I've posted the last of the California photos, including shots of San Francisco, a petting zoo, and getting lost in a maze made of straw.

My landlord: "I don't understand why I have mice."
Exterminator: "You should probably take out your garbage at least once a month."

Apparently that conversation actually happened last week, and neither person was being sarcastic. My landlord, who looks and smells like he sleeps on a park bench, "lives in filth," according to the building's exterminator, a man who, by definition, sees his share of conditions ideal for vermin. "I've been a bachelor before, and I know what it's like, but man, that guy's over the edge." It's made me very curious; I want to know what it takes to impress an exterminator in this way.

My landlord often forgets to drag the trash and recycling to the curb when it's time, the stairs are desparate for broom action, the front doorknob comes off in your hand (surprise!), the buzzer is broken, his overgrown backyard goes unused, and one of his dead trees is permanently reclining on a power line.

I can often tell when my landlord is home, because I can smell his armpits from the hallway. (True!) Fortunately, his place is three floors away from mine, and so far the mice seem to be content making their home with him. We've yet to see any pests in our place, and on the inside, you'd never suspect we live so close to the den of a wild animal.

The other day Todd and I were sitting on our chipped stoop, admiring the manicured plants and freshly painted steps belonging to neighbors on our otherwise lovely block, a stretch of brownstones that gives birth to wholesome lemonade stands and entire families on bikes.

"Look at our tree," I said, pointing to an empty patch of dirt in the sidewalk. It was the first time either of us had noticed that we were the only house within sight that didn't have a tree planted in front of it. It made us both laugh, and eventually theorize about how our building is probably known to our neighbors as the block's hideous stain.

Still, I have to say, this landlord is better than my last. That says a lot for New York real estate, I know.

Volume 2 of the California pictures, all of which were taken along the Pacific Coast Highway.

Because I work in Manhattan and live in Brooklyn, and because many after-work events take place in Manhattan, it's rare that I make the hour-long round-trip to visit my apartment simply to change clothes, drop off my things, or lie down next to a cat for a quiet thirty minutes.

As a result, I've learned to adapt. When I get dressed in the morning, I think more about what clothing is appropriate for the upcoming evening than I do for work itself (they aren't so different, anyway...work is casual), and I carry enough bags with me to spend a weekend away (my camera and lenses, a sweater, reading material, music, toiletries, etc.). In lieu of the cat half-hour, I've taken occasional early evening naps under my desk, in the crawl-space beside the filing cabinet. Once you're asleep, it's kind of the same.

Sometimes, however, evening events come as a surprise, and I'm not prepared for the more elegant outings. On those occasions I take a quick trip to H&M to 'fancy it up' with a $9 shirt, or in more extreme situations, I've gone on a reconnaissance mission, or been forced to shamefully wash my bangs with handsoap in the Barnes and Noble bathroom.

On one such night, I found myself in a classy 1920s bar with round booths and competent waitresses who can recommend cocktails like they're reciting the alphabet. I was at a small birthday gathering consisting of 8 people, and me and my silky Barnes & Noble bangs were sitting opposite the only woman at the table whom I didn't know, but who looked very familiar. I spent the first ten minutes trying to figure out where I'd met her before when it dawned on me: I met her in my living room, when she was on my TV.

She was very friendly and unassuming, this actress from the WB, and she never mentioned to me what she did for a living, although she certainly had opportunities to bring it up. Instead, she talked about the small, boring Southern town where she'd been living, and she shyly asked us all to contribute to a scrapbook that she carries with her.

No one jumped at the offer (it was a little premature; we'd only taken the first sips of our drinks and didn't know how to be silly yet), but I immediately started scouting the area for scrapbook-worthy material, so that she wouldn't feel rejected. There wasn't much to choose from. Eventually I pasted in a flower that had arrived in my drink and wrote something forgettable next to it.

I had fun, and felt almost relaxed. By the end of the night, we were taking snapshots of each other, as I continued to pretend that she wasn't abnormal on account of being famous. (I think I did okay on the surface, but my brain wouldn't stop producing exclamation marks.)

It didn't really matter to me that, one day soon, she might look at her pictures and strain to remember who I am, or that the evening was no doubt more meaningful to me than it was to her. I was much more concerned whether what I'd written in her scrapbook made any sense.

Way back in October 2005, I took a trip with Todd to California. Here's the photographic proof, decades later. (volume one of three)

The air conditioner in the living room doesn't fit in the window very snugly. In fact, there's so much space between the edge of the unit and the wall that we've had to stuff strips of gray foam in the gap, which we then artfully covered with a thick layer of clear tape. It's become one of those corners that you learn to instinctively overlook until the moment you have guests over.

A couple nights ago, I heard what sounded like a small creature trying to punch through the tape. The cats noticed it too, and began staring at the spot and creeping toward the noise, the fur on their bellies scraping the ground. I hate it when animals confirm your fears like that, but I kind of like how instantly I defer to them as experts in any situation that seems nature-related.

I bravely held a flashlight on the spot while I watched Ble, the 7-pound cat, investigate by pushing her arm through the tape and swatting in the night air on the other side. My life is in a 7-pound cat's hands right now, I kept thinking.

The creature didn't get me, but it's come and gone a few times now. During one of its intermissions, we investigated the foam (it's got claw marks in it!), we added more clear tape, and we propped a book on the ledge as sort of a low-tech booby trap, so that we'd be alerted if it found its way in (though that's where the plan ended). I still have no idea who is trying to get in, or what it wants from me.

I guess I take a lot of photos of city dogs. I seem to have amassed a small collection.

Recently I wrote about a Super 8 movie I made in which I had to plan every shot in advance, shoot from start to finish sequentially, and use exactly 3 minutes and 15 seconds of film, all of which I found kind of tough. Since the screening, I've treated it to some minimal editing (adding music and cutting a few seconds here and there) so that it'd run a little more smoothly.

Here's The Follower; I hope you like it.

(Thanks to a stranger in Barcelona who originally suggested the idea after reading my "about" page.)