Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Meet Nick


I was sitting on the grassy knoll above Drolinger parking lot at the LMU campus, on a Saturday afternoon, for two reasons: one, there was an LMU lacrosse game against my hometown college U of A, and two, because one of my best friends is on the LMU LAX team and asked me to come out and support him.

It was unusually windy on top of the parking structure, which was deceiving because of the extreme LA sunshine that day. My hair was blowing in every direction, and my Calvin Klein wide rimmed sunglasses, that cover half my face, still weren’t large enough to shield my face from the sharp rays.

‘I am not dressed for this type of bipolar weather,’ I thought, as I walked up to my friend, Hayden Fullstone, (#8) to congratulate him on the win; LMU killing U of A 13 to 6.

Next to Hayden, stood #31. Standing at 6’2”, the tall, 22 year-old lacrosse player is muscular, tanned and has long wavy brown hair that resembles that of a surf bum. I soon learn that his personality is just as laid back as his hairstyle.

His name is Nick Roessler and he’s been playing on the LMU LAX team since he transferred from University of Colorado at Boulder, his second semester sophomore year.

Playing as a defender on the LMU team Nick enjoys “whacking the shit out of people” and “taking his aggression out on the field.”

He began playing lacrosse as a freshman in high school, in San Francisco where he grew up.

“I sucked at first,” he said. “I had never played before and the coach just assumed because I played football and basketball, and was this big athletic guy that I’d be a good player. Instead, I sat on the bench for the entire year. But I liked contact sports so I stuck with it.”

I asked Nick how, if he started playing lacrosse so late, he could have possibly ended up playing for a Division I college.

He answered that he was proactive and persistent.

“I spent a lot of time just throwing the ball against the wall,” he said “and by my senior year I just improved a lot, became captain, and it all just kind of clicked.”

I can tell right away that Nick is a great conversationalist. The kind of person you could easily open up to about a family tragedy and yet also go out and have a couple of beers with and know you were going to have a good time.

Our conversation flows easily from lacrosse, to school, to life.

I am shocked to learn that Nick is also my neighbor on Regis Way. His address only setting him four doors down from my home. He loves living on Regis just as much as I do. His house is always throwing parties, or having people over.

“We have a ‘revolving door’ ” he said. “There is always someone in my house who doesn’t live there. Whether it’s an LMU lacrosse player or just neighbors and friends,” he adds.

During the spout of our talk, nearly four different groups of cute college girls approach Nick and congratulate him on a good game. One of which exclaimed, “You are the meanest guy on the field!” I huge compliment for a defender.

“Hmm popular with the ladies are we?” I ask after the last set of girls leave.

Nick looks down, blushing, and lightly shakes his head. His goofy side smile suggests that he’s far more innocent then his charming exterior and not quite as confident as his aggressive lacrosse skills might suggest.

“Nah,” he says, as if reading my mind, “Things aren’t always as they appear.”

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Whiskey in the Jar


It’s 4am on Regis Way and guess what I woke up to?

“Now some men take delight in the drinking and the roving,

But others take delight in the gambling and the smoking.

But I take delight in the juice of the barley,

And courting pretty fair maids in the morning bright and early”


That’s right, the Irish Folk song, “Whiskey in the Jar.”

It was a startling way to start my morning. At the sound of the music, I jolted up and ran to my window. I peered out to see two cars parked in the middle of the street, facing each other, one was a small SUV, the other, a silver sedan. Both had their lights on bright, which shone on a group of (I’m going to assume here) drunken boys, clad in lime green and shimmering top hats, jigging to the Irish folk tune.

Why you might ask?

Well because it’s Saint Patty’s day of course!

…But why at 4am?

One word.

Brennan’s.

Every March 17th, the quaint Irish pub opens its doors at 4am, for college students and locals ready to drink in the name of a saint. Today, LMU students were given free buses to safely tow them from LMU’s back gates (only two blocks from Regis Way) to the infamous Irish pub. This thus explains why there was a dance fest going on in the middle of the street on Regis today.

But, in the spirit of the Irish, let’s not blame these boys for waking up the neighborhood. In all honesty, I wish I had joined them.

To all, Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

GarrRRRrrfieeEEeeld


It's like clockwork.

Every night at about 12am I hear the slam of her front door, and the pounding stomp of her feet as they quickly travel down each stair. Then, there is the deliberate jingle of a rock filled can, which is always followed by the loud obnoxious screech of her voice.

It starts out as a calm beckon and slowly grows louder.

"Garfield...............GaRRrfieEEld..................GaRRRfieEEEld."

There is a short pause.

"HERE pretty kitty! Come to mommy."

Another short pause and then the finale.

"GAAAaaRRRRRFFFiiiiEEEEEeeeLLLddd!!?? Where the HELL are you, you BAD CAT?!"

I hardly blame the white and orange striped tabby for hiding under the house and not wanting coming out.

If I Don't Call The Police My Neighbor Will! : Crime in Westchester


Burglaries on every street, old ladies held at gunpoint, young women raped. These are things you would expect in the harsh central city parts of Los Angeles, not in a suburban neighborhood.

For the past six months, Regis Way and its neighboring streets have been plagued with criminal activity, including theft, burglary, and even rape. However, the residents on Regis are taking action.

Recently, the neighborhood has formed a Neighborhood Watch program and held weekly meetings to help prevent crime on our street. This included posting signs that say "Westchester Neighborhood Watch is watching!" (a little too 'Big Brotherish' for my taste, but effective) on front lawns and street lamps, as well as putting orange R stickers on dashboards to prove you are a resident of the area.

The LAPD works in conjunction with the program, and the Neighborhood Watch program has proven to be very effective against crime. Hooray to Regis Way for keeping me safe!

For more information about Westchester/Playa Neighborhood Watch, click on the link below.
http://www.ncwpdr.org/neighborhoodWatch
The website provides valuable information about how watch programs work, how to start a neighborhood watch on your street, and what having a watch does to help create a greater awareness of and fight crime in your area.

The Car Parked Outside Part 2

Check out that empty spot!!

You'll never believe it.

Right after I wrote the previous post, (no joke, the next day) the blue car vanished. Poof. No car in front of my house. Did the owner read my blog? There is no telling, but I can't begin to explain to you my extreme delight when I noticed the car was gone! I immediately moved my precious silver Ford Escape forward and reclaimed the best parking spot in front of my house.

Unfortunately, later in the afternoon when I went to go get groceries, the ugly blue car had returned and taken its place back in it's usual spot. Grrrr... I'm waging war with the mystery owner. (who I have still yet to meet or even see for that matter....)

Monday, March 1, 2010

The Car Parked Outside


There is a dark blue dodge neon that parks in front of my house every day. Or should I say is parked, because it never leaves!

Okay, I know it does, because it is always moving up or back a few inches, but I have never actually seen it leave.

It bothers me for two reasons. One, it takes one of the best spots on the street, and two, it is by far the ugliest car I have ever seen. The entire roof is covered with large rings of orange rust and white spots where blue paint should be, the bumper hangs off one end of the rear, and the back left door is smashed in.

I have yet to figure out who the vehicle belongs to, but I’ve decided I’m going to camp out in the front of my house and wait for them to leave, so I can take the front parking spot of my house back!

Cheater Cheater Pumpkin Eater



Every morning I wake up at 7am to get ready for class. Mr. Jones is my alarm clock. The rev of the engine of his silver four-door Ford pickup truck jerks me awake at 7 o’clock on the dot every morning.

On my way out the door at 7:50am, I say hi to Mrs. Jones. She barely has enough energy to mumble ‘good morning’ back, as she rushes all three of her children out of the house and into her green minivan.

At approximately 12:30pm every afternoon, I stop back at home. The black Audi A8 is always already there, but parked in different places. Sometimes it’s parked in front of the Jones’ house, sometimes in front of mine, and other times down the street.

I’ve only actually seen the man who owns the car twice. The first time I saw him, it was because I came home early. He was wearing black dress pants, a crisp ironed long-sleeved navy and white striped collared shirt, and black loafers. He was very handsome.

I actually didn’t think much about him until I saw him the fourth or fifth time. Mrs. Jones and the mystery man were out on her front porch, shamelessly canoodling on the blue cushioned porch swing chair. It was then that I finally realized he wasn’t her lawyer, employee, or brother-in-law that came over everyday to say hello.

It seems to be that Mrs. Jones is having an affair!

The Po Po



There was a police helicopter over Regis last night.... again.

It was the loud hum that woke me up. It’s a different sound than the airplanes from LAX… much louder.

The first time I heard it, I called LAPD, but that was only after my roomie and I saw a man frantically running down our street, eyes darting back and forth, neck cranked over his shoulder, as the helicopter lights swooped overhead illuminating the dark road.

We were terrified. Screaming, we locked our front door, ran up to my room on the top floor and hid under the covers just like I used to do when I was a little girl. Then, we called 911.

“You are safe,” the operator said matter-of-factly. “But do not exit your house,” he warned.

Not exactly my idea of comfort.