Unintentional Stalker?

I mentioned that there was more to the story of me going to the grocery store yesterday. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, but I think maybe I'm being followed.
   I was in the store yesterday, getting some vegetables and hot dogs, generally wandering around the store seeing what's on sale as I try to conserve my cash. Because I wasn't paying attention to where I was going, I almost ran into one of the employees who was sweeping up. My fault entirely, I apologized and moved on. That same sweeping guy then seemed to be on every aisle I went to, and I was wandering aimlessly, not going up and down the rows in order. I accepted this as my fate, kind of like when I always get in the wrong checkout line, it's just one of those things.
   Then, as I was checking out, the same guy shows up to bag my groceries. An amusing situation, I told him that I just couldn't get rid of him, he was following me around the store. Then I got in the truck and left, thinking nothing more about it.
   Until this morning.
   I went to work out at about 7 AM, and when I left the place about 8, I got to the corner and who do I see walking by? That's right, the bagger guy from the grocery store. In his uniform. The gym is a mile and half from that grocery store, and there's nothing else open that early in the morning, so why was he there just when I left the gym?
   Coincidence? Or sinister plot to slowly drive me insane?

Now What Am I Supposed to Do?

The Maserati dealership in my neighborhood closed. I'm nearly beside myself.
   I was driving to the grocery store yesterday (more on that later), when I noticed the trident signs were gone, the cars were gone, the place was vacant. The only things left are the etched tridents in the windows and a 'For Lease' sign. My dentist's office is right across the street, so I know there were still overpriced, overpowered, gas-guzzling Italian supercars there a month ago. I was looking at the place from the chair while the hygienist did her best to rip my gums from my mouth.
   I always wondered why someone would put a Maserati dealership in Pasadena, it never did make a lot of sense. There's one in Beverly Hills, and one in Long Beach, I believe, both neighborhoods where there is a LOT of money and a LOT of insecurity. While there are some extremely wealthy people in Pasadena, I never thought there were enough to support a Maserati dealership. If you just go a mile up Fair Oaks you hit a rough neighborhood of renters and carnicerias, not exactly the market for a Maserati. This city is the home of the Rose Parade, for God's sake, it's folksy and homey, not plastic and fake.
   For right now, at least, the Maserati dealership lives on in Google Maps. Look for 'Del Mar at Fair Oaks, Pasadena, CA' and go to the Street View. It was on the SE corner.
   Farewell, Maserati dealership, I never got the chance to go in and pretend I was going to buy one of your cars...

From My Bookshelf

This week it's a work that's kind of difficult to label. It's been called investigative journalism, but it's not in a traditional sense because the journalist is the subject. It's been called autobiography, but it's not really that either, because the story is constructed for the book. Read it and decide for yourself.
   Self-Made Man by Norah Vincent
   Ms. Vincent spent a year and a half disguised as a man. Not only did she dress as a man and behave as a man, she took several jobs as a man, maintained friendships as a man, and even spent eight months on a bowling team as a man. The experience enlightened her to the realities of being male in modern society, and it also kind of drove her crazy. She committed herself to a mental institution so she could sort out who she really was. Let that be a lesson to you ladies, it's hard out there for a man.
Quote: "In order to see how people would treat me as a man, I had to make them believe that I was a man, and accordingly I had to hide from them the fact that I am a woman. Doing so entailed various breaches of trust, some more serious than others. This may not sit well with some or perhaps most of you. In certain ways it did not sit well with me either, and was, as you will see, a source of considerable strain as time wore on."

The Little Things

During my time between assignments, I'm trying to broaden my horizons, try new things, go places I haven't been before. And in some cases I'm revisiting things I've forgotten while working as a corporate drone.
   Yesterday I took a nap.
   That's right, in the mid-afternoon, after lunch and before recess I lay me down and closed my eyes. An hour later I woke refreshed, looking for my juice and cookie and ready to face the bully by the jungle gym. I'm just kidding; everybody knows I was the bully by the jungle gym.
   It was liberating, not only the nap itself, but even contemplating taking one. For years I've been run down and lethargic right about 2 PM, but I didn't have the courage or the time to take a nap. Now that I have both, I'm going to take advantage of every napping opportunity.
   I'd recommend taking naps for everyone, except I know most people have 'work' and 'responsibilities' and 'no room under the desk' so they can't take naps. Too bad for you.

My Kind of Scientists

How did I miss the news when it first came out?
   Microbe-powered fart machine stores energy:
Scientists claim they can goose some archaea with electricity and make them poot. Maybe that's the job for me.
   Just goes to show, boy scientists can get older, but they'll never grow up.

Careers in Pipe Fitting?

I've been thinking about a new direction for my career. I'm pretty tired of working for corporations - the arrangement seems entirely one-sided to me, all to the benefit of the company and the top execs and none to the worker - and until I sell a book or two I can't work for myself. What could I do? I'm home in the middle of the day, so I see a those mid-day commercials, aimed at the unemployed, telling me to get off the couch and make something of myself.
   There's a cooking school a block away from my house - literally - and if I had never worked in a restaurant I might consider that. But I have worked in a restaurant, for four long years, and I know I don't ever want to do that again. So cooking school's out.
   I could try my hand at being an auto mechanic, but during my poorer years I had to work on my cars. While there is a certain sense of accomplishment you get by doing your own repairs, being forced to turn a wrench just to get to work sucks so bad that if you haven't had to do it I can't explain it. Making car repair my job would suck even worse. So auto repair's out.
   The 2010 census is coming up and the Census Bureau needs workers to go ask probing questions of people who would rather not answer them. That's not so much a career as a job, though. And if I wanted a job I could just go to Home Depot and stand on the corner with the rest of the day laborers.
   If I get desperate enough I could try being a gigolo. Who am I kidding? I'd probably starve to death.
   I don't know. I'm open to suggestions.

It's Not Jewelry

Since I've been out and about during the middle of the day, I've noticed many people wearing their Bluetooth ear thingys. Here in California it's illegal to talk on a cell phone while driving a car - not that the laws stops someone who's determined - but the people I'm talking about aren't driving. They're on foot like me, but they have this plastic doohickey hanging out of their ears like they're Uhura on Star Trek.
   Two weeks ago I saw a couple in a restaurant, both of them with their ear thingys on, both of them talking over the table as if they weren't ready to be interrupted at a moment's notice by an urgent call. At the gas station I saw a mother and father with their five kids, Mom and Dad with matching and color-coordinated ear thingys, the oldest daughter with her own ear thingy. I saw a old man in the grocery store with his ear thingy, and a tattoo-covered young woman in the post office wearing her ear thingy.
   Maybe I'm just seeing them everywhere because I'm looking for them now, but, Good Lord, no phone call is that important. Cell phones all come with voice mail, people can just leave a message.
   Interesting note: as I was walking to the post office today I saw a guy coming the other way with his Bluetooth ear thingy. I called my home phone to leave a message to remind myself to post about the ear thingys when the same guy came up behind me, waiting to cross the street when I did. I didn't want him to hear me talking about him, so I hung up. I'm such a pansy.

Not Nearly As Good As I Remember

Things That Aren't Nearly as Good Now as I Remember Them Being at the Time:
   The movie Heavy Metal.
   Back in the late '70's there was a French magazine called 'Metal Hurlant' that quickly became the American magazine Heavy Metal. My friend Bob and I would devour every issue, the glorious artwork and sci-fi/fantasy themed stories perfect for our adolescent boy brains. We thought it would be the coolest thing ever to have a Heavy Metal movie, but that was just too crazy to imagine.
   When I was fourteen the movie hit the theaters. It was fantastic, the best movie I'd ever seen... like... ever. I'm serious as a heart attack. Quite possibly the greatest work of staggering genius since the dude who invented Robby the Robot. The movie was just like the magazine, only in animation. Cool. Rockin'. Bad ass. With tits. Big, animated tits.
   When I got an HDTV last year, I discovered channels full of HD programming, amazingly defined, incredibly real. And, as I clicked through the channels one day, there was Heavy Metal the movie in glorious High Def, remastered and waiting for the fourteen-year-old in me to enjoy it all over. I hadn't seen the movie, even a piece of it, since my Junior year in college.
   About five minutes in the adult in me wanted to turn the channel, but the fourteen-year-old I am inside stayed my hand. About fifteen minutes in the adult in me wanted to go do something else, like, say vacuum the carpets or clean the toilets. Or ritual scarification, anything not to watch this travesty of a film that could not possibly be the same one I used to love.
   After twenty minutes my eyes started to hurt and I could feel myself getting stupider. I had to put the remote in another room to remove the temptation to change the channel. It was terrible. Horrible. Absolutely unwatchable, but I watched it anyway, in mourning the entire time.
   If you carry fond memories of the movie Heavy Metal in your heart, do yourself a favor. Don't ever watch it again. Ever. It's much better as a hazy, adolescent recollection than it is on the screen.

Yes, It's a Miracle

Warning: I'm going to wax philosophical with this post. If you don't care for that stuff, go back to watching 'American Idol' with the rest of the cattle.
   Last time I counted, I knew seven pregnant women. Some are due soon - like next week - and others not for months. But it got me to thinking how you always hear the phrase 'the miracle of birth.' A cynical man might say 'people are born every day, we have billions of people alive on Earth right now, how is it a miracle?' I would respond by saying that in an infinite universe, even the most improbable thing happens an infinite number of times, but that doesn't make that thing any less remarkable.
   Let's think about how unlikely it is that you were born. Yes, you, reading this right now. We'll ignore the improbability of you surviving to adulthood, you crazy kid. Just stick with how unlikely was it that you emerged into the world, squirming and wet, screaming at the injustice of it all. You had to survive almost ten months in your mother's womb, growing and developing, you had to pass all the proper stages of your little fetal development, you had to cling to the uterus when you were the size of a pinhead. Very unlikely. Like the Cubs winning the World Series.
   But let's take that as a given. Assume that if you - the you that was only hundreds of cells big - were absolutely going to born once you existed, let's think about how unlikely your genesis was. How unlikely was it that the one particular egg from your mother and that one particular sperm from your father met on that one particular day at that one particular time? The odds are, literally, millions to one, even assuming that conditions were right for fertilization. You have better odds playing the lottery, and nobody wins that. What if your mother 'had a headache' or your father had to work late that day? Or what if they had played that Marvin Gaye album four hours earlier or four hours later? No you. Not now, not ever. Even the idea of you would have vanished like a soap bubble in a tornado. The chances that you exist, specifically you and not some variation on you, are astronomically against.
   So let's extrapolate further. Let's take it as a given that you were destined to be conceived and then to make it all the way to being born. How unlikely was it that your parents met, fell in love, and decided to have children? Anything could have happened to keep them from meeting, a left turn down a street instead of a right turn, a missed phone call, a bad piece of fish, a jealous ex-lover. And if they did meet, how unlikely was it that they would go on a date and fall in love? Your father might have said the wrong thing, or your mother might have laughed like a hyena, anything could have extinguished the spark. That your parents even crossed paths in the first place is such a remote possibility it might as well be called impossible.
   That string of events - parents meeting, coming together, 'doing it' on that one particular day, creating a little person, and that person surviving to be born - is such an unlikely confluence of improbabilities that if I had $1 bet on you being alive right now I'd be a trillionnaire, probably even richer. And that string of improbabilities came together for each of your parents, and each of their parents, and each of their parents on back for tens of thousands of years. When you take that unbroken chain of beating the odds that produced you - and only you - to be alive to read this skeptically, there's nothing else you can call it but a miracle.
   The same goes for everyone on the planet. Every one of us is a miracle, all six billion of us, saints and murderers alike. I think we should try to remember that.

The PuercoDrome

I have a friend who owns some land in Mexico, a rancho down in the Yucatan, where there is jungle; monkeys live in the jungle (monkeys, not apes: monkeys have tails, and no designs to take over for humanity after a nuclear holocaust). Among other business propositions, my friend raises pigs. So one day I got to thinking, which is always fun for me but sometimes not for others.
   My reasoning goes like this:
1. Until you sell them for slaughter, pigs aren't much fun. Sure, they eat a lot and they crap a lot and they sleep a lot, but those things aren't fun unless I'm the one doing them.
2. I remember seeing pig races at the Texas State Fair. That was fun. Those little piglets sure loved Oreos. But then again, who doesn't?
3. Why not have the pigs on my friend's rancho - pigs who are otherwise doing a whole lot of nothing until it's time to become pork chops - work for their room and board?
4. Since there are a lot of monkeys in the Mexican jungle we need to get them in on the action too. Any animal with thumbs is an animal that can work.
   So an idea formed in my brain: why not have pig races, like I saw at the Texas State Fair, but this time, since we had easy access to monkeys, we could have pig races with monkey jockeys.
   Think about it, an oval track, like a miniature Circus Maximus, where the pigs are racing for Oreos, and the monkeys are racing for honor. We could even dress the monkeys up in little cowboy costumes, or little jockey outfits, or even in Ben Hur period dress and re-enact the movie.
   When I tried to convince my friend that this was not only a fun idea it would be a money-making proposition, he didn't want any part of it. Wouldn't even entertain the idea, let alone make up blueprints, plan the stadium, or approach the bank about a small business loan. Trying to get sponsors to buy skyboxes was right out, too.
    Another of my beautiful ideas dies on the vine.
   But I haven't heard from my friend in a while, there's every possibility he's running pig races from a PuercoDrome in the middle of the Yucatan at this very minute.

In the Confessional

I have a confession to make. It's something my closest friends know about me, and the fact that they're still my friends makes them either true friends or people who don't pay much attention. All right... you ready?
   I like tofu.
   This may seem like an anticlimactic confession to some, but would it change your evaluation if I mentioned that I am a Texan, born and raised? And not raised in Austin, either, where I'd be an outcast if I didn't eat tofu. Damn hippies. No, I'm from San Antonio, where barbeque is king, your pickup has a gun rack, and oil change places go out of business because a real man knows how to work on the family cars. My home town is as far North as you can get and still have decent TexMex food. It's a place where no one ever ate tofu on purpose, and if you managed to trick somebody into eating it, you'd have a fight on your hands when they found out. In my defense, I developed a taste for tofu when I was in Japan, where they coat it in corn meal and fry it up nice and crisp. But people do all kinds of things when they're traveling - especially a hemisphere away - that they don't bring back with them. My tofu habit followed me home and I took it in, gave it a name and a bath, a leash, and space at the foot of the bed.
   A man calls his masculinity into question when he eats those little white cubes. And now I've shared my shame with you. Don't judge me, just try to understand.

Rachel Ray - please explain

It's impossible to avoid daytime TV, even if I keep busy writing or doing chores, the TV is still there begging to be watched. So today I'm watching Rachel Ray - or 'Rache' as she calls herself.
   I don't get it.
   I know that with the imperial imprimatur of Oprah behind her, Rache really cannot fail. Like when the lie 'A Million Little Pieces' became a NYT Bestseller because it was part of Oprah's book club, when Oprah says it's good, the thing is good, no questions asked. But I'm just not sure what the deal is with Rache. She's not a chef - she'll be the first to tell you that - she's not a trained actor or host, she's not a particularly good interviewer, and yet she gets paid to cook, host, and interview, and people love her for it. Maybe it's precisely her lack of expertise in any of those areas that makes people like her; if she can do it, for sure anybody else could.
   I can't decide if she's annoying in an endearing way, or endearing in an annoying way, but annoying is clearly half the equation. And she's got this thing she does when she licks her lips, reminds me of dairy cattle I've seen doing the same thing.

Ewww.... New Word

The other day I bought a beard trimmer, because I was tired of clipping stray beard hairs with tiny scissors. So I was reading the operating instructions - because I'm a nerd and I read the manual for every appliance I buy - when I came across a new word that made me cringe.
   Past the 'Warning' and beyond the 'Special Features' part, just after the 'Trimming Your Mustache' part and printed in black and white like all the rest was the new word.
   Bodyscaping
   I quote: 'Your trimmer makes for the perfect tool to groom areas below the neck. Using the same technique, as mentioned prior, you can groom wherever you feel the need.'
   Ewwwww.....
   Just for the record, I don't feel the need. I had a roommate in college who shaved his legs for cycling, and even though he had a legit reason, it was still awkward and embarrassing to see him scraping his legs in the bathroom. No way I'm going to 'bodyscape' anything, thank you very much.
   BTW - the other side of the instructions are in Spanish. There isn't a single word for 'bodyscaping' in Spanish, the title is 'Aseo De Cuerpo Entero' or, roughly, 'Personal Cleanliness for the Entire Body' which, incredibly, sounds even worse than 'Bodyscaping.'
   I'm all for neologisms, language evolves as society does, but I can do without this one.

No More Roller Coasters

In honor of Earth Day yesterday I went to Magic Mountain. It was my way of... I helped the planet by... uh... I went with my ex-boss because his family has season passes. And the Earth has seasons, so, yeah, that's how it ties into Earth Day.
   A few years back some friends and I went to AstroWorld (now closed) to get back in touch with the fourteen-year-old inside us. I went on every ride I could, except the very last roller coaster, because by the end of the day I felt like I had been beaten with broom handles. My head ached, my ribs hurt, my arms were sore, all from being banged around on those rides. I realized then that I was too big for that kind of stuff any more. I didn't fit on those rides.
   Fast forward a few years, to yesterday. Guess what? I'm still too big. We went on four coasters, X2, Colossus, Goliath, and Scream. By the time I got off Scream I was dizzy, my ribs hurt, and I was sweating like a hooker in church. Too much.
   One more coaster and I probably would have set my breakfast free to roam the land. Which is a kind of recycling, so, see? it all ties together.

My Earth Day Pledge

In honor of Earth Day, I have resolved to reduce my impact on the environment. I already recycle, when I had a job I walked to work, I try to buy from the local farmer's market, I even try to take slower, deeper breaths for some reason. I thought quite a bit about what more I could do. Then it hit me.
   I'm going to stop farting.
   Over my lifetime I've more than contributed to the aggregate surplus of greenhouse gasses, believe me. Around the campfire as a Boy Scout, in the dorm room at college, passing by other waiters' tables in the restaurant, you know the regular stuff. And as enjoyable as that was, it's time to move on. Time to contribute to society instead of dragging you all down with my flatulence.
   So long, gas. It's been good, but our time together is done.

From My Bookshelf

This week I’m delving into the visual arts.
Chromaphile by Ragnar
Brandon Ragnar Johnson lives here in SoCal, and he’s a fine artist in the digital medium. He does a lot of work locally for House of Secrets (you may have seen some hanging on the wall on Big Bang Theory), and for local bands. This is the first of his three collections of art. He's like a modern Toulouse Lautrec, except not nearly as short.

Daydreams and Nightmares: the Fantastic Visions of Winsor McCay from Fantagraphics Books. Winsor McCay produced some of the best illustrations I’ve ever seen, and he did it one hundred years ago. A favorite of William Randolph Hearst, McCay’s ‘Little Nemo’ ran in Hearst papers for decades. This is not the newspaper-sized collection of Nemo Sunday strips, this is a collection that includes editorial cartoons, daily strips, and 'illustrated sermons.'

Pimp-Slapped by Karma

A few days ago I posted about songs I used to like but don't any more. I need to be more careful in the future.
   After I worked out this morning I went by the local Famima store to pick up some Sweet Leaf Tea, my way of staying connected with Texas. The first thing I noticed when I walked in the door was the music - 'Children of the Sun' by Billy Thorpe. One of the songs on my list and one that I have not heard in quite a while.
   Mildly amused at the synchronicity of the universe, I got my tea and then got in line to pay. There's a rhythm to these transactions: put your stuff on the counter, the person scans the bar code, the computer gives you a total, you pay, they bag, you leave.
   Not this time.
   I was behind a guy buying a muffin and a liter of bottled water. At first. He turned out to be one of those guys who keeps adding stuff on, one thing at a time. First he wanted his muffin heated in the microwave. Then he asked for a pack of Marlboros. Then he wanted some sesame wings. He got his total, just about to pay, then decided that he wanted a cup of coffee too.
   The whole time I'm standing behind The Eternal Customer 'Children of the Sun' continues to play, assaulting my ears. I'm no longer mildly amused, now I know I'm being punished. For God's sake, the damn song is almost seven minutes long, and I'm being held hostage by this sixty-year-old California stoner who seems to think he's in the drive through at Taco Bell at two in the morning.
   Finally - FINALLY - the guy pays his fifteen dollars for an armload of crap, and I get to pay. When I hand over my cash, the song ends, and so does my haunting by the spirit of Billy Thorpe.
   The universe works in mysterious ways.

Unintentional Stalker

The other day I was walking to the local Rite-Aid to get deodorant and soap. My path takes me across Colorado Avenue, right at Lake Avenue, one of the busiest intersections in Pasadena. Since my day is essentially my own now, I was running this errand smack in the middle of the afternoon, past the lunch hour but before quitting time. The streets were still busy, but there weren't quite as many pedestrians, and the traffic wasn't dangerously heavy. I was minding my own business, just doing my thing, when I saw him.
   A little over five feet tall, a gnome of a man stood near a bus stop, tapping a newspaper dispenser and muttering under his breath. He had a grizzled, long beard, like a salt-and-pepper Santa Claus, an Australian-style hat on his head, a tweed jacket, olive cargo pants with obviously full pockets, and worn tennis shoes. His eyes were covered by dark sunglasses and on his back he carried an enormous knapsack, full to bursting.
   He was either one of the local homeless people or professor at nearby CalTech, I couldn't decide which. He wasn't one of the homeless people I knew - since I walked to work I'm familiar with many of them - but he didn't look... sane enough to be a professor at CalTech (I know, that sounds odd to me too).
   As I approached he started walking towards me, still muttering. Then he stopped, turned around, and started walking the way I was going. I noticed a thing in one of the outside pockets of his backpack, it looked like a one of those folding canes that blind people use, but this wasn't white, it was all red. I decided to follow, to see if I could classify him definitively.
   The odd man would walk very purposefully for half a block, outpacing me on his stumpy legs, then he'd stop, put his hand to his chin and mutter. The backpack looked very heavy and the closer I got the more I could see how worn and dirty his clothes were. I was leaning towards a 'homeless' classification, but none of the regulars in my neighborhood wear backpacks, especially not heavy ones with odd folded red things in their pockets. Shopping carts are the preferred baggage here. So the 'CalTech professor' classification seemed valid.
   This continued for several blocks, this guy going the same way I was, talking to himself, stopping at newspaper vending machines, rocking back and forth while waiting for the light to change, sudden bursts of speed followed by indecision and backtracking.
   Then I realized we had long since passed the Rite Aid. I wasn't running an errand any longer, I was stalking this poor guy. Maybe he was acting crazy because I was acting crazy.
   So when we got to the Office Depot I went inside, pretending it was where I wanted to go all along. I wandered around for a few minutes and by the time I left the store the odd little man was gone. I figure he must have remembered where his office was.

Good Nicknames From Years Ago

Whatever happened to the great nicknames? Since we've gotten politically correct no one dares to give someone a nickname any more. You touchy-feely types need to loosen up.
   Here are some nicknames we need to start using again.

Tubby
Skeezix
Daddy-o
Buster
Stretch
Hopalong
Stinky
Gabby
Tugboat
Muscles
Tiny
Knuckles

   I say that everybody should pick someone they know and give them one of these nicknames. Like that little weasel at the office who always leaves just the tiniest bit of coffee in the pot so he doesn't have to brew a new one. I hate that guy. Or the doofus who's always outside hosing off his driveway like fresh water just falls from the sky. Jerk.
   I'm sure a few people will put up resistance, but that's just the nature of the exercise, really. Stinky can just get used to her new name. After a while it'll all sort itself out and everyone will get back to getting along.

Songs I Used to Like

I was in the truck yesterday and 'Freeze Frame' came on. I listened to about fifteen seconds of that J. Geils Band classic, realized I was about to vomit in my mouth, and switched stations. That station was playing 'Sweet Emotion' by Aerosmith. I listened to about fifteen seconds of that song and thought I was going to have to pull over to be sick. So turned the radio off.
   Strange thing was, I used to love both those songs. I would stop whatever I was doing to take a listen, but now I can't stand either one. So I got to thinking about other songs I used to make time for that would make me want to punch my grandmother if I heard them now.
   Freeze Frame - J. Geils Band, like when a high school jazz band tries too hard
   Sweet Emotion - Aerosmith, kind of like when you realize you never really liked your girlfriend's cooking
   Just A Girl - No Doubt, too pouty and obvious
   Zombie - Cranberries, too screamy
   Black Velvet - Alanna Myles, been a long while since I've been in a strip club I guess I lost the groove
   Slow Ride - Foghat, yeah I used to like Foghat, so what?
   Any song by Boston, once a college staple, now just too Dazed and Confused for my tastes
   Children of the Sun - Billy Thorpe, what can I say? I was young
   The Look of Love - ABC, it was the 80's everyone was doing it
   Are You Gonna Be My Girl - JET, a little too Aerosmith-y for me now

Unwise TV Viewing

One afternoon last week I happened to be watching the History Channel, a show called 'Mega Disasters.' It was about earthquakes, specifically an earthquake that might devastate downtown Los Angeles.
   Now, I know there are some of you who might say 'good riddance' to downtown LA, but I happen to live about ten miles away, so the prospect of a mega-disaster just down the highway does interest me. I don't come from earthquake country - I'm from Texas - and I thought watching the show would educate me. All it did was scare the crap out of me.
   The Puente Hills Blind Thrust Fault runs right underneath some of the largest skyscrapers in downtown LA. This kind of fault is, evidently, not visible on the surface - the 'blind' part - and is the kind that will push land up rather than split apart or slip side-to-side. So there is a chance that one side of downtown LA will raise up ten feet or more above where it is now. Having forty-plus story buildings right on top of this geologic 'feature' is a recipe for disaster when, not if, an earthquake happens.
   So in addition to all the other stuff I have to worry about in a day - alien invasion, giant insects, super-intelligent monkeys taking over, or accidentally being irradiated by a gamma bomb - now I got this hanging over my head too.
   Good thing I'm too poor to afford one of those crazy-overpriced downtown lofts. Aside from there being nothing to do downtown, there might not be a downtown any longer.

Another Moving Van

I just saw another moving van on my block, the fifth so far this month and it's only the middle of the month. It was two buildings down, and the people were moving out, not in.
   This is a measure of the economic times, I believe. Time was, on my short block - where about a third of the West side is taken up by an old folks' home - there were very few 'For Rent' signs, and those that went up didn't stay up for long. My building manager, for instance, seldom had to put a sign out, there were people waiting to move in. Now, however, there's been a 'For Rent' sign hanging in front of the building since November, and every apartment building on the block has at least two units available.
    Amazing that California is raising sales tax and income taxes at a time when people are leaving the state as fast as they lose their jobs.
   Another economic indicator: Whole Foods has stuff on sale. Just when you thought you could count on a pretentious, overpriced faux-hip grocery store to keep up appearances, you get slapped in the face with reality. I want to go to Whole Foods to spend $1.50 for one cucumber, not to find stuff marked down for quick sale. Jeez...

Why I Don't Recycle

Now before you get all 'save the planet' on me, let me explain. When I say I don't recycle, I mean I don't take my cans and bottles down to Ralph's and put them through the machine so I can get my $5 to go buy apples. I do collect my cans and bottles as if I were going to take them down to Ralph's, but every month or so - on trash day - I put them in a big garbage bag and place them on top of the dumpster once it's outside. As I mentioned in a prior post, there are people who pick through the dumpsters, and I know one of them is getting my gift bag because I've checked. I figure they need the $5 more than I do. So I combine recycling with charity, which actually makes me better than you, so there.
   I USED to go to Ralph's and run my cans and bottles through the machine, but I haven't in a long time, and here's why: one time, when I was making my monthly or bi-monthly visit to the machine, I noticed two homeless guys - also waiting for the machine - arguing. Evidently one had trespassed on the other's turf, picking out of a dumpster that wasn't his. The other guy didn't deny it, he just objected to the idea that anyone could 'own' a dumpster; it was first come, first served. The argument escalated until the two homeless guys started fighting. And I don't mean a sissy-boy slap fight, I mean they were punching each other in the face, drawing blood, the whole UFC experience.
    I left my bag of recylables where it was and drove home. I didn't need to clean up after myself so bad that I needed to become witness to felonious assault. That's also when I figured that if someone were going through the trash anyway, I might as well leave them a gift.
   Sometimes I wonder if any of them fight over the bags I leave in the dumpsters.

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

I'm never going to fly in a plane over the Andes, because I know that when the plane crashes some Peruvian soccer team is going to make barbacoa out of me.
   That's not to say that I wouldn't make a great feast for cannibals, I don't smoke, I don't drink, and I have a nice bit of fat marbling around my mid-section, where human bacon would come from. I just think that if I'm going to be cannibalized, there are better places to do it than the side of a frozen, desolate Andean mountain range. Like Hawaii, maybe. They could put me in a pit and cover me with banana leaves, as long as they didn't put an apple in my mouth. I'd also be down with a stew pot in an African jungle, because I know then Tarzan would save me.

Taken Down by Museum Docents

Since I have a lot of time on my hands during my time 'between assignments,' I resolved to do cultural things. It's like when you were in elementary school and they forced you go to the museum, even though you wanted to have recess. Today I visited the Skirball Cultural Center to see their Golden Age superhero exhibit. It's free on Thursdays, so of course that's when I decided to go. The place doesn't open until noon, so I arrived dead on the stroke of noon (more or less), eager to see what they had in store. Then I saw the two school busses at the front steps. Oy! Little kids I have to deal with. Then I saw the gathering of Japanese tourists. Oy! Kids and foreigners do not a calm museum experience make. But I'd already spent half an hour on the Devil's Highway - the 101 - and I wasn't about to turn around.
   I made it in just as they were lifting the gate to the exhibit space, confronted with a veritable sea of little people (I'm talking about the kids, jeez...), who practically ran in the direction of Superman, who was busting through a wall. I waited for a minute or two, then followed.
   A very polite museum docent intercepted me and asked if I had my sticker. No way I could fake this one, so I told the truth and said I didn't know I needed a sticker. She not only told me where to go, while she was giving directions she escorted me to the front hall, pointing out the nice lady placing stickers on shirts and jackets. When I returned - with my sticker prominently displayed - the docent congratulated me. But for the entire time I was there the other docents were giving me the stink eye. Like I was a trouble maker or sass-mouth. Or smarty-pants.
Golden Age exhibit - I recommend it, even if you're not a comic book guy. If you are a comic book guy, you have to go, it's amazing. It's not a gargantuan collection, but there's a ton of original art on every wall. And evidently Jerry Siegel had a 'thinking hat' just like Homer Simpson.
   Persistence: Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster tried for SIX YEARS to get a publisher for Superman. This is a lesson for all writers: publishers know nothing. If you stick with it, eventually someone will give you a chance to prove yourself.
   Friendly advice: If you're going to be in a car for 45 minutes then in a museum for another 45 minutes, you probably don't want to have a bran muffin right before. Learn from my example.

Around the Community College

I used to travel a lot for one of my previous jobs, and I noticed that some things are the same all across the country. Like wherever you find a Bed Bath and Beyond, there's almost certainly going to be a Target on the other side of the highway. Or like the best local food is always in the worst-looking dives. Or the common theme of preying on community college kids.
   I noticed that there are always - ALWAYS - the same four things around any community college campus:
McDonald's - to keep them fat and slow, possibly employed
Scientology Center - want to take a personality survey?
Marine Recruitment Post - war? Nah... you'll probably just end up washing trucks...
'Hydroponic' Plant Store - because the pothead never falls far from the junior college

Go out to your local community college, I guarantee you'll find all four of these businesses. You won't even have to look very hard.

From My Bookshelf

In my effort to conserve my money, I'm re-reading books I already own. Last week was funny, this week it's edu-taining.
   Warped Passages by Lisa Randall. Dr. Randall (she didn't spend years in evil graduate school to be called Ms.) is not only a brilliant theoretician, she's also kind of a hot tamale. Usually saying a woman is the hottest chick in the physics department is like saying your Dungeon Master is the slimmest one at Gen-Con, a backhanded compliment at best, but she's really quite a looker. And smart too. I have fantasies about her lecturing me on the Standard Model, and I get the answers wrong on purpose so she can punish me. With math. Have I said too much?
   Just read the book.
Quote: The anarchic principle and the many undesirable interactions that quantum mechanics will induce tell us that some new concepts must enter into any model of physics that underlies the Standard Model if this model is to have a chance of being correct.

Dudes with Tattoos

I don't have a tattoo, but I decided if I ever get one it's going to be a tattoo of a butt with a tattoo of a butt - ON my butt. So it'll be like one of those 'infinite mirror' things you used to find in Spencer's Gifts.
   But today's sighting: I was at the gas station, buying V8 Fusion and beef jerky (yeah, I know, shut up) and the clerk behind the counter had something on his forearm. At first it looked like grease because it ran from wrist to elbow. Then I looked closer and it was words. In Hebrew.
   The clerk is an Asian guy, probably Filipino, so a tattoo of Hebrew words was more than a little incongruous. So I asked the guy what the tattoo said, and he replied 'Only God can judge me.'
   Now, I'm not normally an alarmist, but this sounds like the kind of body decoration that someone with a guilty conscience might have done. Kind of like if I got a tattoo that said, in Hebrew, 'Only God can make me stop speeding on the 134.'
   On the other hand, I can't read Hebrew, so I only have his word for what that tattoo says. Maybe he's just trying to sound tough.

Thinking 'Bout Monkeys

Anthropologists say that the thing that really separates humans from chimps and gorillas is culture. Humans transmit culture down from generation to generation, and the great apes do not. No ape stories, no ape religion, no ape philosophy. Just eating, screwing, and flinging feces, all of which are fun enough, admittedly.
   But I got to thinking. What if the great apes have culture, but it's just not very refined?
   What if, eons ago, the chimps and gorillas had a thriving culture, like Gorilla City or something, where they wrote poetry, created laws, and had universal health coverage. Then - they invented the ape version of TV. Everything went well for a few decades, then they invented ape reality TV. Instead of creating more art, music, and sculpture, they just sat around and watched ape celebrities dancing, overweight apes trying to slim down, and semi-talented ape singers trying to get their big break. What if, after all their great ape effort to built a culture and civilization, it was all brought crashing down when the apes decided to sit home in their undershirts and watch ape reality TV?
    Wouldn't that explain why most apes seem to behave like that neighbor who goes through a case of Schafer Light every Saturday night, right before he starts shooting out street lights so 'the gummint' can't get him.
   What if the great apes are just the white trash of the primate world?

How Sad Is This?

I've been 'between assignments' for a week now, and I already have a new friend. I look forward to his visits every day, anticipating them as if he's someone I've known my entire life.
   He's a hummingbird.
Every afternoon the hummingbird comes to my porch, hovering around the tree outside, perching for a little while then launching himself back into the air to flit around again. I actually wait for him (or her, I don't know how to sex a hummingbird, nor do I care to learn) to come by, and I stop whatever I'm doing to watch for a little while.
   I feel like a wizened spinster, putting cans of tuna out for the neighborhood cats, just so I can say I had a visitor that day.
   Yeah, I gotta get busy.

Jokes That Are Funny Only If You Live in LA

   I took my BWM seven-series in to the dealer for service, and when I asked for a loaner they didn't have one available. I said 'the office is almost a mile away, how am I supposed to get there?' And the guy looks at me and says 'I don't know. Walk?'
    I have so many appointments I get them all confused. Just last week I thought I was going in for a nasal lavage, but I was in the office of my colonic hydrotherapist!
    I went to Vegas and wanted to get my shaman a t-shirt. I asked Red Feather his size, and he replied 'You know me, I'm a medium...'
    I went to the bank to refinance my mortgage, and the broker asked 'You have equity?' so I says 'No, just AFTRA...'
    I was at my support group the other day and our leader looked at me and said 'anything you want to share?' and I said 'get your own sushi!'
    So drive on down to the Slauson Avenue cutoff. Get out of the car. Cut off your slauson.
    It was so slow at Winston's last night, the paparazzi were taking pictures of each other.

Around Town

Today is trash day in my neighborhood, an occasion that brings out the local vagrants, who push their stolen Ralph's shopping carts up and down the street, digging into the dumpsters to retrieve recyclables that people throw out. While it's a sad commentary on our society that not only are there still unfortunate souls who need to dig in someone else's garbage, it's also terrible that enough people in my neighborhood don't recycle that the vagrants know they can make a killing every Monday and Thursday. And I certainly don't begrudge these guys the chance to make an extra buck or two.
   Except for today. I was walking back from the gym this morning, and I saw a woman digging through the trash one block up from my place. She was wearing white - unusual - but she looked a little ragged, with a floppy hat and big dark sunglasses, and she was jamming her treasure into a white plastic garbage bag, the nearly-transparent kind that you find in offices. While it was out of the ordinary for a woman to be dumpster-diving, I suppose times are tough enough that people gotta do what they gotta do to get by. Then I saw the white car parked directly behind the dumpster; it was clearly this woman's car because it was packed floor-to-ceiling with white garbage bags full of aluminum cans and plastic bottles.
   The car was a Mercedes-Benz. A newer one, less than two years old. Follow the link to see exactly what kind.
   I suppose I could be proud to live in a neighborhood with upscale homeless people. Or I could be outraged that someone with enough resources to own a new Mercedes would stoop to stealing from people who genuinely need the few cents a crushed can brings. The only thing I know for certain is that I'm confused.

The Easter Snake

Years ago, one of my friends kept a pet python. I always kind of wondered how an eight-foot reticulated constrictor counted as a 'pet' but variety is the spice of life. When my friend - who shall remain nameless - went away to college in a different state, his father cared for the snake. This care consisted of a live meal every so often, once a week I believe, regular water and cage cleanings. The live meal, as you can imagine, was a rat. Come to find out, most rats sold are actually livestock, not pet animals. Who knew? Well, me, after my friend educated me in the local pet store.
   One summer my friend and I were engaged in something, practicing juggling, making a stop-motion film, eating, whatever college students do on summer break. We got to talking, and my friend's father came into the room. They exchanged a glance, and then his father decided to share a story. They told me that I was one of the few people they knew who would appreciate what they had to say, which was kind of flattering but also kind of alarming. I didn't know what they were going to say, and I wasn't sure I wanted to find out. But it was too late, his father was already relating the tale.
   The prior Easter, which coincided with the snake's feeding time, my friend's father had given the snake... a bunny.
   As they suspected, I did appreciate the entirely fitting offering. And I promised that I wouldn't tell anyone else, a promise I kept faithfully. Until now.

Where’s Scooby?

What happened to Saturday morning cartoons? Time was, not so long ago, there were good shows on Saturday mornings, even as late as last year, back when there was still a thing as Kid’s WB. Now all I see is terrible, terrible anime garbage that is really a 22-minute commercial for some stupid collectible card game.
    So I did some investigating and I found something disturbing. Not that I’m Sherlock Holmes or anything, I just poked around on the Internet.
    None of the networks do their own Saturday morning programming any longer, they contract it out to someone else. Just like lazy American corporations send jobs offshore, lazy, unimaginative American broadcasters get someone else to do their Saturday morning programming.

Here's the lineup:
ABC    ABC Kids, which is just a rehash of the same Disney channel pap that insults kids on basic cable
CBS     Kewl-opolis, a travesty which was sub-contracted to DIC, but now DIC is part of Cookie Jar. When you lose track of things for all the acquisitions and buy-outs you know you're in the realm of weasel corporate monkey-spank.
NBC     programming provided by qubo, a truly frightening conglomerate of corporate amoebae
CW     CW 4Kids, provided - surprise - by 4Kids Entertainment
Fox    used to have 4Kids stuff, they’re not even trying any more, their Saturday morning is sports and infomercials.

    Time was I would have said I was outraged by this. However, in this day and age, this kind of cynical corporate bottom-lining doesn’t surprise me in the least, and since I’m not surprised I can’t really be outraged.
    The real shame here is that the same Baby Boomers who made my Saturday morning experience an amazing adventure have now turned their talents to evil and are ruining the first morning of the weekend for their own grandkids.

Lessons Through Music

Everything I need to know I learned from Prince
I guess I should have known by the way you parked your car sideways that it wouldn't last. See, you're the kind of person that believes in making out once; love 'em and leave 'em fast. I guess I must be dumb 'cause you had a pocket full of horses, Trojan and some of them used. But it was Saturday night - I guess that makes it all right - and you say what have I got to lose?
lesson learned
   no matter how hot they are, chicks still can't parallel park

No Time For Biceps

Friday morning at 7 AM is the time I usually work out with my trainer, Steve. Normally I sleep in a little, but seeing as how I don't actually go into an office any longer today I had to wake up a little early. Bastards.
    I noticed that there are many more people in the gym these days. Usually there's a spike in attendance around the New Year, people making resolutions they know they won't keep, but I think as the economy tanks more and more, people are taking advantage of the money they've already spent on gym memberships. Good for them, but they're taking up space and getting their sweat on the equipment I use. Bastards.

Gym Etiquette for Guys
Even though I go to the gym regularly I'm no gym rat, but there are a few guys in the gym I need to set straight. I'll start with worst offenders in the locker room, later I'll address those on the gym floor.

In the locker room:
Mr. Spread-Out
there are 100 lockers and four benches, but somehow this guy thinks he can take an entire bench for himself. Shove over, asswipe.
Mr. Walk-Around-Naked
I know it's the locker room, but for God's sake, put on some underwear. And please, please, please don't dry off your johnson under the electric hand dryer.
Senor Speedo
seen only in gyms with pools. This usually-European offender proudly presents his banana hammock, unaware of the cringing around him
Cologne Boy
usually a younger man, sometimes a much older man, this guy thinks smell-good replaces deodorant. If it's enough perfume to set off the smoke alarm, it's too much.
The Foot Powder Jackass
Who uses foot powder any more? Didn't that go out with pomade and spats? Not for this guy, who spreads a liberal helping of it all over the floor, usually right where you
put your stuff.

"Doesn't Hitler Look Handsome?"

So I went to Burbank for lunch today, Lord knows I have the time, and I was walking around their downtown - which really should be "Downtown" since it's more of a shopping district than a business district. Anyhoo... I came across a used bookstore that's an Aristotelian model of what a used bookstore should be. Small from side-to-side, it extends back for what seems like 100 yards, with books everywhere. Literally. The bookshelves are stacked two deep with paperbacks, not arranged vertically like they would be in a library rather piled one on top of the other, on seven-foot-tall racks. The shelves are full, of course, and so books are piled on top of the racks, and then stacked at your feet. So the tiny walkways between stacks are made tinier because you only have half the room to walk that you expect. Even the checkout counter is disguised under a thick layer of books, making it seem like just another shelf. Unlike most used bookstores I've been in, this one didn't smell like a musty attic. It's called, deceptively enough, Movie World, and because it's in Burbank the store carries movie scripts for the discerning actor, as well as books on writing and acting. It's worth a visit if you're in the area.
   It's a bibliophile's paradise, and probably a good place to spend a rainy afternoon, if we had rainy afternoons in LA. For example, I counted ten different copies of the exact same edition of Bradbury's 'Fahrenheit 451.'
   I bought: a $3 copy of 'Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone.' I've never read any Harry Potter books. Really. I figured I could risk $3 to see if they suck or not.
   Overheard in the stacks: 'Oh, doesn't Hitler look handsome?' From someone in the European History section. Don't know if they were being sarcastic or sincere.

Strange But True

The Rite-Aid by my house keeps razors under lock and key, my Gillette Sensor 3s in a cabinet behind glass just like they were XBox games at Target. I was curious, so I asked one of the clerks why I had to get assistance just to buy a disposable resource.
   Evidently there's a huge black market in razors, at least on Colorado Blvd. in Pasadena. The clerk told me they have to keep razors almost under armed guard because homeless guys steal them, then sell the razors on the street.
    Who knew? Instead of handing these guys a buck or two, maybe I'll give them a fresh razor, it's probably worth more to them.

Pretentious Coffee Jerks

Pretentious coffee jerks: Where have they gone?
    I don't drink coffee - never developed a taste for it - but that didn't stop me from going into Starbuck's from time to time, mostly with other people who also didn't drink coffee but who did drink NonFat Chai Tea, Double-Half-Caf Caramel Latte, Venti Mocha No Foam, or things like that.
    So just this morning I decided to go into a Starbuck's again after quite a while, and I was surprised by the lack of pretentious coffee jerks. You know the guy, sunglasses hooked around his ears backwards like he doesn't own a shirt pocket, Utne Reader tucked under one arm with his laptop, free-trade hurache sandals on his feet, and pants made of that marvelous, underrated fabric - hemp.
    I looked hard for him, swear to God, I even waited for the dude to come out of the bathroom, but he never showed up. Time was Starbuck's was crawling with these assholes, barking out their special order coffee-style beverages like they were Danny DeVito in "Get Shorty." But not now. They're gone, at least from the Starbucks closest to my house, disappeared like the carrier pigeon or competent corporate executives.
    Did the shrinking economy finally do them in? Did they finally wake up one day, look into a mirror, and realize they were parodies of themselves?
   My friends who know coffee prefer Peet's.

From My Bookshelf

To keep busy and yet not spend any more money, I’m re-reading some of my book collection. I may even splurge from time to time and buy a new book.
The Book of Vice by Peter Sagal of NPR’s Wait Wait... Don’t Tell Me!
Mr. Sagal goes on an exploration of various vices, from swinging (not the playground kind) to eating, to gambling. Right now I’m up to Eating, but eagerly anticipating Pornography. So far it’s funny - of course - and fairly creepy. Which is the point, I think.
Quote: '...so we can be certain, as we dig into our pork tenderloin with the demi-apricot glace, that the meat comes from an animal whose throat was cut by someone it knew and trusted. There are those who say that the ironic betrayal adds piquancy to the flesh.'

California Moment

This friend of mine wanted to go to a job fair down in Long Beach. She’s been unemployed for a while, longer than I have, and she needs a paying gig. We talked about it Monday, and I told her I’d tag along, more for something to do during the day than to apply for a job. She said we’d leave about 10 AM, get to Long Beach around 11, go to the job fair, then go have lunch and see Long Beach. Cool by me, it’ll get me out of the house.
   So the next morning I get ready. Showered, shaved, bowels voided, the whole nine yards. Remember, we’re supposed to leave at 10 AM, she’s going to pick me up. I get an e-mail at 9:30 AM: ‘not too impressed with the list of companies... shall pass’
   That’s right - she flaked BY E-MAIL!! Half an hour before she was supposed to pick me up. Only in LA.

Around Town

I saw a homeless guy riding a little tiny bicycle - a kid’s bike - pulling a shopping cart along beside him. He was going along at a fair clip, the homeless-guy junk in the shopping car rattling and shaking like it was in an earthquake, his dirty little legs pumping furiously.
   While I applaud his ingenuity and energy, I wonder where a homeless guy needs to get to that quickly.

Daytime TV

Daytime TV sure does suck. I don’t remember it being quite this bad from when I was in college and had time to watch TV during the day. I tried to watch Young and the Restless - not one of my Grandmother’s “stories” but it happened to be on.
  It’s supposed to be a romance, but it ends up being overwrought and unbeliveable.
In the five minutes I watched: someone back from the dead, people married to keep the baby out of the hands of an evil person, an unhappy groom, secrets from a boarding school, a funeral, and true love denied. Also, an actress who has clearly never given birth playing the mother of an infant.
  Cliched Quote: ‘just in time for the fireworks’

Termed With Pay

I am one of the several million people terminated as a result of the economic corrections going on. I’ve been unemployed for a day and I’m already going insane, so I decided to start this blog to keep the crazy down. Don’t know if anybody’s going to read it except me, but what the hell.

Let’s start with my monkey-spank severance letter and the manner by which I received it. My impending severance wasn’t a surprise, I did know about it months in advance, so I’m fortunate in that regard. I still needed ‘official’ notice, though, a formal handing over of the appropriate paperwork. I live in Pasadena, CA, and the person giving me the pink slip lives and works in Calabasas, CA. So, on 04 Mar 2009, I got to drive from Pasadena to Calabasas to get my severance paperwork at 8 AM.

You read that right, I was the one making the trip. At 8 AM. On the 101 through the Valley. Did I mention that it was raining too?
   If you’ve never been on LA highways in the rain a) count yourself lucky, and b) imagine giving car keys to a million eight-year-olds and letting them just go have fun.

The trip takes half an hour in the best circumstances, and that morning it took over an hour. Man, I hate the West Valley. Bastards. To be fair, there’s no manual for this kind of thing, but if I were delivering the bad news, I would have been the one to make the drive. The fact that I - the terminee - had to make the trip speaks volumes about the priorities of corporate America that mere words cannot convey.

I spent two hours in traffic, there and back, to get a brief letter that states in perfect Corporate Monkey-Spankese : ‘...the Company must undergo a job elimination and reduction in workforce. We regret that as part of the necessary reduction in force, your employment with the company will be terminated...’ and blah, and blah, and blah.

So now I’m terminated with pay, at least for a few weeks. It’s only been two days now, like a sick day, but it’s not like calling in sick when you’re not really sick. If you call in sick you know there’s always work to get back to. Now I got nowhere else to go. And that’s what’s making me crazy.