Monday, August 31, 2009

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

Sometimes I wonder if bugs have a sense of justice. You know, if bug society remembers all the wrongs committed against it and has plans one day to rise up and even the score. Because if they do we're all kind of screwed.
   Yesterday I found a great big spider crawling up my living room wall, so I got the bug spray and spritzed it. The spider fell behind a table and I lost it, it's still in my living room somewhere. So I can just imagine it vowing to hold on, fighting the effects of the bug nerve gas that I sprayed it with, crawling across the floor, murder in its eight eyes, as it vowed to exact vengeance against the filthy mammal who killed it. Me.
   Now multiply that one spider's desire for revenge times all the bugs I've ever killed in my lifetime, and, man, that's a lot of invertebrate retribution coming down on my head.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Modern Aesop - The Fox and the Ants

Once a Fox found himself in charge of a very large corporation. He was paid out of all proportion, not only to his contributions, but to his talent. The Fox was not very good at his job, but he was extremely good at hiding how bad he was at his job. He took credit for everything good that happened, yet blamed the poor Ant workers for everything that went wrong. He enjoyed far more than his fair share, not only of coins, but of food, leisure, and praise from other animals who found his leadership remarkable. But the Ants knew the truth.
   Then one day the Fox's incompetence became too much to hide and the Jackals from the press corps began nipping at his heels. They asked the Fox questions he wished they wouldn't, like why he had agreed to let the Donkeys in finance leverage the company's assets 35 to 1, or why Fox had lent so many coins to unworthy Sheep who couldn't possibly pay them back. The Fox held a press conference and blamed his Ants, saying that if the Ants had just worked a little bit harder none of the problems would have happened.
   Great Jupiter then commanded the Wolf to purchase the Fox's corporation, and the Fox retired to green pastures with other clever Foxes, taking his urns full of coins and leading a life many times better than the Ants whom he had left with all the problems he created by his own incompetence and greed. And Great Jupiter did nothing to punish the Fox, and the Judge Gorilla did nothing, and the Ants could do nothing on their own without the help of Jupiter or the Gorilla, so the Fox continued to enjoy the his ill-gotten fortune.
   Then Fox had a heart attack and died on the golf course next to his Vixen trophy wife. And the Ants were satisfied with this decree of the Fates.

Friday, August 28, 2009

Shirtless Ambition

I want to be on COPS.
   I've been a fan the show for years now, watching the junkies, speeders, thieves, drunks, and liars who - inexplicably - sign the production release form to allow their shame to be broadcast on television. And I gotta say, it looks like fun. Substance abuse aside, it seems that the people on COPS always get a good workout, with their pulse racing either from a high-speed chase, a foot pursuit, or a good brawl. So I want in.
   Now I gotta figure out how to make my debut. I know the COPS crew goes out with officers for days at a time, and only the cream of the crop makes it on the show. Here's what I figure I need:

1. Sub-standard housing. COPS is never in Coral Gables or Beverly Hills, but they are regularly in West Pam Beach and Riverside.
2. A poorly-considered criminal plan. I'm thinking I need to heist 1,000 baby blankets from Wal-Mart, that's both funny and sadly desperate at the same time.
3. Lots of malt liquor. Most criminal enterprises run on alcohol, people wouldn't try this stuff if they weren't drunk.
4. Room to run. There's gotta be a chase, long enough that the camera guy can't keep up, so he arrives when the officers have me down in the dirt, knees in my back, roughly handcuffing me.
5. No shirt. The best encounters on COPS are with the shirtless.

It looks like I have my road map. Detailed enough to act on, but not thought out well enough to realize it's a bad idea. Perfect.
   The only problem I can see is tasers. Going shirtless leaves me particularly vulnerable to tasering, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't like that. Oh well, it's the price of redneck fame.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Idle Thoughts

Here are a few random thoughts I had recently, which occurred to me while I was doing other things. No, not in the bathroom, when I'm in there it's all business.
   These things are in no way connected with one another. Or are they...?

Why is it that UFOlogists on TV have crazy eyebrows? Why do they wear odd sunglasses? Why do they wear blazers that have never been within shouting distance of a drycleaner? You'd think someone on the fringe like they are would want to pay more attention to dress and grooming, to be taken more seriously.

What color would flamingos be if they only ate broccoli?

Is there such a thing as 'Professional Tiger Week?' Because I had a dream that there was, and sometimes my dreams come true.

How embarrassed would you be if someone came up to you and offered you money because they thought you were homeless, only you weren't and you had to tell them you didn't need or want their charity? Do you think you'd go right home and do laundry? Maybe shave and get a haircut?

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Flying Carpets

It wasn't so long ago that I was grousing about the complete lack of flying cars in today's society. And robots, death rays, and airships, etc.. Eggheads promised us flying cars by now, and so far I'm stuck on the ground like a chump.
   But then I got to thinking. Flying cars probably aren't the most practical thing, since they're still as big as a car, and they would probably need a runway to take off. And as much as I don't trust the functional illiterates on the roads now, I'd trust them even less in the sky. So no flying cars.
   Ah... but flying carpets, that's a different matter.
   With a flying carpet you could just float up to cruising altitude, you wouldn't need a runway. You probably wouldn't need a license, either. No complicated dials or controls, you just point your carpet in the direction you want to go, and - bam! - you're there. It's magic. It would be refreshing, like a run in the mountains, wind in your face, hair flying back. And since you're not enclosed in a metal cage, you'd probably be much more courteous to your fellow carpet-flyers; kind of awkward to use your driving finger when there's nothing between you and them. The fashion-conscious could even wear Arab silks and curly-toed shoes, if that's what they really wanted. Secretly. Because it made them feel pretty.
   Of course, with a flying carpet you'd be like a motorcycle rider, getting bugs in your teeth. And if it rained you'd get wet. Unless you had a magic umbrella. The FAA would probably want in on the act, and 'approve' the carpets for US airspace. And the State would probably charge you an arm and a leg for registration. And there'd be some sort of tax on magic to make up for the fact that flying carpets don't use gasoline. They'd probably make you put a license plate on your carpet too, which would completely ruin the aesthetics of the whole thing.
   Why does everything always get bogged down in bureaucracy?

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Snubbed By Greenpeace

I went to the bank yesterday to deposit my unemployment check - surprisingly, I feel absolutely no shame and even a small amount of pride - and my path took me across Lake Avenue, right by one of the many Pasadena-area Starbuck's coffee palaces. This is a corner where many people with an agenda and a clipboard come; midway down Lake and by several major office buildings, it's high-traffic most of the business day. Besides, there's a Starbuck's right there, you don't want to stray too far from caffeine.
   This time the cause du jour was Greenpeace, and their advocate was a nervous-looking, thin man with a weak chin and receding hairline. Kind of Peace-Corp-y, if you know what I mean, but totally inoffensive and I'm sure he's a nice guy. 'Greenpeace' plastered across his shirt and across his clipboard. I spied him before I crossed the street, and since I am usually a magnet for these kinds of people, ask any of my friends, I resigned myself to having the conversation.
   The light changed and I crossed, not even bothering to pretend I had somewhere else to be - I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt at 10 AM, no faking that one - fully intending to entertain whatever petition this gentleman had or solicitation he would offer.
   He totally ignored me. Looked right past me as if I were not there.
   Slightly puzzled by this turn of events, normally I would have to spend several minutes politely excusing myself, I turned around at the bank door and looked back to see who he could possibly be talking to who was more interesting than I was. He was talking to a guy in jogging gear with a dog on a leash. Wouldn't talk to not-sweaty Don in shorts and a t-shirt, he was all over some dude who just wanted to get on with his run.
   When I went into the bank, I realized I was offended that he had not tried to shanghai me with his 'save the whales' rhetoric. I have no idea why this would upset me. Weirdos' fascination with talking to me has been a cross I've had to bear for years - again, ask my friends - but this one time they give me a break I can't get past the change in routine. Why wouldn't he talk to me? Is there something wrong with me? Did I forget to brush my teeth? Was I scowling? More than I usually do? What's wrong with me that the Greenpeace guy didn't try to stop me to convince me of the justness of his cause?
   I guess whatever Greenpeace supporters look like, I don't. Even though it's been a few months since I've gotten a haircut and I'm looking pretty granola right now. Maybe he figured I was already signed up. Yeah, that's got to be it.

UPDATE: It's not me, it's them. I just went to Trader Joe's for weekly groceries and there was a Greenpeace dude there too, not the same one at the bank yesterday. He also totally shined me on, eye contact then a quick look away. Whoever they're targeting, it's definitely not me.
   Whew! I thought for a minute there I'd lost my weirdo mojo.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Crazy Guy Radio

The other day I saw a guy talking to himself out on Colorado Blvd. Usually I might think he was part of the Bluetooth generation and was just some oblivious douchebag talking loudly on the phone, but this guy had no phone or earpiece and he wore dirty, torn clothes, needed a haircut and some dental work, and was talking into his only possession, an empty Snapple bottle. He was one of those crazy guys who carry on a conversation alone.
   I walked a few blocks further down Colorado where I saw a different guy talking to himself. He wasn't quite so obviously needy as the first guy, a little cleaner, a little less obviously insane. But as I stood by him waiting for the light to change, I couldn't help but notice he also didn't have a cell phone or earpiece, and he had his left arm wrapped over his head to press fingers on his right ear. Another crazy guy, carrying on a conversation alone. I walked on, the day a little bit sadder.
   Then it me. There has to be Crazy Guy Radio, a way that obviously deranged people use to communicate with each other. The first guy must have been talking to the second guy, blocks away, even though neither of them had a telephone. So even though it looked like each was crazy, talking to someone who wasn't there, they actually were carrying on a legit conversation.
   Maybe this is the case with every crazy person on the corner who talks to himself: he's really talking to someone else, but we can only hear one half of the conversation. And the reason they wear tin foil hats is to improve reception on the Crazy Guy Radio Network. It's obviously the only explanation.
   Someone should organize crazy people who talk to themselves, so that during an emergency, when the phone lines go out, we can stay in communication. Of course, there's no guarantee any of it's going to make sense...

Friday, August 21, 2009

Geniuses And Construction Workers

I live about a mile, more or less, from CalTech. This is the place where my hero Richard Feynman spent most of his academic career, and it's the place where the guys from Big Bang Theory are supposed to work. And the math guy from NUMB3RS too. It's a big-brain kind of place, where researchers ask all sorts of important questions about the way the world works, from economics to cosmology.
   It's also a place where people appreciate a good, cheap carne asada taco, and they're not afraid to rub elbows with construction workers to get one.
   Just on the outskirts of CalTech there's a small, independent convenience store, Papa George's. It's crammed with the regular convenience store stuff, but they have a kitchen too, where they make fast, cheap Mexican food and the staff's first language is Spanish. It's the kind of place where the local gardeners stop in for lunch, crowding the parking lot with work trucks. So you know it's good.
   The other day I was there to buy a Lotto ticket - you can't win if you don't play - and I witnessed an amazing confluence of different social strata. The regular guys were there for lunch, construction workers covered with dust, fresh from their work putting up a new building for CalTech; they were speaking Spanish and joking around as blue-collar guys do. Right beside them were two guys who had quite obviously never worked with their hands in their entire lives, and with their crazy hair and neglected wardrobe, they were also quite obviously CalTech professors; they were talking mathematics, and joking around as nerdy math guys do.
   Both sets of men were waiting for exactly the same thing, three carne asada tacos to go. When the cook put the bag on the counter and announced 'tres tacos, carne asada,' one construction worker went for it, and one of the professors did too. I thought for sure there was going to be trouble, by which I mean I thought I'd see a construction worker punch a nerd.
   Turned out the professor also spoke Spanish - not very well, I could tell - and conflict was avoided when they consulted their numbered receipts. But I was just amazed that two men who would otherwise certainly never have met - ever - shared a brief laugh together over the fact they ate exactly the same thing.
   Makes me wish more people went to Papa George's for lunch, we might have less trouble in the world.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Just In Time

I just found out that November is National Beard Month, or Movember. A thousand thanks to the Internet, without which I would have remained mired in Beard Month ignorance. This is enough time for me to grow a really dramatic set of whiskers, like my beard hero, General Ambrose Burnside. Just imagine the admiring glances I'll get as I walk the streets of Pasadena, the wind whipping through my overgrown facial hair... chicks dig a civil war reenactor, at least that's what all the civil war reenactors tell me.
   And ladies, don't think you can avoid National Beard Month either, just because you can't grow facial hair (most of you, anyway). No, there are many places where you can buy very fine fake beards. It's right after Halloween, so there's bound to be a glut of fake beards on the market, for cheap. You'll even look better than the guys, at least at the beginning of the month when we have stubble.
   November's also National Novel Writing Month, but, honestly, I don't need the competition.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Monster Suits With Zippers

As I may have mentioned before, I'm descending - prematurely, I contend - into 'cranky old man' status. I attend my local city district meetings, I fondly remember the good old days, and if I had a lawn I'd yell at kids to keep off it. I know what this country needs to get straightened out, and I'm not shy about letting people know it. And to that point, I've come up with another solution for the ills of society.
   We need more movies with giant monsters tearing up Tokyo.
   Or at least show the ones we have a lot more often. Used to be every Saturday morning I could find a good monster movie on TV. Godzilla was out ripping it up, or Mothra, maybe Rodan or Ghidora, or Monster Zero. Sometimes they were good guys, sometimes they were bad guys, but they always knocked a few buildings down, stomped on a few fleeing Japanese.
   Go find a little kid and ask them who Godzilla is. If they know ask about Gamera, or Infra Man, or - God help us all - Godzukey. Bet you they have no idea.
   How do kids these days function without knowing about Japanese monster movies? I used to spend hours at the beach building my own little sand castle Tokyo just so I could stomp through it. My friends and I used to set up our plastic green Army men in neat rows and them mow them down with our atomic breath. Which was green Hi-C, but you get the idea.
   I think I'm going to write my congressman - because that's what cranky old men do - and demand legislation to put more Japanese monster movies on TV. That'll fix these kids up...

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Tales From My Past - Soccer Hooligans

I used to travel quite a bit for a job I once had, all over the world as a matter of fact. I was particularly excited when I found out I was going to England, because they spoke a reasonable facsimile of the English I did. Close enough to get by and not get in a fight. And even if I did get in a fight, so what? They're English, they're all consumptive and meek, they wear cardigans and huddle by their peat fires trying to keep their strength up for another bleak day, they're no real threat, right?
   I've never been more wrong. I assumed English meant effete, and lucky for me I didn't have to get in a fight to find that out.
   One of my first nights there I went into Lakenheath village, to a pub. There was a football match on - what we call soccer but I'll call football out of respect - and the first thing I noticed when I entered was just how much bigger than me almost every man was. Taller and broader across the shoulders, and I'm not dainty. They were all wearing their striped scarves with the colors of their team, and I decided to make myself as unobtrusive as possible, so that when fists started flying I could avoid the worst of it. They were loud, they were raucous, and they were very, very, very drunk. I accidentally bumped into one or two guys - their fault, really but explain that to a drunk Englishman with rings in his lip - and I know if I didn't look as American as I do they would have punched me. Hard.
   I went to the bar to get a 'lemonade' which is what they call Sprite. The action was heating up in the game and the bartender glanced at me. I waved, trying to tell him to wait, but he thought I wanted service right then. He turned around... and of course that's when his team scored a goal. The place erupted in cheers, and the bartender glared at me, wishing me dead on the spot. I ordered the most expensive beer they had instead, and bought the bartender one for himself (that's how you tip). I ate my pub meal, nursed the apology beer in front of me, and tried to blend in with the wainscoting. When the game ended and their team won the soccer fans emptied out of the pub to go run the streets of Lakenheath in celebration. I finished my meal and slipped away quietly.
   Note: One thing I learned about British people which you should know, it will go easier for you when you deal with them. They are all insane. Not crazy-uncle-Larry insane, they don't wear swim fins on the bus or paint their houses pink. No, they're eat-you-for-breakfast insane, every last one of them. But since the entire nation is that way they all get along. Just don't piss them off.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

Sometimes I think ventriloquist's dummies might be coming to life when we're not looking. I really can't think of anything more creepy than one of those things, with their little tuxedos and floppy legs, heads that turn 360 degrees... What if they didn't need some desperately un-funny man on the brink of a psychotic breakdown to make them talk?
   Just imagine their little wooden mouths moving up and down on their own, clacking as they tried to make conversation. They'd probably be loud and obnoxious, spouting off ill-informed opinions and offending everyone around them. And if they tried to be nice, how boring would it be? What do ventriloquist's dummies have to talk about, how dark it is in their box? How much they'd really appreciate it if no one shoved his hand up their backside today?
   Say you threw a dinner party where a ventriloquist's dummy showed up, and you had to be polite to it because it was your boss's guest. It would probably just sit in the same spot on the couch all night, drinking rye whiskey (because I think that's what they would drink) and getting very, very drunk because they're just these tiny little things, after all. And you'd feel embarrassed for your boss, but you'd also feel angry with him too, for bringing such a creepy, horribly behaved thing into your home...
   I'm not really worried that they might start murdering us, I mean, come on, they're only two feet tall. One of those things starts getting homicidal on me, I'll just find a chain saw, get to work. Unless they have guns, then we really are in trouble...

Sunday, August 16, 2009

Parrots and Peacocks

There are many unexpected things you find living in SoCal. The sheer number of greasy, creepy actors, for instance, and the people who feed on them. Or the rampant and unapologetic corruption of the LA City Council (you'd think they'd be a little more discreet), or the surprisingly sophisticated cultural and arts scene that has nothing to do with making movies. But there is one thing that came as a complete surprise to me.
   The place is swarming with parrots and peacocks.
   Neither of these birds is native to the LA area, they're not even native to North America, but they're everywhere. No one is really certain where the parrots came from, the consensus seems to be that they were released from a local zoo during a particularly bad flood, but now this place is their home. It's mostly green ones around Pasadena and Arcadia, but you can find a few of the red and blue ones in South Pasadena. It's freaky to see them sitting on telephone lines like they were back in the Amazon.
   The peacocks are recent arrivals, and animal control officers are pretty sure they descend from escapees from the LA Arboretum. Peacocks have actually become a nuisance, and the city of Arcadia has made feeding them illegal and even has tips on how to get rid of them. I don't think they're good eatin', otherwise I'd have a few suggestions.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Good Times, Good Times

Recently I had the chance to reconnect with some very old friends. And by that I mean they got old, I'm still barely out of college. I noticed that when I'm with these guys we revert to the same age we were when we had the best experiences.
   For example, my best friend from elementary through high school is now a radiologist and a professor in medical school, a respected, important physician who takes his job very, very seriously indeed. I met him down in San Diego a few weeks back where he was attending a wedding, and we hung out for most of the day. Keep in mind that we've both been adults for the same amount of time, and yet when we get together all of a sudden we're both eleven years old again. Burping out loud in public, farting, making fun of other people, it's like no time at all had passed since fourth grade. We even did Mad-Libs - this time on his iPhone - and they were hilarious. 'Greasy' is still a funny word, as are lunch ladies in general.
   When I was in Texas I hung out with one of my friends who's become like family to me, we met just out of college when we were both waiters. And what did we do? We went to the same places we used to back then, the same comic book shop, the same local restaurant, the same doughnut shop. The only thing different was the fact that his car wasn't broken down and he was driving me around instead of me driving him. Oh, and he now shaves his head because he's going bald. But other than that and the fact that we weren't wearing waiter's uniforms, the scene could have been from years ago.
   Same thing when I recently met a high school friend who's been raising a family in London for eleven years. What did we do after lunch? We went to a used record store. Just like high school.
   Maybe this kind of reversion is unavoidable. Maybe familiar faces spark familiar patterns in our brains, and we just fall back into comfortable routines. Everything else falls away, better jobs and personal tragedies, divorces and marriages, deaths and births. We're back to the same point in time when things were best, between us and our friends and also in our lives at that particular point in time.
   While it's great to reconnect with friends and revisit the past, this makes me realize I'm not doing nearly enough to connect with people right here and right now. Gotta fix that.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Open Letters To My Neighbors

Dear Guy Who Sings In The Shower Next Door:
   While I appreciate your exuberance, I believe I speak for everyone in both our buildings when I say 'singing is not your career path.' I believe I also speak for everyone when I say 'shut the hell up, asswipe.' And shut the stupid window, too. For God's sake, if you really need attention that badly, go streaking.

Dear Seemingly-Angry Russian Couple Who Argue Constantly:
   You may think that nobody can understand what's going on because you're not speaking English, but trust me on this one, arguments between men and women are universal, and even if I don't know the words, I understand perfectly. Get a job, Sergei, and Olga, stop nagging him so much, he's embarrassed enough already.

Dear Guy Who Leaves His Front Door Open:
   Shut the Goddamned door. You live right next to the elevator, and I really don't want to see into your apartment every time I need to leave mine. And it wouldn't kill you to clean up once in a while either, I know your mother taught you better than that.

Dear Laundry Room Douchebag, You Know Who You Are:
   It's half an hour for the washing machine, a little over half an hour for the dryer. Come get your clothes on time, you're not the only person in the building who needs to do laundry. And if you think I don't know you're helping yourself to my detergent, you're mistaken.

Dear Indian Couple Who Cook Delicious-Smelling Food:
   I'm not always busy. You could invite me over for dinner once in a while. Just sayin'...

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

The Hoff

I cannot believe I have let so much time go by - months, for God's sake - without paying tribute to the greatest actor/singer/sidekick to a talking car/entrepreneur of this or any century. I am speaking, of course, of David Hasselhoff.
   "But Don," you might say, "he's no Billy Mays." And indeed he isn't. But Billy, rest his soul, was no David Hasselhoff. Tall, dark, and almost handsome enough to turn a straight man gay, David Hasselhoff has, if nothing else, proved the American dream. If you work hard enough and fight long enough, you too can earn the right to ogle chicks in bikinis and call it 'Executive Producing.'

Mr. Hasselhoff's Opus:
   The Young and the Restless - David appeared as Dr. Snapper Foster, in the mid 70's. He was stuck in soap opera hell (though it is a hell with regular paychecks for an actor) until 1982. That was when young Mr. Hasselhoff had his brush with destiny in the form of a black TransAm.
   Knight Rider - forget the silly secret-agency premise, if you boil this show down to its Aristotelian essence, it's cool. In order to fight crime, a guy gets a super-car that talks. It doesn't get cooler than that. Oh, wait a minute, it does get cooler. Much cooler. Read on.
   Baywatch - when I was sixteen, I could not have imagined a better premise on which to base a show. David Hasselhoff, as Mitch the lifeguard, leads a group of scantily-clad, large-breasted women in flotation exercises. It's great, and you only have to learn one plot:
   First Act - beach walking and girl-watching. Maybe some minor personal development.
Second Act - some kind of emergency which requires lady lifeguards to get wet. And it's usually cold.
   Third Act - this is the make-a-sandwich portion of the show. There's usually some kind of minor plot/personal crisis for the featured actor of the week to deal with. Minimal bikini time.
   Fourth Act - more bikini time, and another crisis resolution.
    America's Got Talent - yeah, it pretty much doesn't, and this show proves it. The Hoff is a great cheerleader, and he actually does know what he's doing. He was executive producer of Baywatch, remember.
   Greeting Cards - The Hoff has a line of greeting cards now. I know this because I bought one at Target a while back. I just can't find a good link to them.
   Drunk Eating a Burger - evidently The Hoff has a bit of a problem with The Liquor. His daughter videotaped him drunk off his ass trying to eat a burger.

Interesting Hoff Facts:
   - Germans actually do love David Hasselhoff, it's not just an urban legend. He has a huge career in Germany as a recording star.
   - most of the Baywatch ladies have appeared nude in Playboy. There's some kind of odd symbiosis going on between Hef and Hoff. One notable and regrettable exception: Jasmine Bleeth has not appeared nude anywhere.
   - because of its worldwide distribution, what many foreigners think of America comes from Baywatch. I suppose it could be worse, they could think it's like 'Facts of Life.'
   - The Hoff tweets. You can follow him, if you like: 'A caffeinated Hoff is a happy Hoff'

My Next Job

I've been giving this a lot of thought - well, at least some thought - trying to come up with a new career path for myself. What am I good at, that I like doing, that I could make a living doing? After much consideration, I've hit on the perfect job.
   I'm going to become a beach spoilsport.
   Imagine this, if you will: me with a solid mahogany tan, the kind of dark brown-with-undertones-of-painful-sunburn that makes people cringe. I'm wearing a bright red Speedo thong, the kind of banana hammock European guys like to rock. I have several bright gold chains around my neck, not as many as Mr. T, but too many for a white guy to have on. I'm wearing douchebag sunglasses and I've whitened my teeth so much they glow. And the capper, the pièce de résistance, is my glistening, baby-oiled body.
   Who would want to be around that? Precisely my point. As a beach spoilsport, I would get people to pay me to go away, to take my bright red Speedo and go offend someone else. I could sit in a chaise lounge with a mai tai, I could dance awkwardly to 80's Kraftwerk, anything to make a spectacle of myself and increase the payout to go away.
   The only problem I can forsee is the set-up costs. Gold chains and baby oil ain't cheap, and I'd need to maintain just the proper amount of butt-crack tan line to provide maximum offense when I bend over to adjust my beach towel. Details...

Monday, August 10, 2009

Tragically Dead Fat Comedians

You know what we haven't seen lately? A tragically dead fat comedian. For a while there they were dropping like flies, and now... nothing. Maybe it's because there are fewer comedians? Maybe it's because younger people listened to Jared from Subway and dropped 100 pounds? All I know is that lately I haven't heard of someone living fast, dying young, and leaving a king-sized corpse. And if this kind of talk makes you feel uncomfortable, just remember, they would have wanted it this way.

Roll Call
   Fatty Arbuckle. The name says it all, and he endured a sensational scandal and career-ending trial. The tragedy is that his career was back on the upswing when he had a heart attack and died.
   John Belushi. Ah, Bluto Blutarski, we hardly knew ye. John died at the age of 33 in the Chateau Marmont, after a night of drug indulgence. While he died much too young, I think he was spared the kind of embarrassment of a career most of the Saturday Night Live original cast has since endured.
   John Candy. Died of a heart attack at age 38. The heart attack came on after a solid month's eating binge while on a movie location shoot. He was also Canadian, and you know how they are.
   Sam Kinison. Also died at age 38, though - incredibly - not as a result of drugs, alcohol, or any other personal demons. If you wrote a fictionalized account of Sam's life no one would believe it. He was a child preacher for his daddy's Pentecostal church. He lost his faith, abandoned the church, and became one of the smuttiest comedians since Redd Foxx. There was nothing beneath Mr. Kennison, no chemical too vile to try, no vice too perveted to do. Then he began to turn his life around, and some idiot crashes into him on the highway and kills him. Talk about tragedy, Mr. Kennison's story has it all.
   Chris Farley. Dead at age 33, like John Belushi. He died the best death in recent memory, though: after a solid week of round-the-clock booze and whores, he died of a heart attack while trying to take his heart medicine.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Songs I Don't Want To Know

So I was doing a little work around the apartment this morning - dishes, vacuuming, that kind of thing - and just idly singing a tune. I'm absolutely NOT a singer, but when I'm alone and no one else has to pay the price for my atonality it's all good. So I'm busy scrubbing the bathroom and I realize that I'm singing all the words to a song I'd thought I'd long forgotten.
   I was singing - in its entirety - Gloria Gaynor's 'I Will Survive.'
   I'm not making this up, I started from the beginning and just let it all hang out. Loudly. I had gotten to the 'I will survive... hey hey' part before I realized what was going on and put a stop to it. But the tune's still there, running laps around my brain.
   The fact that I had to live through the Disco years at all is a tragedy of epic proportions, but it's far, far worse that those coked-out ex-hippies managed to lodge a song in my cranium so thoroughly that I would sing the whole thing while cleaning the bathroom. It makes me feel dirty, like I'd been waiting in line for hours to try to get into Studio 54, with no chance at all it would happen.
   This kind of thing needs some sort of atonement, some kind of expiation to wash the sin of Disco from my soul. Maybe I'll say a rosary to Led Zeppelin. 'Hail Jimmy Page, full of blues, the guitar is with thee...'

Friday, August 7, 2009

Junk Mail Diet

As you may remember, a while back I confessed my fondness for all things Billy Mays. As a matter of fact, I kind of like most infomercials, because they're so earnest and seemingly-forthright about selling you crap you absolutely don't need.
   As I continue to be 'between assignments,' however, I'm starting to take e-mail spam more seriously. I have always casually scanned the 'Junk Mail' box on my mail program, mostly to make sure the filters haven't accidentally landed one of my friends in that Purgatory, but when I do that I'm forced to read the subject lines. Which are increasingly intriguing the longer I'm not in an office every day.
   Would I like a career in Health Care? I just might. Would I like to learn more about the acai berry? Absolutely. Free credit report? You know it. How about a coupon for Olive Garden, KFC, Pepsi, Burger King, Velveeta, or Wal-Mart? I'd be stupid not to. Need a colon cleanse? I don't know, do I look like... well, maybe... what the hell, cleanse away!
   It's like driving past a train wreck, I don't want to watch but I cannot turn away. I do want a Rolex for $50, I really do. I need to help out that Nigerian prince who just wants his family fortune back. I want to learn how to make a six-figure income stuffing envelopes from home.
   I'm not sure this is healthy. I think it turns my attention from nobler things like... I don't know, doing the dishes or something.

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Sounds Logical

I was in Texas last weekend, enjoying good Mexican food and remembering what it was like to sweat through my shirt after 30 seconds outside. Good times, good times. I went with my sister to pick up one of my nieces from a summer camp in the Texas Hill Country, and I hit on a stroke of genius. I've detailed the syllogism below:

   Major premise: Everybody knows that Lottery winners never come from a big city. The winning lotto tickets are always purchased in a small town.
   Minor premise: We were going to drive through a small town, Center Point, with a population of around 2,000 people.
   Conclusion: If I buy my Texas Lotto tickets in Center Point, I will be assured a win in the next drawing.

Just read that out loud to yourself; it's a thing of beauty. The logic is unassailable, it's all there in black and white. Because I bought my Texas Lotto tickets in a tiny town my win and millionaire status are foregone conclusions, right? If there is any justice in the world I should be writing this from the fantail of my own luxury yacht while my monkey butlers cater to my every whim.
   I didn't win a damned thing. Not even one lousy buck.
   Stupid laws of probability...

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

If I Had One Wish

Don't you think it would be better to be a reptile?
   Really, just think about it. You and I are warm-blooded, which means we have to eat regularly in order to keep our endothermic systems going. If you were cold-blooded you'd only have to eat every once in a while, which would lead to a definite reduction in American obesity. The older reptiles get the larger they grow, so if we were reptiles our oldest citizens would be the largest citizens and they would finally get the respect their longevity deserves. Of course, they'd probably eat the smaller, younger reptile people, so that's a problem that would need addressing. Very little cannibalism with mammals.
   If you were a reptile you'd also get breaks at work to go sun yourself on a rock.
   Which leads to an interesting idea: wouldn't it be cool to be photosynthetic? So instead of eating anything, we could just get our daily requirement of sunlight and then go about our business. Do you think we'd need roots? Because that would make driving difficult.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

Sometimes I find myself wondering if maybe my life could be the figment of someone else's imagination. It's hard to believe that everything I've done, everywhere I've been, everyone I've met could all be just... chance. So of course it must be that I'm a work of fiction. What other answer is there?
   You may recognize this idea from the movie Stranger Than Fiction, a Will Ferrell movie from a few years back. That film itself was a rip-off of a pulp sci-fi story written by none other than L. Ron Hubbard. Yes, that L. Ron Hubbard, the Scientology guy. Before he invented a religion he was a B-list writer for the pre-war pulps.
   I've been entertaining this idea for quite a while, though, long before I knew who Will Ferrell or L. Ron Hubbard were. Whenever I wrote a story I imagined the characters' lives so fully and completely it was as if they were alive to me, as if I weren't inventing it so much as just recording it. That led me to wonder what my characters were doing when I wasn't watching them. Which in turn led to me wonder if maybe someone else wasn't doing the same thing to me. Writing about me writing about my characters, and wondering if someone were writing about them too.
   Yeah, I'm gonna stop now, my head's hurting...

Monday, August 3, 2009

Return From Vacation

I know, 'vacation from what, deadbeat?' Anyway, I'm back. I'll post regular stuff tomorrow, but here are some short bits from my - extended - time lounging around DFW.

The mullet is not dead! Dee Snider can stop turning over in his grave. If he's dead. Which I don't think he is. I saw three mullets, though at first I thought it was four, but the first guy just changed his shirt. Really, I recognized the cap.
   A long, curly mullet under a camo cap, a Lesbian mullet on one of the ground crew seen from the airplane window, and a little kid mullet on some seven-year-old who obviously didn't know better.
   Long live the mullet!

A surprising number of people wear red sneakers. And by 'surprising' I mean any number other than zero. I thought Garrison Keillor was the only one, but I saw four different people wearing them.
   Perhaps it was the same pair of red sneakers, and these four people just switched them out when I wasn't looking?

Lots of people wave expansively across the airport terminal, but they seldom catch the eye of the person they're waving at. They end up walking over anyway, close enough to yell out the other person's name.

Some people shouldn't run in public.
   Some people definitely shouldn't run in public.
   Also, the half-run half-walk thing makes you look silly. Just say no.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

Sun's Out, Guns Out

One of my friends took me to a gun show yesterday. Not my first time, I've been to my share of questionable events, but certainly my first gun show since moving away from Texas years ago.
   I gotta say, I missed the atmosphere. Definitely not the Algonquin Round Table, but there is a certain poetry in hobbyists - gun nuts, right-wing crazies, call them what you will - indulging in their passion. I'd nearly forgotten how familiar an afternoon at the Joe and Harry Freeman Coliseum with the 'from my cold, dead hands' crowd can be.
   You have your cranky old coots... lots of them. And with them the intolerant bumper stickers, the grousing conversations about how the country isn't going the way Rush Limbaugh thinks it should, overheard remarks about prostates in various states of disrepair, etc. You have the rednecks looking for a good hunting rifle, you have the rednecks looking for a rocket launcher. You have the occassional black man. You have the 'not a gang member' young Hispanic guys trying to spot the undercover cops in the crowd and not realizing I can understand the bad Spanglish they're speaking. You have the for-real historical gun hobbyists, who know waaaaaaay too much about the provenance of the their WWI Browning rifles. And there's the patch guy, the ammo guy, the taxidermist, and - best of all - the candied pecan vendor.
   Along with the enormous pickup trucks in the parking lot, this was a really good welcome home. It'll make me think twice next time I decide to have tofu back in SoCal. Don't want to stray too far from my roots.