En Vacacion

I'm spending a few days in Texas, so I won't be posting regularly until next week. Here are some travel thoughts, though.

Should a grown man wear a long-sleeved shirt, a blazer, and very, very ugly shorts? In DFW airport?

Is it allowed for a 17-year-old kid who never knew NWA to wear an 'Eazy Duz It' t-shirt?

Why is nothing in any airport restaurant/kiosk/food place good for you? Not that I'm complaining, I just want to know.

Could I just once get an in-flight magazine where the crossword puzzle isn't already filled in?

A Fashion Statement

I'm thinking about wearing a hat. I don't mean just for the day either, or to keep the sun off my face at an amusement park. No, I'm thinking about making a definite wardrobe statement with a hat, one I can be identified with, like Mr. T and his mohawk. Which wasn't a hat, I know, but you get the point.
   For sure it won't be a pork pie hat, nowadays only black guys can carry that one off. I also don't want to be one of those douchebags in a fedora, waaaay too 'hip young greasy actor' for an old dude like me.
   Could be a cowboy hat, I am from Texas, but I don't actually work on a ranch or a farm, so that would make me a poser. I also don't sing or play country music - or even like it, really - so that's out.
   I'm not Canadian so a toque won't do. One of those Russian fur hats would be just too hot here in SoCal. I'm not African I can't really get away with a kufi. Man, I'm running out of options.
   Oooh... how about a beret? There's nothing pretentious and awful about a beret, is there? I coud wear a striped shirt too. And learn how to smoke. Yeah... I think we have a winner.

Where Did The Daredevils Go?

I was noodling around on Wikipedia the other day and I happened across the entry for Evel Knievel. I miss that guy.
   When I was a kid, every few months or so he would get on his Harley and try to jump that beast across something: buses, Caesars Palace, the Snake River (technically he rode a rocket, I know). And always he'd wreck. Always. The guy broke almost every bone in his body - multiple times - and he just healed up, stood up, and signed up for more. I used to have his toy motorcycle and bendy figure, which I would run smack into the brick walls of our house over and over and over again emulating what I'd seen him do.
   These days daredevils call themselves 'stunt performers.' Name one, and Robby Knievel doesn't count. Neither do David Blaine or Criss Angel, they just do tricks. Or tell lies, if you don't feel like mincing words. Still can't name one? That's because there aren't any. Not like Evel, none of them willling to take it on the chin for the sake of a stunt.
    A few weeks ago I said this country needed the Stooges again. I'd like to amend that and say we also need tough-guy daredevils again, somebody to metaphorically take one square in the nuts for the rest of us.
    Well? I'm waiting.

Texas vs. California - Restaurants

The examples below are real. Only the names have been changed to protect the clueless.

Texas Restaurant
Hi, are ya'll ready to order?
   I'll have the brisket plate.
Cole slaw or potato salad?
   Cole slaw.
Anything to drink?
   Iced tea.
Thanks, that'll be right out.

California Restaurant
Bonus day, ain't it bro? Can I tell you our specials? We have a great ahi tuna salad.
   Actually, I think I'm in the mood for salmon.
Oh... bad news... we don't have salmon on the menu.
   I know, but I wonder if you have any in the back?
I'm pretty sure we don't.
   Could you make actually sure? I'm in a salmon mood.
   ~~ time passes ~~
I asked my manager and we've never had salmon, like, ever.
   Oh, I was just holding out hope. How is your salad prepared?
Tossed.
   Could I get a... hmm... so tough to choose... grilled chicken salad?
Excellent choice.
   I'd like to have the chicken with no grill marks, though. Is that possible?
So, grilled chicken with no grill marks... you're trying to blow my mind, right?
   Would your manager know?
   ~~ time passes ~~
Okay, we can do that, he's pretty sure. Workin' some of his manager voodoo. The salad comes with grilled vegetables, is it okay if those have grill marks?
   That's fine. But are they marinated?
It's a totally righteous marinade, man.
   Could I get that on the side? I prefer to marinate myself.
Sure, okay.
   And could I have the dressing on the side? And an extra little ramekin of barbeque sauce. I don't want a bowl, that's too much, a ramekin is just perfect. When the salad comes I'm going to need some fresh black pepper, some slices of limes - NOT lemons, limes, if you don't have them I don't want anything else - and a few tiny shavings of Parmigiano Reggiano. Some balsamic vinegar, too. Oh, and artichoke hearts, I'm sure you have those in the back.
(writing furiously) Okay... got it. Anything else?
   No, that's it. I don't want to be any trouble.

And On The Eighth Day God Created NASCAR

I remember the day I stopped watching football on TV. I was sixteen years old (really) and I had just spent most of Sunday indoors watching two complete games back-to-back. By the time the second game was over the sun had gone down and I remember thinking to myself 'I just spent the whole day in front of the television and I have nothing to show for it.' From that day to this I haven't watched an entire football game on TV, not even the SuperBowl. Especially not the SuperBowl.
   And yet I now find myself an eager NASCAR fan.
   Yep, the guy who didn't want to waste hours watching football now wastes hours watching really fast cars making left-hand turns and stopping every once in a while for gas. I have my favorite driver (go Carl Edwards), I know the difference between the Sprint Cup races and the Nationwide Races, I know who's better on a short track and who can win on a fast track. I even have a least favorite driver. Yeah, I'm a NASCAR fan, even though it's been a while since I ran moonshine and I'm big-city folk.
   I'm not sure how it happened, but I blame HD TV. I'll watch paint dry in HD, but when you toss in some top-notch racing and the occasional wreck or two... well, I'm not made of stone.

Get Dressed, You Bum

I'm turning into The Dude.
   Minus the 'herbal cigarettes' I mean. I haven't gone out into public wearing a robe. Yet. But I do spend far too long in the morning lounging around in my underwear. Like right now. As a matter of fact, I could be typing this in the nude, and no one would ever know. Unless I took web cam video of it. Which I won't. As far as you know.
   I'm getting lazier all around. I'm letting my hair grow. I forget what day it is. I turn on 'The Price Is Right' for the last five minutes, the Showcase, but I can't be bothered to watch the rest. Some might say I'm being efficient, using my time wisely, but I know I'm just being lazy. Dude-like.
   Although... one place I'm not being lazy is housecleaning. I swear I've never run the dishwasher so frequently as I have in the last four months. No spiderwebs on the porch, and I keep the front entry squirrel- and leaf-free. The carpets are nice and clean, and you could practically eat off my toilets.
   But I just can't seem to put on pants in the morning.

'Splain This One

So I'm driving in Burbank last night, and I smell cigarette smoke. While undeniably vile it's not unusual, when people can't smoke anywhere else they're going to do it in their cars. I clicked the AC up to 'High' and cracked the windows to drive the stench out, but it just got worse. I looked around to see which of the jackasses driving next to me was smoking, and I found him.
   Driving a Prius.
   Yup, a guy driving a partial-zero-emission hybrid electric vehicle had his window cranked down all the way and was puffing savagely, almost desperately. Looked like he was keeping a dragon in there with all the noxious fumes billowing out. He's trying to save the environment by driving a very homely electric car but he's gassing out everyone else on Victory Blvd. with his Marlboros.
   Gotta love LA.

From My Bookshelf

When you're alone and life is making you lonely you can always go... crazy. This week I indulge in one of my favorite things ever, conspiracy theories. I don't actually believe any conspiracy theories, except the one about squirrels waking me up early, that one's true. It's just big fun for me to see people try to justify their obviously insane assertions.

The Big Book of Conspiracies by Doug Moench
   Published by Paradox Press, which I don't believe exists any longer, this is a 'graphic novel' or 'illustrated anthology.' Both of which mean 'comic book' but in a larger format. The author takes great pains to specify that he doesn't believe or endorse any of the theories he outlines, he's just setting out what other people do believe and have published.
   This one has it all, the JFK assassination, the RFK assassination, the CIA using mind-control drugs, that astronauts on the moon saw alien spacecraft, that we never went to the moon at all, that not only are there UFOs stored at Area 51 the aliens driving the spacecraft are there too. It goes on for 213 pages, something for everyone.
   The best part of any conspiracy theory is the inherent un-falsifiability of it. All of the evidence, you see, is being kept down by the very people who are behind the conspiracy. So, obviously, there's no proof because anyone who could get you proof is in on the conspiracy...
   See what I mean? Hours of fun.

Quote: no quote on this one. It's a comic book.

Ah, Look At All The Germy People

You know what I've noticed, being 'between assignments?' Aside from how empty the gym is at 2 PM, or how astonishingly bad daytime TV is, or how panhandlers just aren't 'in the zone' outside of morning and evening rush hours?
   I haven't been sick.
   I swear it's true, and knock wood to keep the streak going. You hear about studies of workplace illnesses, and about how the office is just one big, infected cesspool of viruses hopping from person to person. Well, it's true. I haven't been in an office in three months, and I haven't had one cold, not one sniffle, not one headache or sinus infection or sore throat. Not one.
   And it's not like I'm a hermit, either. As a matter of fact I've probably spent more time in the company of other people - and more people besides - in the past three months than I ever did when I was working. I just haven't contracted any illnesses from them.
   So if you're constantly sick at work, if you always have a stuffy nose or a chest cold that just won't seem to go away, the solution is clear. Quit. Put in your two weeks' notice and then get the hell out and get yourself better. Would you rather be healthy, or would you rather be oppressed by an unfeeling, uncaring, corporate leviathan? Your call.

Readers In Iran

I was just reviewing the Facebook page I created for this blog and I saw that I have a fan in Iran. You gotta admit, that's pretty cool.
   When I started this blog it was to keep myself from slowly going crazy during my time 'between assignments.' I never in a my wildest dreams expected to have someone half a world away read and enjoy it. Keep the faith, Hamed, in a country where 2/3 of the population is under 30, it's only a matter of time before the political situation changes for the better.

Happy Birthday, Moon... uh, Mom

Today is a great day. It's the 40th anniversary of the day the United States landed two men on the Moon. It also happens to be my mother's birthday. I'd like to say that I remember the moon landing because of my mother's birthday, but it's actually the other way around. I remember that July 20th is when we landed on the Moon, and only then that it's also my mother's birthday. I've explained this to her, and like all Great Moms she understands.
   I do remember watching the moon landing. I was two years old, and my parents woke me up from a nice nap to come out to the living room to see the great event. I was tired and cranky, and I didn't understand when they told me what was on TV was very important, and that I would remember it forever. I just wanted to go back to sleep. But when I saw the grainy black and white images of men in bulky suits walking on the moon, I was hooked. I got it, I understood, even at two years old. That's how big a deal the moon landing was, and how big a deal it still is.
   You were right, Mom, I do still remember it. Happy Birthday.

What I Remember About... My First Day of School

I got in trouble. Yeah, big surprise there, I know. I was doing something with cardboard and scissors, I recall, and whatever I was doing wasn't the way the teacher wanted it done. Probably I was making a mess or something because I was used to being alone. But the teacher made a point of stopping class and pointing out to me and everyone else what I was doing wrong, making an example of five-year-old me. The bitch.
   Much more importantly, however, I remember the day BEFORE my first day of school. I remember it specifically because I was eating a baloney sandwich and watching reruns of the Batman TV show. It always ended with a cliffhanger, and in this one Batman and Robin were shackled to a wall with huge nails poking out around them. At the other end of a long hallway the Joker and Riddler (I think) had balloons filled with poison gas which a big fan was slowly blowing towards the Dynamic Duo. It was certain death, the balloons would hit the nails and Batman and Robin would inhale the poison gas. How were they going to get out of this one?
   I never did find out. I was whisked off to school the next day. Bastards.

Weirdo Intervention

You ever have a friend who believes wacky stuff? You know, things like bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster? Most people have a passing interest in these things, on the off chance they might actually exist. But everybody has at least one friend or acquaintance who BELIEVES, who is convinced that any day now we're going to be conversing with gray aliens or that Elvis is alive and pumping gas in Arkansas. Unless it goes too far it's actually kind of fun to have a crazy friend like that.
   Now suppose that friend was substituting genuine religious belief - Catholicism, Buddhism, Islam, what have you - with their wacky theories. Like if they started attending the Church of the Chupacabra or Our Lady of Trolls Under Bridges.
   I have a friend who's starting down that road, and I don't know what to do.
   She's already into alternative, holistic things, which is not necessarily bad, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, but that willingness to walk the fringes leaves her open to swindlers and con artists who prey on trusting, vulnerable people. I'm not going to link to it - I don't want this charlatan to get any more web site traffic - but here is an excerpt from a for-real, no-shit description of one of the 'Therapy' sessions my friend paid $75 to attend.

'...some of the techniques go far back to ancient Atlantis and Lemuria. Using all our intuitive abilities, meditation, telepathic communication and … Happy Spirit, we will experience the great healing powers of the crystal energy...'

   I have to call bullshit on this one. Or shenanigans, whatever. I just want to scream at my friend "Atlantis and Lemuria are FICTION!!! They're made up, they never existed!! Buying into this is like studying 'literature' from Middle Earth or Narnia or Dune!! It's not real!! It never will be real!!" As much as I would like it to be otherwise, telepathy is also just as much a fiction as shooting lasers from your eyes or guys who dress like bats and fight crime. And, jeez, don't get me started on all that crystals garbage...
   On the other hand, maybe there's a money-making opportunity here. I could divorce myself from my conscience, abandon everything my parents taught me about right and wrong, and dive into the deep end of the 'alternative religion' pool. How about The First Church of Oz? I could reveal the Secrets of the Divine Tin Man. For a price.

Seven Steps to World Domination

While I have the opportunity for self-examination I've been thinking of new and different careers. I've been applying for jobs, but that's kind of the problem, they're just jobs, something to make rent and keep me off the street during working hours. But I didn't really have an answer to the question 'what is my passion?' After some consideration, and long, embarrassing conversations with myself, I realized that my passion had been staring me in the face, I just refused to acknowledge it.
   I took one of those career tests and the answer came up 'evil genius.' That's right, I'm suited for a life pursuing world domination, a la Lex Luthor or Auric Goldfinger.

So just what does it take to be an evil genuis? I thought it over and came up with a seven-item checklist:
   1. Not just smart, but scary smart. They know all the capitals of all the states, and they can recite them backwards in reverse alphabetical order.
   2. Hired goons. An evil genius never soils his hands when there are people who do that for a living. Besides, stupid hired goons make a smart man seem even smarter by comparison.
   3. Unlimited funds. You never see an evil genius counting pennies or searching pay phones for change. When you need a weather control module or a tachyon converter, you can't go budget.
   4. A scarred past. Evil geniuses did not grow up with loving parents and cuddly pets. They were beaten by their carny father and sold to Gypsies by their mother.
   5. A physical oddity. Nothing like a hunchback or no legs, that would make them more tragic than evil. Baldness seems like a common evil genius trait, and a scar of some sort, or maybe a cybernetic part, like a hand or an eye or something.
   6. Cheating death. Any evil genius worth his salt has seemingly fallen to his death, been exploded in the secret base, or been devoured by his own tank of starving piranhas time after time after time. If there's no inescapable death to escape from, how smart an evil genius are you?
   7. A pure and noble enemy. An evil genius is only as evil as his enemy is good. If there's no one to contend against, what's the point of being an evil genius?

Thus far I'm 0 for 7. I have some work to do.

Guy Moment

I know it's cliche, but there are certain experiences that are unique to each gender. You ladies have your... shopping, I suppose, or a pathological obsession with shoes. Guys have different moments, usually involving flatulence and the misery of the first one to fall asleep on the bus. It's a bonding experience, sharing something that is primal, timeless. If you've ever gone out with your dog and took a whiz on the same tree he was peeing on at the same time, you know what I'm talking about. It's deep, and nothing you can explain to the ladies.
   Just this morning I was at the gym. I had finished and was getting one last drink of water before hitting the road when I noticed a rather pleasant-looking young woman on the treadmill. From a purely scientific standpoint, I assure you, I was admiring the symmetry of her form, evaluating her waist-to-hip ratio, noting the almost saucy way... okay, look, you don't come into a gym with 'Juicy' plastered across your ass unless you want people to read it. 'Nuff said.
   I glanced a few feet away and saw a guy pretending to stretch as he practiced reading 'Juicy' too. Then I saw another guy pretending to adjust one of the bicycles as he stole glances at the treadmill.
   We all saw each other at the same time, and at the same time we all realized that we were doing exactly the same thing. We kind of nodded to each other, smiled just a little, and went on about our business.
   That's man stuff right there, and you ladies just don't get it.

I Forget...

It's been three months 'between assignments,' and while I do love - LOVE - not going to the office, I've noticed a few problems having nothing but free time. I've developed a new bad habit, and it bothers me.
   I forget what day it is.
   Yeah, I know that every now and then people will wake up on a Saturday and start getting ready for work, maybe even get in the car before they realize it's the weekend and they don't have to go. This is perfectly normal, it happens to everyone.
   I forget whether it's Thursday or Sunday. Seriously. Completely blank, no idea what day of the week it is at all. Day after day after day. The only way I know for sure is to look at the calendar on my computer which has 'today' colored gray.
   This is not good. While I love 'The Big Lebowski' I really don't want to end up like The Dude.
   If this is what retirement is like I don't think I want any part of it. Maybe I'll go down to Home Depot, hang with the day laborers and make a few quick under-the-table bucks hanging drywall or something.

Here's a Quick Question

The answer to the following question can determine your personality more accurately than any MMPI ever could.
    Would you rather fly or be invisible?
   It really is that simple. You have two choices of a superpower. You can either fly or turn invisible. At will. You can't have both. You can't fly while invisible, you don't turn invisible while you're flying, you don't need wings, everything you wear or carry turns invisible, anything you eat turns invisible too, you aren't flying constantly if you don't want to...
   Look, don't make a great big production out of this, just answer the damned question. Fly or invisible?
    I've asked this question of many, many people over the years, and then I asked them their reasoning. Why would you want to fly? Or why would you want to be invisible? The answers always - ALWAYS - fall into two fairly specific categories, which put them into two distinct personality types. So go ahead, make your choice. I'll wait. No fair reading ahead.
..
..
..
   Done? Made your choice?
   Okay, people who said they wanted to fly were noble souls, they wanted to be up in the clouds, soaring free, unfettered by earthly constraints. Dreamers, poets, saints.
   People who wanted to be invisible were - to a man - thieves and perverts. They wanted to be invisible to steal cash or get into the girls' locker room. Or steal cash from the girls' locker room.
   You perverts know who you are...

Fun Games At Work

During your down time at work today - and let's be honest, you have a LOT of down time - why don't you engage your brain in some 'what-if' exercises? While you're growing more neurons you can confuse, concern, and enrage your co-workers, a win-win all around.

Who Survives?
   You need at least one other person, so find a friend or make one real quick. Both of you sit down in a public area like a break room or dining facility, and take out a piece of paper. Make two columns on the page, one labeled 'In the Bunker' the other labeled 'Outside.' Your objective is to place all your co-workers, bosses, janitorial staff, etc. in one of these columns.
   So what are the columns for?
   The story is this: there has been a nuclear holocaust, and all that is left is your office. The only safe place is inside the building, but there aren't enough resources for everyone. At least half the people must be escorted outside the building where they'll succumb to the radiation. Or mutate horribly, or develop superpowers, whatever. Bottom line: the ones inside survive and the ones outside don't. You and your friend are in charge of who stays and who goes, of who lives and who dies. You'll need justification for each person you keep, Bob is a good cook, Dave knows how to skin a deer, Mary is necessary for repopulating the world, etc.
   Once word gets out about what you're doing, you'll be surprised who takes an interest, especially if they're in the 'Outside' column. When they ask how you have the jurisdiction over life and death you can just tell them you wouldn't have the list if you didn't have the authority. Circular reasoning befuddles the masses.

Note: Don't create an 'airlock' to keep people in some kind of limbo, neither in nor out. Trust me, pretty soon you'll have more people in the airlock than outside or inside. You're the one making the tough decisions, so make them already.

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

Sometimes I worry about getting tattooed in my sleep.
   I'm not talking about in my own home in my own bed. I'm concerned that if I fall asleep somewhere public yet secluded that rogue tattoo artists will chloroform me and then ink me up. You know, like if I fall asleep in the back row of a movie theater, or maybe on the LA Metro late at night. I'm sure there are itinerant tattoo guys just waiting for their chance.
   The best I could hope for is some kind of tramp stamp. Which would be kind of lost on me because I rarely bare my midriff, a fact for which many people are thankful. The worst would be some kind of Yakuza full-body tattoo. Which would take quite a bit of time, since I'm bigger than your average Japanese mobster. At least that's what people tell me.

Whatever Happened To...?

Whatever happened to spinning rims?
   You remember these, right? They're hubcaps that have some sort of roller bearing that allows the cap to spin within the wheel. So when your boomin' Escalade rolls up to a stop light your wheels just keep going. Drives the ladies wild, as I understand.
   Just yesterday I was in a... distinctive... part of town, an area where I had once seen nothing but rotating bling on the tires, even on decade-old Camrys. Now I saw nothing but regular old wheels, the non-spinning, boring old middle-America kind. Nothing to rock the hiz-ouse, if you know what I mean.
   Companies still make spinners, and other companies still offer them for sale, so what happened? I shudder to think that the era of the spinning rim has passed. Was this phenomenon just the late 90's version of the Pet Rock? How will I know that the guy behind the wheel is so cool he needs to appear constantly in motion? Maybe I'll just listen for the soothing sounds of non-melodic beats coming from oversized speakers.
   It could be that people just got spinners confused with Brent Spiner and finally realized their mistake.

From My Bookshelf

I'm feeling sort of martial today, what with the Fourth being last weekend and all, so I chose the best - and first - of the war stories.

The Iliad by Homer translated by Robert Fagles
   If you want a war story, one full of blood, guts, betrayal, personal grudges, sex, gods, goddesses and dirty tricks, you can't get a better one than the Iliad. It's the story of the last weeks of the last year of the ten-year-long Trojan War. It starts with Achilles - greatest of the Greek warriors - refusing to fight because Agamemnon took his treasure, a girl names Briseis. See? Two pages in and already there's sex and betrayal. What more could you ask for?
   Classics was one of my majors in college, and I actually translated a bit of the Iliad from ancient Greek. While there are other translations out there, this one comes very close to the poetry, majesty, and stomach-churning violence of the original. This is not a book you'd just sit down and read, most of you anyway, it's one you turn to when you want to immerse yourself in the language.
   It ends with the death of Hector, Hero of Troy, Breaker of Horses, son of King Priam. Most people think that it ends with the Trojan Horse, but that's from the Aeneid. Which was written five hundred years later by Vergil, who was Roman, not Greek.

Quote: "Giant Ajax hoisted [the rock] high and and hurled it down, crushed the rim of Epicles' four-horned helmet and cracked his skull to splinters, bloody pulp - and breakneck like a diver went the Trojan plunging off and away from the steep beetling tower as life left his bones."

   How about that? Pretty descriptive, huh?

I Knew I Was An Adult When...

One of my nieces turned eighteen recently, and while she's officially now an adult - she can be in the Army but can't legally drink a beer - I don't know that she's yet had an experience that brings her newfound majority home to her.
   It didn't take me long to know I was an adult. I wasn't even eighteen yet, as a matter of fact. In the summer between my Senior year of high school and my Freshman year of college I was out driving in the Green Machine, my '72 Chevelle. I was about two miles from my home, getting gas at the convenience store, when I noticed one of my car's tires going flat; there was a big-ass nail right through the sidewall. I got on the pay phone (no cell phones back then) and phoned home. My father answered and I told him my plight, that I had a flat tire and I was not too far away. I was hoping, of course, that he would come and rescue me. There was a moment of silence on line.
    "What are you going to do about it?" my father asked.
   I hesitated. "Uh... change the tire?"
   "See you when you get home," my father said then he hung up.

I became an adult that afternoon, changing my own flat tire on a scorching Texas summer day,sweat dripping in my eyes, the sun burning my neck and the backs of my calves. I figured out how to work the jack and I figured out the right and wrong way to turn the lugnuts and I figured out what a miserable, thankless job car repair is. And I not only figured out how to curse just like my Dad, I finally understood why he sometimes found it necessary.
   Scraped my knuckles bloody too. That's man stuff right there.

Earthquake Munchies

Like many residents of Southern California, I have an earthquake kit. It's similar to a tornado kit if you live in North Texas, or a hurricane kit if you live in Florida, or C.H.U.D. kit if you live in New York City. It's just a backpack with a lot of emergency supplies in it. I check mine once every six months or so (sometimes longer, I admit), to make sure nothing's ruptured or broken, and that remember what all I have. The coolest thing has to be a hand-crank flashlight. Sweet.
   There's toilet paper, and emergency water, and a first aid kit, and a survival whistle with a compass that doesn't quite point North all the time. There's rope and road flares and ponchos and light sticks and some 'emergency tool' that looks positively Medieval.
   There are also blocks of emergency food. These are survival food bars, intended for lifeboats and liferafts. They come six to a pack and it's recommended that an adult eat two bars a day. But I want to know if they're any good. I mean, if all I'm going to have while I wait for FEMA to come to my rescue are these bars that offer 'maximum survival capability' I need to know if I'm going to be eating carboard. Just because I'm in life-or-death circumstances doesn't mean I need to skimp on flavor.
   So I'm thinking about cracking one open for a taste.
   The only problem is, they might actually be good. In which case I would keep going back to the emergency backpack for 'one more bite.' You know, like when you have an open bag of chocolate chips in the pantry and you have to make sure they're still acceptable to bake with? So you go back once in a while for a nibble and eventually you have a bag in the pantry with no chocolate chips left. That's what I'm afraid of.

Freaky update: I just found out the company that makes the food bars has its West Coast plant about a mile and a half from my house. I may go by today and see if they have any samples, like they do at Costco.

Are You F***in' Kidding Me?

Evidently Universal Studios has just bid highest for the movie rights to... wait for it... Asteroids. Universal is already in development on a 'Battleship' movie and a 'Candlyand' movie. Seriously, I can't make up stuff this stupid.
    Yup, they're going to make a movie based on a thirty-year-old video game that was nothing but a triangle and lumpy blocks. I used to absolutely KILL at Asteroids, I once had the high score on three different machines within bicycle distance of my house.
   And yet another fond childhood memory gets co-opted by corporate weasels...

Guerilla Fireworks

The Fourth of July is always interesting in Pasadena, because from my apartment I can usually see five different fireworks shows. There's the big one at the Rose Bowl, and then some of the nearby communities have their own displays, surrounding me with glowing, exploding sparkles. This year, however, because of the bad economy most of the non-Rose-Bowl shows were canceled. I did still get to see the best show, however, and that is the pirate fireworks hustle going on in Altadena.
   Altadena sits adjacent to Pasadena but to the North, into the foothills. It's got its good parts and bad parts, but evidently the area is home to a merry band of scofflaws/ fireworks enthusiasts. Every Fourth, about 9 PM-ish, I can stand on my balcony and look North to Altadena and see mini-rockets going off. These are the kind you can buy on an Indian reservation, big-ass tubes of gunpowder straight from China; they don't go up as high as the ones at the Rose Bowl, but they're loud and bright and every bit as beautiful.
   You'll see a rocket on the East side of Altadena, maybe two in a row, gold and red or maybe greenish blue. Then nothing. Then another rocket or two about a mile West of the first ones. Then nothing. Then another rocket or two even further West. Then nothing. Then some more rockets a little South.
   Then you'll hear the police sirens. And the rockets stop for a few minutes while the band of ne'er do wells lay low. Then the whole thing starts up again, launch and run, launch and run. Guerilla fireworks.
   While I feel for the people of Altadena - it's got to be unnerving having huge fireworks go off over your head unexpectedly - the fourteen-year-old inside me relishes the notion of shooting off great big rockets then having to run from the police to do it again. And again. And again.
   I tell you, it's a good thing I don't use my powers for evil, you'd all be in a lot of trouble...

Mom Tricks

Do you know how little kids can tell you're trying to feed them something healthy?
   You won't tell them what it is until they've tasted it.
   The first time I can remember my mother doing this I was between two and three years old. I know it was then because my little sister had invaded the house, but she hadn't reached her first birthday yet. My mother put some green stuff on my plate - why is it always green? - and I just stared at it, expecting it to do something. I asked her what it was, because it certainly didn't look edible to me, I thought maybe she had gotten my plate and the baby's mixed up somehow.
   "Just try it, you'll like it," my mother said.
   I remember the words specifically, because even to this day as far as I'm concerned that phrase is shorthand for 'I'm tricking you into eating something really, really gross.' And it was zucchini, and it was gross. But because I was three-ish, I didn't really have a choice, I had to eat it. No civil disobedience in my parents' house.
   Little kids are smarter than you think, they know when you're trying to put one over on them, they just don't have the vocabulary to let you know that they know what you're doing. So if you want to really trick little kids, when you try to feed them something healthy, just lie to them. Tell them the grody zucchini is cake and then the next time you really do have cake, maybe they'll think twice before gobbling it down.

Know What This Country Needs?

I've figured it out, I know what the problem with America is, and - even better - I've know how to fix it. I know what the country needs:
   Stooges.
   I mean The Three Stooges, not Iggy Pop's Stooges, because as good as they are Iggy's crew just can't do the job. What we need is some good old-fashioned pie-in-the-face slapstick. We need grown men poking each other in the eyes and slapping each other in the face, chasing each other with dental pliers and buckets of cement and lobsters. There's not enough of that these days.
   If you think about it, the Three Stooges started during the Great Depression of the 30's (not the one right now, duh), were active through the 50's and 60's, and stopped performing in 1975. And when did things start going wrong for America? That's right, 1975, a year after Nixon resigned in disgrace and right when the US finally got out of Vietnam. It's all been one long downward slide in the decades since.
   The evidence is there for anyone to see. All of a sudden you get a government in serious trouble and almost constantly at war, endemic corruption not seen since Tammany Hall, and weasels and incompetents running public and private institutions into ruin and it happens just when the Stooges stop performing.
   Coincidence? I think not.
   We need to let our Senators and Congressmen know, get some of that TARP money set aside, we should all shout it from the rooftops:
   Bring back the Stooges! Bring back the Stooges! Bring back the Stooges!
   Come on, people, I can't do this alone...

Past-Life Careers

I got to thinking the other day, about what kind of job I would have had 100 years ago. There were no computers then, barely any telephones or electricity, most Americans lived in the country instead of the city, and none of my grandparents had even been born yet but Mark Twain was still alive. Teddy Roosevelt had been busting trusts and Taft had just taken over for him. It was the era of Progressivism, oddly coincident with the worst of the Jim Crow legislation in the South. Crazy times.
   What would I have been most suited to do? I like to think I would have had one of these jobs:
Robber Baron
Muckraking Journalist
Crazy Inventor
Union Organizer
Colorful Huckster
Visionary Author
   Given my luck, though, it's probably safer to assume I would have had one of these jobs:
meat packer
coal shoveler
horsewhip maker
wretched laborer
disease carrier
hobo

   Maybe it's best that I'm alive now, I'm not sure I could have made a go of it without refrigeration, automobiles, or vaccinations.