What in the good Lord's name makes people think they can sing? I'll tell you what... a beer (or two or three), a microphone, and words flying across a television monitor that hangs from the ceiling in the corner of a bar.

On Sunday night, I accompanied a friend to one of her favorite free hangout spots... a small karaoke joint in Burbank.

Dear God.

I witnessed everything from a hair-swinging, Janis-Joplin-wannabe to a show-tune-singing fellow wearing tight pants and a pink feather behind his ear.

Heaven Help.

Free admission and a two-drink minimum... a very bad combination during American Idol season. At least on American Idol, Simon gets to hold his hand up and indicate for the horrific audition to cease. If you hold your hand up in the karaoke bar, the performer believes you are enjoying the show and gets louder and wilder.

Urgh.

Bad stuff. Bad, bad stuff.

I'll probably go back next week.

A few days ago, I met Martine, former countess of France. No, seriously. She's 94 years old and has lived on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica for nearly 50 years. Each day, she walks along Ocean Avenue taking her afternoon stroll... and each day she stops to share a bit of her life with Diana and me.

Oh, I guess you should first know that I resigned from Valet Girls. In less than a week, I had a new job with another valet company and I work regularly as a valet for a hotel on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica... Diana, too. So now, five days a week I watch the sun set at 5:45pm; five days a week I play with Rudy and Colette and Jack when their owners bring them for their nightly walk; and five days a week I get history, life advice, tales of experience, and always a smile from Martine.

The first day we met her, we learned that after two marriages that left her a widow (the second of which made her a Count), Martine packed her bags and moved from France to America where, in her words "is the future."

The second day we saw her, Martine taught us to cuss in French. She said American slang and cussing were among the first English words and phrases she learned to use. So, by her reasoning, we should know the same in French. The word she taught us sounds like mah-duh... but don't ask me to spell it. It means, "oh, sh_t!"

The third day that she cam by, Martine brought us a printout with a short piece about attitude and the importance of incorporating attitude into life. Or, as she says, you've got to have "at-tee-tyude."

The fourth day, Martine told us about her son, the big-shot scientist. She said she knew he would be a scientist when as a young child he asked, "Mom, how fast does light travel?"

Today, she brought us purple candy and an article from the newspaper. The article was dated 1964 and was a story about the Belgian Princess Mme La Duchess d'Arenberg who came to visit her good friend in America, the former Countess of France... our very own Martine. The article showed a picture of the friends spending time together soaking in the hot springs at Samuel DeRose Desert Spa in Desert Springs. It must have been quite risque to print a photo of the ladies lounging in their swimwear in 1964... but Martine shows it with pride.

Today, Martine asked if we knew anyone who could write a story about her life.

This will serve as the first page into a century's worth of memories from Martine.

So, I decided to make a move from Los Feliz (an area of Los Angeles) to a new apartment in Burbank (only 7.65 miles from my old one). The new apartment is bigger, it has a full bath (my old apartment has only a shower), it has a gas fireplace (gotta buy some marshmallows), it has a cute little Melrose-Place-Courtyard kind of feel, and it's just great.

And if you know me, then you're waiting for the buuuuuuuuttttttttt............

I pick up a rental truck for moving all my stuff. What's the first thing I do? Sideswipe a car parked on the street in the neighborhood of my new place.

Yeah, read it again... sideswiped a parked car. As in, took out the front left side of a blue Saturn.

For what I am ashamed to report was a little longer than a brief moment, I seriously considered putting my foot to the gas and hauling tail. In fact, I got as far as around the street of the next block. And then, that stupid conscious thing took over and I wound up leaving a note on the fellow's windshield.

Then, my friend Diana (an actual Saint) and I spent the entire evening (until 11:30pm) loading the truck with my belongings. My old apartment was on the third floor - no elevator. Yeah. So, we made trip up and down the steps approximately 62 times... a round trip of the stairwell is 96 winding steps. And I failed to mention that I live at the end of a 26-room hallway. And the truck was parked on the street some several feet away. I have a large, bulky (but super comfy) living room suit that has rounded edges making it difficult to grip.

The two of us alone, we moved this furniture down a 26-room hallway, down 96 winding steps, and lifted it onto the moving truck. Plus all the other junk I have accumulated (also many large pieces - computer, bookcase, tv, bed, free-standing pantry, etc...)

After the truck was loaded, we drove to West Hollywood to pick up a refrigerator I had purchased. (I know this is weird for everyone back home and it's still weird for me, too - but apartments in LA do not come equipped with refrigerators and you must bring your own. In fact, it was by some stoke of luck - a rare thing for me these days - that my new place did in fact have a stove).

So anyway, we then loaded this 32-inch wide, double-doored refrigerator into the back of the moving truck and prepared to drive to Burbank.

The truck's battery had died sometime during the refrigerator pick-up. The truck was blocking traffic on Sweetzer Avenue while we loaded traffic and then the stupid battery died.

Dead battery. Truck blocking the street. Cars backing piling up waiting to pass. Moving truck driver wanting to pull her hair out.

And then, a second angel entered my life. The driver of one of the cars waiting to pass got out and offered to jump us off.

It was all very surreal. He wasn't angry or blowing his horn. He didn't yell at us. He didn't make obscene hand gestures. In fact, the only LA thing about him was the blue-glowing cellphone-earpiece he wore.

Jumped off the truck, drove to Burbank, parked the truck near my new apartment (but not before passing by the crashed Saturn that still sat in the neighborhood), and began the unloading process.

Diana and I worked steadily (and quietly) until 5:30AM to get the truck unloaded. Every muscle in my body ached, my finger tips felt like I'd soaked them in battery acid, my eyes were swollen and red, my feet were... well, there is no possible description for how my feet felt.

We rested for 1.5 hours before having to return the moving truck to North Hollywood by 7:30AM (or risk being charged for an extra day).

After dropping off the truck, I drove to my old apartment to pay my final rent, then I met my new apartment manager to complete the move-in paperwork, then I showered the horrible moving-day stinch away, and then I got dressed to leave for a job that ran until 11:00PM.

So, my body was operating on 1.5 hours of sleep in a 41-hour period. (I had started the day at 6:00AM because I had a callback audition in Irvine which was an hour away from Los Angeles).

1.5 hours.

And yet I am up right now at 7:45AM on day when I should be recovering... but I am awake and registering semi-logical thought thanks to one gray kitten named Greyson who meant that he was having breakfast right away... or else he would chew the cord on my computer mouse as rebuttal.