advocate and supporter in a man dubbed the Bard of L.A.

                A man I simply like to call my friend.

                Al Martinez.

PATRICK CANEDAY is author of the book "Crooked Little Birdhouse." Contact him at patrickcaneday@gmail.com. Read more at www.patrickcaneday.com.

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Dear Frank,

It pains me to write this.

Last year I wrote to you, pleading with you to give us back our Los Angeles Dodgers and show yourself out of town. On behalf of all Angelenos who bleed Dodger blue, I implored you to do what you knew in your money-loving, American Express Black Card, bankrupt heart was best and make a few hundred million dollars for yourself and your ex-wife by selling our team.

And this week, you did it*.

So here’s the hard part.

(deep breath)

Thank you.

Give me a second while I hurl.

Thank you for selling our team and taking just the first step down the long road toward restoring the Dodgers to their former glory; for restoring them to a position of respect and dignity in the community you’ve called your luxury playground for only eight years, but the rest of us have called home since we were born.

Thank you for finally admitting that it was never about your love of the game, your respect for this storied franchise or your desire to give fans something worthy of the overpriced tickets, hot dogs and beer we get mugged for at the stadium. It was always about money for you.

Thank you for knowing when enough is enough, and for making Bud Selig look like the wisest man in Baseball. I didn’t know that was possible.

I have to hand it to you though. On a business level you did quite nicely for yourself. While most of us scoffed at the $1.5 billion asking price, you ended up with a reported sale of $2 billion. Not bad for a team you cooked books and borrowed only $430 million to buy.

Maybe $2 billion is enough to cover your so-called investment, your divorce settlement, the debt you incurred driving the team into bankruptcy, as well as continuing to pay Manny Ramirez’s salary while he plays for the Oakland A’s, and still have a handsome chunk left over for yourself.

But to be frank, I don’t want to know what your profit will be. Money at this level over a game is the height of absurdity. It makes me angry to know that you profited from all this, and I am doing my best to put your tenure behind me and get back to rooting for my team.

I missed doing that last year. You may have noticed the empty seats in the stands. I have a feeling they’ll be full again this year.

Smart move choosing Magic and Company (i.e. Guggenheim, Kasten and Johnson group) as new owners. Obviously they had the money, but you knew we wanted an L.A. hero to be the new face of the Dodgers, and he comes with big buck investors behind him. Honestly, I don’t expect Magic to stick around more than about five years. But I’m glad he’s on board to see you off.

I know things will change at Chavez Ravine. New ownership means new philosophies and strategies, some of which we may not like. I know that very soon our beloved Dodger Stadium will undergo “creative” changes meant to enhance our experience and increase profits.

Though I already hear cries of dissent and dismay, I am preparing myself for the day naming rights get sold and we’ll be told to call Dodger Stadium “Union 76 Stadium,” “Kardashian Kommons” or “Facebook Field.”

I'm ready. So long as we don’t have to call it property of Frank McCourt.

We know that new ownership doesn’t necessarily mean smooth sailing. After all, we celebrated when you bought the team from Fox. But we’ll take our chances with Magic for now.

The asterisk (*) above is for this: I know you’re not really going anywhere. Guys like you don't walk away when they smell money left on the table. The small print in all the news stories shows that you retain rights to a choice piece of Chavez Ravine for “future development."

You’ll want to build condos or an entertainment center in the parking lot overlooking the City of Angels; or erect one of your trademark ten-story parking structures blocking our view of “Think Blue.”

So I am weary.

But spring is in the air, and a lot of us just got a little more excited about the upcoming season.

So thank you, Frank, for performing life-saving surgery upon this suffering team of ours and removing the cancer that was eating it alive.

Namely, you. 

PATRICK CANEDAY is still, and always will be, a Dodger fan. Reach him at patrickcaneday@gmail.com. Friend him on Facebook. Read more at www.patrickcaneday.com.

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Did you survive the storm last week?

I'm not talking about a meteorological event, but a saccharine-sweet cultural tempest that just swept through not only our community, but the nation.

I'm talking about Girl Scout cookie time.

Though the eye of the storm has passed, you can still find them in front of Pavilions and Virgil's Hardware, Ralph's and CVS. After that frenzied first week cookies are released, things have settled down to a Tagalong-induced self-loathing lull. Thankfully, we only have a few spare boxes of Thin Mints left in our house.

If you don't have a Daisy, Brownie, Junior, Cadette or Brigadier General at home, you are surely no more than one degree removed from an amazing, beautiful and unique young lady who is growing into womanhood by making sure the rest of us have delicious cookies to gorge ourselves upon.

So don't fight it.

When you see them outside the market, too cute and cuddly for words, asking you in their most innocently deviant tones if you'd like to buy some cookies, don't say things like “I'm watching my weight,” or “Oh, sorry, I'm allergic....”

Buying Girl Scout cookies does not mean you have to eat them. It is perfectly acceptable to re-gift these cookies or take them to work. An open box of cookies in the break room, where your co-workers can secretly grab some and chipmunk them away at their desk, is what Girl Scout cookies were meant for. That, and movie night at home after the kids have gone to bed.

Selling Girl Scout cookies is one of the few things kids can still do outdoors without getting ticketed for not having a permit, and doesn't require the Internet to enjoy. They learn the valuable life lessons of goal-setting, decision-making and money management while improving their people skills and business ethics. 

And I would add to that: how to make others feel bad about themselves while feeling good about themselves — a truly invaluable talent that will serve them well in the long road of life.

I was lucky this year, in that I was the only person on my floor at work with an enticing display of cookies on my desk calling co-workers like the Sirens' song. 

For the record, I didn't sell any cookies. To me, “selling” means trying to get people to buy something, even if they don't need it. I didn't have to try. I merely showcased a selection of irresistible treats. If someone chose to buy a box, or five, I enabled them on my daughter's behalf.

Like legal crack.

Most people act shy and reluctant when the cookies come out, as if they're being forced to do something against their will. They hesitantly say things like, “I shouldn't....” and “I don't think I have any cash....” And then, after they've gotten that out of their system, they attack you with a detailed order like a six-year-old reciting his Christmas list.

“I'll take four Samoas, three Tagalongs, three Do-Si-Dos and eight Thin Mints. Can I write you a check?”

In my unscientific poll, I found Samoas and Thin Mints by far the most popular. They're bought by people who know what they want and aren't ashamed to get it. They're followed closely by Tagalongs and Do-Si-Dos, bought by people with hidden desires who secretly love romance novels. 

I don't know who buys Thank You Berry Much and Shortbreads. I suppose if my grandmother was alive, she would.

And then there is the unsung hero, the one cookie everyone should be buying, but few do. Savannah Smiles. Light, crispy, tangy and delicious. Take my word on this one. You won't regret it.

It's timely that this year's Girl Scout cookie season coincides with my newest hobby and vice. Working out. That's right. I joined a gym.

Sitting in an office five days a week, my midsection has begun to resemble a pot-bellied stove. I was embarrassing my family while walking the dogs wearing my cutoff-midriff Frankie Goes to Hollywood T-shirt. Or maybe it was the too-short dolphin shorts. 

Heck, who am I kidding? It doesn't matter what I wear, I embarrass my family.

So I am doing my best to squeeze in a workout during lunch and after work. Luckily it's also a tax deduction, since the gym is a great place to gather more topics for future columns.

And there's nothing like rewarding one's self with eight to 10 cookies after a workout — something to keep the energy up, of course.

PATRICK CANEDAY doesn't care how “desperate” Nicolette Sheridan is. Friend him on Facebook. Contact him at patrickcaneday@gmail.com. Read more at www.patrickcaneday.com.

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               Few places offer a more intense view into the makeup of the human condition than the elevator.
                Where else in our daily lives are we forced to spend valuable seconds – even a full minute –tightly confined with a group of fellow earthlings in the microcosmic journey to our final destinations?
                In my non-columnist life, I work in a monolith to a media giant. My cubicle is on one of the upper floors, so I spend much time sealed in the suspended six-by-six vertical people mover chronicling tips and observations about humanity and survival in my 10 to 20 elevator rides per day.
                Some might be valuable life lessons. Others may simply get you from one floor to the next without having a minor, unwanted coffee break from sanity. Which is easier said than done:
                When boarding a lift, allow the passengers already on it to disembark first. This sounds obvious, and I wish I didn’t have to restate it. But, if you are one of the few people whom I’ve bumped into because you are too impatient to let me get out of your way first, perhaps it’s time you went through with those plans to isolate yourself from the rest of us on a rural Idaho compound.
                It’s respectful practice to enter the elevator in the order that you arrived at it. My eight-year-old knows how this works, so should the rest of us. The exception to this rule is, of course, "ladies first." Besides simple courtesy, this helps to prevent the awkward and annoying start-and-stop dance that also occurs at four-way intersections when basic driving rules are forgotten and no one knows who should proceed first.
                If possible, move to the back or sides of the car and stand with your back to the wall. Standing in the middle of an uncrowded car or facing the wall just creeps other riders out. I don’t really know why, it just does. But the world needs antagonists. So if that's you, just be prepared for worried glances in your direction.
                If you enter an occupied elevator while conversing with someone else, you have a choice: pause your discussion so others don’t feel excluded, or be open to the unsolicited contributions of others. Either is fine. I’ve been both the recipient and giver of advice in what amounts to between-floors speed therapy.
                There is an appropriate space cushion that exists around all humans, like the Millenium Falcon’s battered deflector shields. Respect it. Especially after someone disembarks and you find yourself standing awkwardly close to your cabin mate from accounting.
                But, and this is very important, provide them with more room without making them feel it's due to odor or dislike. Casually stretch or reposition that sleepy leg in order to widen the breadth between you. Though no one likes their personal space invaded, they also don't like feeling they aren't worth spending close time with.

                If the sight of other human beings and the possibility of interacting with them gives you hives, pull out your smarthpone and flip through emails or play solitaire. Sadly, it appears that most elevator riders adhere to this rule.

                But, never talk on your cell phone while on the elevator. This monologue makes you sound like an idiot: “Hang on, I’m just getting on an elevator and I may lose you. Hello? Can you hear me? I’m on an elevator and have a bad connection. Hello? Hello? I can’t hear you. I’m on an elevator. Hello? Damn, she dropped me.”

                If you know you’re getting off on a lower floor, do not jockey to get in the car first. It’s not a free food stand at Costco. Do us the courtesy of getting on last so you’re nearest the door.

                Pressing the crosswalk button repeatedly never makes the light change faster. Same with elevator buttons. Press it once, then enjoy the ride. It’s not a morphine drip or a sentient being that reacts to your impatience.

                Also, pressing an already lit button shows a lack of trust in technology and the person who pressed it before you. Life is not going to move faster just because you got on our elevator.

                An empty elevator is no place to reposition your wedgy, unbuckle and retuck the shirt or hike up the skirt and adjust your leggings. I promise you, the door will open before you’re done, and your coworkers don’t want to catch you with your hand down there.

                Likewise and lastly, alone on the poorly ventilated lift is no place to relieve yourself of the routine gases we all suffer. When the doors open and you're faced with the senior V.P. and his entourage, you’ll have no one else to blame.

PATRICK CANEDAY can be reached at patrickcaneday@gmail.com. Read more at www.patrickcaneday.com.

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                You hear them long before you see them.
                They announce their pending arrival like the blare of an ambulance giving you warning from blocks away; a distant peel growing louder and louder until you can't ignore it any longer.
                When you look up from your TV, your newspaper, iPad or smartphone, you realize just how incongruous the sound is. It doesn't belong in the city as the siren does or even the wind-thumping of helicopter blades overhead.
                It’s a call that belongs in the jungles of Central or South America. Or Madagascar. When I close my eyes and try to put an image to the noise, it reminds me of marbles colliding, thousands and thousands continuously crashing together in high-pitched warbles.
                It’s the sound of exotic birds taking over the sky.
                Parrots have invaded Burbank.
                First you hear one far away, then two, then scores until the air is filled with their unmistakable chatter before you've caught sight of them. Their collective voice builds and builds as equal measures of fear and excitement swell within you waiting to see what makes such ruckus din.
                From nowhere, everywhere and elsewhere, over rooftops, trees and telephone wires, your baited anticipation is rewarded as aquamarine flyers overrun the sky. They speed across the blue, street by street, neighborhood by neighborhood, heading I know not where. Watching them it seems even they don’t know where they are going, flying this way and that, from every angle and in every direction. They are a loosely synchronized chaos of clamor, feathers and neon green.
                They aren’t new though. Flocks of non-native parrots have been spotted across the area for decades. There is no one factual record of their origins. Some sources trace them back to escapees from the tropical Busch Gardens theme park that called Van Nuys home from 1966 to 1979. Or farther back to a nursery and bird farm fire in Pasadena. Others still claim they've simply migrated north from Mexico.
                With Southern California’s balmy weather and abundant sources of food, they’ve survived and thrived in small populations of their own. Much like the rest of us who call Los Angeles home.
                As probable as the stories sound, I like to think these alien residents came to us by more romantic, intentional means. I imagine a sage, eclectic and inspired Angeleno long ago in troubled times opening the cages of her beloved companions, too tired and pained to see them captive any longer. And with her dying, hopeful breath pouring out her wishes for them, the world and us.
                "Be free."
                And her wish multiplied and thrived.
                Their descendents, in numbers too great now to hide, swoop in to invade each corner of our cities one by one when called by some unknown spirit.
                As quickly as they come, they fade away and the skies are silent once more, leaving you to wonder if the phenomenon of their appearance was a fluke. Have they gone forever? Will we ever hear or see them again?
                When they move on to terrorize and amaze another neighborhood, it's hard to tell whether they are fleeing or, work done, simply departing; speeding quickly to their next destination with a great urgency and purpose even they don't know yet.
                And when they come back, because they always return, you're just as surprised and mesmerized as the first time, marveling at their incompatible sight once more.
                Are they an omen? A sign of global warming? Nature's wrath come to reclaim what is rightfully hers?
                Or is it but one more piece of dross to gossip and tweet about like Angelina Jolie’s right leg?
                My bet is they are just another odd sight in a city with all too many of those. I'm glad to have their distraction though. In these times when we're all a little messed up, when the world moves before us in hazy frustration, it's nice to have the disruption of a thousand emerald criers piercing the self-made bubble of our isolation, offering momentary freedom from our cages, our prisons, from our addictions to money, pride, fame, fear, anger and self-destruction.
                They remind us of something better, of hope, our destiny and purpose; a glorious green and small wonder pleading for attention in a world gone gray and amok.
                Look to the skies, folks. They'll be there.


PATRICK CANEDAY is the author of “Crooked Little Birdhouse.” Friend him on Facebook. Contact him at patrickcaneday@gmail.com. Read more at www.patrickcaneday.com.

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Dear Parents (and you know who you are),

I would like to thank those of you who felt that the third grade was an appropriate age to give your child a cell phone. I'm sure you have every good reason for doing so.

But thanks to your generosity, I am subjected to my kids' constant complaining and begging for a cell phone, because apparently “everyone else has one!” I am barraged daily by their incessant pining for a device that until this decade every human being on the planet was able to survive adolescence without.

Personally, I have yet to make this financial commitment for my children. I'm not yet convinced eight and nine year olds are quite ready for the responsibility that comes with being electronically tethered to the rest of humanity. Or that my child’s life is enhanced by texting their elementary school friends five minutes after they've spent the day with them. Or by having unlimited calls, even if only within network.

Call me old-fashioned, but we still have a rotary dial phone in the house that costs pennies and can be more easily supervised. Somehow that sufficed for the last 100 years.

Anyway, since you decided to lower the bar by adding yet one more juicy idol to the peer pressure candy machine for all minors to covet, I thought I’d share with you a few things I’ve decided to give my kids before they’re ready. It won’t be long before your kids are throwing nuclear tantrums and causing you migraines over a few things that “everyone else has!” Such as:

Driver’s licenses. That’s right, my kids will now be the envy of all their third and fourth grade friends when they drive themselves through the drop off lane at school each morning. Safety-shmafety. I’ll even let my kids drive your kids home!

I already gave them their college savings. They just spent their future on 100 life-sized Gummy Bears, 50-meter line seats to the Canadian Football League opening game (go Eskimos!) and lifetime subscriptions to Tiger Beat and Teen People magazines. I wonder what your kids will spend their inheritance on.

I’m also giving my kids the right to vote. Now it’ll be your fault this fall when minors across this great land choose the ticket of Ron Paul and Lady Gaga over The Socialist and Selena Gomez.

As I write this I am giving my kids a cuddly little case of recreational insomnia. Won’t be long before your jealous offspring are pleading for sleepless nights on the couch marveling at the number of LED lights in your darkened house while learning everything they ever wanted to know about Nazi Germany stand-up comedians on The History Channel in the wee hours of the night.

Chronic lower back pain. Yep. Just gave my little ones this pseudo-paralyzing but not quite debilitating lifelong affliction. You thought it was hard to get your kids to pick up their clothes and toys before now? Just wait until your kids come home telling you how all the other kids at school get to lie on the couch in excruciating agony while their parents wait on them hand and foot.

Not too worry though. To help alleviate the pain I’m also giving my girls an affinity for fine single malt Scotch. Not the cheap stuff. I’m talking about Scotch with phlegm-producing Celtic names no one outside Glasgow can pronounce. The kind of spirit that’s been aging in mossy caves since before your grandparents were born and only Saudi Arabian princes can afford. Throw out the wild cherry juice bags, folks. Your kids will never go back.

Crow’s feet and worry lines. My goal is to make these endearing facial scars the “must have” item this Christmas. I’m already in patent discussions with Sesame Street regarding the “Wrinkle Me Elmo” doll.

For their birthdays I am giving my kids early onset dementia. Once you cave in to your kids’ envious demands, you too will know exactly why it seems they have no idea what you’re talking about.

And lastly, I’m giving my kids a healthy dose of reality. That comes with credit card and utility bills, mortgage payments, shattered dreams, anxiety, a demanding boss, an extreme shortage of time to get anything done, traffic jams, global warming and disillusionment with their elected officials’ ability to serve the people before themselves.

What it does not come with is a cell phone.

Your kids will be driving you crazy for all of this soon. You’re welcome. If you’ve got a problem with that, tell them to give me a call.

PATRICK CANEDAY is author of the book “Crooked Little Birdhouse” now available on Kindle. Contact him at patrickcaneday@gmail.com, read more at www.patrickcaneday.com.

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