Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

I always hesitate before I go into a hardware store, I check to see if there are a lot of employees lurking around the entrance or TV cameras hiding around corners, because I want to make sure I'm not the millionth customer.
   If I'm the millionth customer then when I go in the employees will all clap and cheer and balloons will fall from the ceiling and some smiley guy will hand me a huge novelty check and shake my hand while photographers snap my picture. But you know the employees won't really be happy to see me, they'll just be angry because their boss made them show up and wait around for the millionth person, and then they'll have to clean up the confetti and the balloons. And the other customers will complain, either because they're jealous that they're not the millionth customer or because of the inconvenience of this huge celebration in the middle of the store. Also, I won't be able to keep the big novelty check, they'll replace it with a regular-sized one, which I'll have to take to the bank to deposit, and we all know what a hassle that is, let alone paying the taxes...
   I don't want all the attention, I just want to buy a hammer and get out.

Not Cool Any More

This morning I was thinking about what to have for breakfast and I realized that all the options I considered were healthy. Good for me and heart-smart. Special K cereal, apples, a whole wheat English muffin, for God's sake. Time was I would have been looking for cold pizza, or Doritos, or cookies and ice cream. And I would have found them, too.
   What happened to me? When did I finally start listening to my mother?
   Somewhere along the line I became concerned with eating properly, with lasting long enough to see another sunrise. No more living fast and damned be the consequences. If I wasn't so lazy that I like to walk to work, I'd probably live out in the suburbs somewhere, on a cul-de-sac with everybody else, concerned about property values and whether my neighbors mowed their lawn the way I liked.
   I'm not cool any more. And for those of you who know me who might say I was never cool, I say 'shut up,' let me have my moment.
   There's another thing. Back in the day, when I was cool, I used to be able to pack all my stuff and move in 24 hours. Nothing I had that was important to me, or nice, or expensive was more than I could stuff in the back of my truck. That's not the case now. I have nice furniture, appliances, office supplies and equipment. I have an iced tea maker, for cryin' out loud, and I like it. I'm not going to leave it behind.
   I spent ten years as a corporate weasel, and I think some of it rubbed off on me. Either that or I got old. Nah, I'm blaming the corporations. The bastards co-opted me, made me one of them. One of me.
   I have the feeling that the me from eleven years ago would probably want to kick my ass now. And he'd be right.

Gas Station Pickup

Sometimes, as a writer I have to struggle with a concept, I have to tease a finished product out of a rough mess that refuses to make sense. There are days I have to work hard to get anything close to a cogent narrative, and there are occasions where I have to struggle for hours to get just a few good words.
   Sometimes, though, pure gold falls right into my lap and I don't have to do a damn thing but write it down. Sunday night was one of those times.
   I was at a Chevron in Eagle Rock - a newly-hip and still run-down part of Los Angeles immediately adjacent to Pasadena - putting gas in the truck and buying a soda I definitely did not need to drink. The line to pay was long because some jerkoff was cashing in a fistful of lottery scratchers, and so I got at the back of the line and an Ed-Hardy-wearing greasy hipster dude got in line behind me; that's Eagle Rock for you. Moments later a 'blonde' woman in shorts got in line behind him. She was attractive in that 'been clean from meth for six months' kind of way skinny bottle-blonde white chicks can have.
   This is their conversation, which I ran to my truck to write down.

'Blonde' woman: Man, did a bus let off just now?
   Greasy hipster douchebag: Yeah, that's a long line.
What's happening up there?
   So who are you here with?
My husband.
   Oh yeah? Which one is he?
The one with the Raiders shirt.(pointing to the big bald guy pumping gas into his pickup)
   Yeah, okay. (...pause...) You should come party with us.
Nah, I've done enough partying in my life. Hardcore, man.
   You don't look old enough to be done partying.
I'm thirty-five. A lot of long years partying, I'm done.
   Really? I thought you looked... maybe... twenty-eight or thirty. A lot of paryting, huh?
   (... pause..)
   Are you high right now?
No. Are you?

~~~ at this point I have paid for my soda, a habit I'm unsuccessfully trying to kick, and I'm trying to think of a slick way to stay there and eavesdrop on the horrible, embarrassing conversation behind me. I finally abandoned all pretense and just re-folded my cash while they finished ~~~

   Well, I just... you know. Here let me give you my number. ( douchebag actually has a business card he tries to hand over )
No, that's okay, I don't think my husband would want me to take it.
   Oh, hey, he can come too. He looks like a party guy.
He's not.
   Okay... well... I guess I'll see you around.
I don't think so.

Ugh and ewwww. While on the one hand I do have to admire the greasy hipster's bravado and willingness to take a chance, on the other hand I think his choice of venue was questionable, and his banter was reprehensible. If this is what you ladies have to put up with on a regular basis no wonder we men have a bad reputation.
   Oh, final note, as you probably guessed the greasy hipster guy in full Ed Hardy regalia was, in fact, buying cigarettes. Livin' the sterotype...

Robotic Seniors

I've written before about how the Japanese concern me, what with their penchant for talking toilets and their creepy human-like robots. Well now they've gone too far again, this time with human-assist mechanics intended for old people. Japan has a lot of old people, and they're only going to get more as their population ages, so recently they unveiled three new mobility assist devices. Two strap to a person's legs to help them walk, and the other is designed to sit on and zip around. The first two look kind of silly, but that's no concern if it helps people get around, and the other one... well, I just don't see how grandma is going to balance well enough to use it.
   But the point is that once again the Japanese are messing with the natural order of things.
   See, the thing about getting older is that you get wiser and sneakier. Craftier. You've seen more things and had more experience, so you're better equipped - mentally - to get one over on people. The trade off is you get feebler, sometimes slowly, sometimes alarmingly quickly. But now the Japanese are inventing stuff to help old people stay stronger for longer. A noble pursuit, at first glance, but think about it for a moment. With these things strapped to them, old people, naturally sneakier to begin with, are going to stay strong and vital far longer than they otherwise would. I'm not sure I want a crafty, cybernetic codger who can kick my ass.
   Young people are stronger but stupider, old people are smarter but weaker. It's the way of things, like the change in seasons or the slow decline of NBC as a viable TV network. If we start making old people into Six Million Dollar Men and Women, what's left for the young people of the world? Around here kids in their twenties are already pretty much worthless, the one thing they have is their youth and vitality, if you take that away Lord knows what will happen. I'd say there could be revolution in the streets, but there'd probably be a squadron of elderly peacekeepers with their cybernetic parts ready to dispense justice with a good helping of common sense advice.

In Action

I've been thinking about the best way to go about becoming gainfully employed. Yup, it's time to start hitting it pretty hard, time to leave this life of leisure and get back on the job track. It's not that I want to, it's that I need to. But all of us currently 'between assignments' know that the entire recruiting process these days is designed so that you can't actually talk to a person, they don't want to be bothered. Kind of cowardly, if you ask me, and just about the worst way you could find someone to do a job, but that's the way it is. So I've been trying to think of ways to avoid the resume black hole and get myself noticed, and I finally got it.
   I need my own action figure.
   I grew up with the Mego superhero figures, I had Batman, Superman, and Aquaman (really), and, of course, the real GI Joe, the big one, not the horrible little one. I still have, somewhere, the first set of Star Wars action figures, all well-worn and thoroughly played with, as toys should be. And right now, atop my bookshelf, sit two modern action figures, The Dude and Walter. I know from action figures, is what I'm saying, and today the collector's action figure market is huge.
   I figure my action figure would be the size of the real GI Joe, a foot tall, and I'd have my own 'Living Room Playset,' complete with couch, big TV, and remote control. He could have something to paint on a beard - since I shave infrequently now - and you'd strip him down to his underwear to watch broadcast TV, since he canceled cable. He'd have a wide variety of work clothes gathering dust in his closet, and he'd try to eat healthy but fall off the wagon more times than not. It could be the first in a line of 'real world' action figures, designed to prepare little kids for the harsh realities of life.
   I think I'm on to something here...

False Recognition

A few years back when I was working as a government contractor and traveling a lot, I saw a friend from college in the Frankfurt airport. It was one of those weird things, I wasn't sure it was actually him, he wasn't sure it was actually me, and it was totally incongruous that we would see each other in passing in an airport in Germany. We said 'hi,' exchanged brief pleasantries and, bewildered, went about our business. Totally freaky, and awkward for both of us.
   Flash forward to yesterday. I was in a sketchy part of North Hollywood, after 10 PM. I pulled into a 7-11 to buy lotto tickets - you can't win if you don't play - and I saw my friend Jeff. At least I thought I saw him, more specifically someone in his car who looked like him. Jeff does live in the LA area, so it wasn't completely outside the realm of possibility that I might see him in North Hollywood, but it was after 10 in a not-so-great part of a not-so-great place and Jeff's a family man. Not a risk-taker, if you catch my drift. So I didn't go over at first, I was biding my time. In the store I watched outside, waiting for Jeff to get out of his car and come over to say hello. No such luck.
   I got my lotto tickets and went back outside. I leaned over and waved to the person in Jeff's car, catching their eye.
   Of course it was not Jeff. Not even close.
   See, Jeff's a white guy, like me, and the guy in Jeff's car was an Asian guy. An Asian guy who looks like Jeff from the back in the dark in a 7-11 parking lot in North Hollywood after 10 PM. To say that the Asian guy was wary and suspicious is putting it mildly. He actually rolled up his window.
   I guess I'm more dangerous-looking than I realize. In the dark, in a 7-11 parking lot in North Hollywood after 10 PM. Score one for me.

Bookstore Revelation

I live two blocks from the greatest independent bookstore in the entire universe, Vroman's. It's a Pasadena staple, been there forever, and if you're a book person this is the place to go. Forget Borders, forget Barnes and Noble, Vroman's is what those poser 'booksellers' want to be when they grow up. Yeah, Vroman's does have a coffee place attached to it, I forgive them.
   I was perusing the stacks the other day when I was witness to a great discovery, like when Galileo pointed his telescope at Jupiter and saw four moons. I watched a little kid discover The Little Rascals.
   The little boy was maybe eight - unless he was a really tall six-year-old - and he was dragging behind his mother who was scanning the stacks. He clearly wanted to be anywhere else doing anything else, but since he was eight he had to be with his mother. I felt for him, I recall many a trip to Sears with my own mother, where we'd spend ten minutes picking out pants for me and half an hour in the bra section for her. Pure torture.
   He was running his fingers down the line of books, not reading just occupying time, when he stopped short. He looked up at his mother and then picked up the book, which had the black-and-white pictures of The Little Rascals on the front. They were little kids, just like him, but in funny clothes and not in color. His mother moved on but he stayed there, flipping through the book, mesmerized.
   His mother came back, saw that he was actually reading a book and asked him about it. He showed it to her, and she explained the Little Rascals, how it was a very old movie series and something she liked when she was little. The boy looked up at her hopefully and asked if they could buy that book, and he beamed from ear to ear when his mother said yes. Later I saw them looking at the DVDs, no doubt trying to find the 'Our Gang' comedies.
   And so it begins, another generation hooked on Spanky, Alfalfa, Darla, Buckwheat and all the rest of them. Now if we can only get them interested in the 'Abbot and Costello Meet...' monster movies we'll have accomplished something.

Job Yawn-Fest

Is it just me, or do most of the jobs posted out there seem completely boring and awful wastes of time? I know I'm probably looking at this with a jaded eye, but, seriously... 'Infrastructure Solutions Consultant?'... 'Franchise Development Manager?'... 'Sales Planner?'... 'Contracts Manager?' Companies couldn't put a little more effort into a job title than that? No wonder those jobs are never filled, only a zombie would apply for them, and zombies are too busy prowling for delicious brains to bother applying for a job.
   Why can't I apply for 'Personal Jet Pack Tester' or 'Bobsled Runner?' Those would be pretty cool gigs. Or how about 'TV Dinner Taster,' I bet that's the kind of job people never quit, they just keel over in their chair one day, clutching their chest and mumbling about the brownie. Around here 'Drunk Celebrity Herder' is a job that always needs doing, but that would mean I'd have to hang out in Hollywood after dark and I just hate that. And something that really, really needs doing is 'Bad Tattoo Arbiter,' someone to warn people off of especially terrible body art. Who are we kidding? it's all pretty terrible.
   And why is it I never see 'Indolent Billionaire' posted on any of these job sites? I could do that one with my eyes closed.

When Hef Is Gone

I don't want to alarm anyone, but at 83 years old and counting, Hugh Hefner is on the back side of his tenure here on Earth. He's going to be gone sooner rather than later, and when that happens, what's to become of the Playboy empire? The 'empire' is now pretty much reduced to the magazine - no more Playboy clubs - but that magazine is a cultural staple, everyone knows it and most people have leafed through its pages.
   I know that when I was younger I eagerly read all the interviews with Gore Vidal and Norman Mailer and absorbed all the advice on proper grooming and electronic equipment and the like. And the college football previews... I'm sorry... what's that? There may have been photographs of nude women in certain issues of Playboy? Really? Huh, how about that. I never noticed.
   I don't think anybody can underestimate the influence Playboy has exercised on American culture, coming as it did in the early 50's right after World War II and the Korean 'police action' ended. To say that the 60's as we know them would have been different without Playboy is an understatement, and the 70's was absolutely the Playboy decade, with its navel-gazing excesses and unrestrained permissiveness. Hugh Hefner and his magazine have, for better or worse, shaped the America we have today.
   But the question about what happens to Playboy without its founder remains. Since I am currently 'between assignments' I will volunteer, I will put myself in service to this country by taking the reins of the Playboy empire and running things as Hef does, three girlfriends at a time and all. That's right, I'm willing to make that sacrifice, I'm willing to put myself on the line for this country, to make it a better place by keeping the Playboy tradition alive.
   Time to get myself fitted for slippers and a smoking jacket, I'm ready to start work.

Waiter Dreams

I used to be a waiter, a long, long, long time ago. They wanted us to say 'server' but I never could get behind that, it sounded like what it was, a term made up by corporate weasels. It was fun gig right out of college, a cash business where you got your meals for free, especially if you worked as cook too, which I did. While it is not a fast-track job for the career-minded, it does take a certain kind of person to be able to handle the stresses inherent in waiting tables.
   Not only do you have crazy-ass people who come into the restaurant believing they're entitled to something by virtue of having their butt in one of your seats, you have to deal with incompetent restaurant managers, dim-witted hostesses, and cooks who are either coming down from their latest high or thinking about the next time they can get high. It's a delicate dance between all sorts of volatile personalities to get what you need to get your job done. Roll all of that together put it under the pressure of having to make rent money on the last day of the month and you can see why there aren't many really old waiters.
   Everyone who's been a waiter has had the waiter dream - you're the only one in the restaurant when a bus full of senior citizens pulls up, or you're in the kitchen trying to get back out to your customers but something always keeps you from getting through that door, or you're working at full capacity already and the hostess seats you a party of twenty. You're panicked and sweaty and rushed and nothing ever goes your way; usually a waiter dream is never resolved, you just wake up, shake it off, and try to go back to sleep. They're stress dreams, and I used to have them all the time when I was actually working as a waiter. And in the years since, from time to time, I'll have another waiter dream and I'll know that my sub-conscious mind is trying to tell me something.
   I've been having waiter dreams recently. Maybe this unemployment thing is getting to me more than I realized.

Yeah, It's Cheap But It Runs

You ever have one of those weeks where you see one thing, and then it seems like you see that thing everywhere else? One week when I was in high school I saw, read, or had read to me something about sunspots once a day. By the end of the week I knew more about sunspots than any sane man would. Or, more recently, I saw, read, or had read to me something about the Gamble House six times in two weeks. By the end of two weeks I knew more about... you get the idea.
   This week I've seen three situations, vignettes, if you will, with an unusual common element: a crap-filled beater. And it wasn't even the same car. Everybody's seen this kind of rolling tragedy, an ancient Hyundai or Ford Fiesta or Dodge Omni, full to bursting with boxes, or shoes, or rolled up sleeping bags, or firewood, or magazines, or picnic baskets, or all these things and more crap besides. It's usually filthy inside and out, paint faded from the sun, rust creeping up the fenders, some part of it held on with rope or bungee cord, and a huge crack across the windshield. And there's always a pine tree air freshener hanging from the rear-view. You feel sorry for the driver and yet outraged at the same time.
   Scene 1: the crap-filled beater is several shades of red, the replaced bits not quite matching the original. The driver is a tall, thin, balding, shirtless beanpole of a guy wearing flip-flops, his arms held helplessly out to his sides as if he were imitating Jesus on the cross as he tries to explain something to the motorcycle cop standing beside him. The cop did not seem sympathetic.
   Scene 2: the crap-filled beater is faded lemon yellow, and a rather large woman in an unfortunate choice of clingy knit fabric pants has the hatchback open, standing with her hands on her ample hips, shaking her head as she confronts the avalanche of crap spilling onto the street.
   Scene 3: the crap-filled beater is sickly green, and stalled in one lane of a two-lane freeway on-ramp, pulled over as far as possible but still blocking traffic. The driver is a portly Ren-Faire kind of a guy, complete with scraggly beard and hair back in a pony tail, and his old lady is a painfully thin goth sort of woman with a big tattoo on her spindly left arm. They're both sitting cross-legged on the hood of the beater, waiting for the tow truck (I'm assuming, they could just have been settling in).
   Maybe it's just because I'm out during the day, but I don't recall quite this many rolling garbage cans before.

From My Bookshelf

Wow, it's been a while since I've done a 'From My Bookshelf' post. It's not like I have a shortage of books, either. Just slipped my mind, I suppose.
   This time I'm getting all science-y, but in a fun way. 'How is that possible?' you ask. 'Science isn't fun, it's done in classrooms that smell like formaldehyde and cranky old man. It's something for eggheads, not for us hip youngsters with our long hair and permissive attitudes.'
   To which I say 'Au contraire, mon ami.' And this book is proof of the awesome coolness of science. And of science writers.

The Stuff of Life: a graphic guide to genetics and DNA by Mark Schultz illustrated by Zander Cannon and Kevin Cannon
   This is a 'graphic novel' which is a five-dollar word for 'comic book' that fools no one. However, in this case the term is apt, because it really is a very straightforward, earnest elucidation of the complexities of genetics, presented in panels of well-drawn pictures. No guys in tights punching each other here.
   I remember when I was learning genetics I could read all the text in the world and have it mean nothing to me. When the teacher drew a Mendelian square on the chalkboard, it all started coming together. Imagine that clarity, but extended for all genetics, including how DNA strands are constructed and replicated. If you have a student in a biology class - or ARE a student in a biology class - you should run out and get this book, it's that good.
   Mark Schultz is a longtime comics writer, who has won two Eisners. That's like winning two Oscars, if you don't know comics.
   Zander Cannon and Kevin Cannon are comic artists, who are responsible, along with Alan Moore, for the incredible Top 10 series, which is also something you should check out. They're not actually related, they just have the same last name. Seriously.

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

I'm never going to go to a Halloween party dressed as a hobo. Sure, it's cute for little kids, with their shoe-polish beards and their little bindles on broom handles, wearing Dad's old clothes and too-big shoes. But things get different when you're an adult man.
   I know that if I go to a Halloween party dressed as a hobo, I'm going to have a wreck in my car. This would be the one time I don't wear a seat belt and I'll be thrown free of the wreckage and I'll land in the bushes where my wallet will fall to the ground. When the paramedics find me they're going to assume that I'm a for-real homeless person who got hit while crossing the street. Instead of going to the good private hospital they'll take me to the crooked county hospital where they take uninsured homeless people.
   The crooked hospital will grudgingly take care of me, but when I try to tell them that I'm not really homeless I was just wearing a Halloween costume, they'll assume that I'm delusional, just another crazy homeless guy. The more I protest the more they're going to think I'm totally nuts, and since I won't have my wallet I can't prove anything. And then when they try to call my family or friends nobody will answer the phone because they'll assume the call is from a telemarketer trying get one over on them by impersonating a crooked hospital.
   When the crooked hospital finally realizes the mistake they made, instead of letting me go with an apology, they're going to decide to 'deal with' me. They know if they let me go I'll head straight for the cops and the newspapers and find a lawyer so I can put them in jail and then sue them into oblivion. They'll tell me they're letting me go, but they're really going to make me into Soylent Green.
   This is why I usually dress in a toga for Halloween; if I have a wreck nobody's going to assume I'm a real Roman.

Everything's Better On A Stick

It's that State Fair time of year, and I'm like a giggly little schoolgirl. With a beard. I love - L O V E - midways, fairs, and carnivals of all sorts, and when you make it the biggest one in the entire state... well, you just can't go wrong. There's nothing at a State Fair that isn't the greatest thing ever, from the competitions for vegetables, preserves, livestock, dessert, cheese, beer and wine (really), to the aforementioned midways, to lovingly artery-clogging fried food.
   And then there's food on a stick.
   I'm from Texas, and we know how to put stuff on a stick and eat it. In San Antonio we have Fiesta where almost everything solid is available on a stick, but the best stick-eating to be had is a few months later at the Folklife Festival. My childhood and much of my adulthood was spent at these events and others like them, street parties with stick-food, so I know what I'm talking about here.
   There's something... I don't know... primeval about eating food from a stick. Like when I went camping as a Boy Scout and we proudly dispensed with all pretense of civilization, eating food from a stick brings you closer to your inner caveman, that guy who ate what he killed and charred it black over a lightning-spawned fire. It's man stuff, though I've seen plenty of women eating food from a stick too. Stick-food just pleases the palate more than non-stick food. I'll even go so far as to say there is no food that is not made better by eating it from a wooden stick. Corn on the cob? Check. Sausage? Check. Cheesecake? Check. Pizza? Check (I've seen it done). Meatballs? Check. Bacon? Double-check. I invite you to prove me wrong, but I bet you can't.
   The California State Fair is over, so I'm gonna have to go abroad to get my stick-eating on...

'Share The Road' My Ass...

I didn't want to do this. Really. I don't need the hassle, and I almost resent the time I have to spend complaining about it, but they've forced my hand. They made me do it, chipping away at my resolve like a tiny drip of water against a boulder, wearing it away until it's no longer the monolith it once was. Who could do this? you ask. Who could insinuate themselves into my attention and practically force me to comment on them?
   Damned bicyclists, that's who.
   I'm sure you've seen them, no matter what part of the country you live in; they're everywhere, like roaches. With their little shorts and their saddlebags - oh, sorry, panniers, like using a French word makes it any less sissy- and their helmets perched preciously on their heads like they're mushroom people from Mario World... hold on, I'm getting enraged just thinking about it. Deep breath... in... out... in... out...
   Yeah, I get it, share the road, it's a green alternative, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. The problem with bicyclists taking up a traffic lane - aside from their crass presumption - is that they want to play in a sandbox that's just too big for them. It's dangerous because they move too slow, and they're unprotected by US DOT regs cars must follow, and even the most well-meaning bicyclists constantly flout traffic laws by blowing past lights and stop signs, riding against traffic, that kind of thing. It's like your little sister wanting to play football with the guys: it's cute, but she's going to get hurt if she insists on playing for real.
   So bicyclists of the United States, here's the deal: if you obey all the same traffic laws as I do - all the time - you can share my lane. If you can ride your bicycle as fast as I can drive my car, you can share my lane. If your fifteen pound bicycle can survive a crash with my 3500 pound truck without being mangled into tin foil, you can share my lane. Until you can do those things, get the hell out of the way.
   Whew... sometimes it's good to vent.

Body Double

They say everybody in the world has a double, someone who looks just like them. My friend Bob, for example, met his when he spent time in Germany while in high school. He came back with a picture of a guy who looked just like him, white-man afro and all, the only difference was the doppelganger Bob spoke German. It was an amazing resemblance, right down to the smile and the way German Bob cocked his head to the side. Seeing the photograph was kind of freaky, yet kind of fun too, especially since it happened to Bob and not me.
   Then I saw my double and it wasn't so funny any longer.
   I was about seventeen, and seeing a movie with my friends. We were waiting for the movie to start, joking around and probably making nuisances of ourselves - we were seventeen after all - when I saw this guy about six rows down, easing his way past the people already sitting, facing my way. It was like one of those movie moments, where the camera zooms in and the background goes out of focus and the music gets all dramatic. He looked exactly like me. He saw me at the same time I saw him, and I could tell he was thinking the same thing: 'Holy crap, there's a dude that looks just like me. What do I do?' I tried to find the guy after the movie, I even sent my friends out to look for him, but he slipped the net, got away. I never saw him again.
   Sometimes I wonder what my double has been doing all these years, but then I realize I don't really want to know. If he turned out to be a criminal or an abject failure I'd just be embarrassed for both of us, and if he was more successful than I am I might be tempted to do away with him and take over his identity.

Twenty-Three Years Later

What kind of job do you suppose Ferris Bueller would have today?
   We know what's happened with Matthew Broderick, and, sadly, John Hughes, but I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about the character Ferris, the guy who could pull almost anything off, who saw what he wanted and went for it, and authorities be damned. He knows how to fake illness, he knows how to convince people to steal a car and throw a parade, he seems to have little regard for anyone but himself or for anything other than his own satisfaction. Sounds like a sociopath to me.
   So...if Ferris was a sophomore in the Spring of 1986, he would have graduated high school in 1988. Which means he would have graduated college in 1992, assuming he didn't cheat his way into getting a diploma sooner, or discover pot and the local community college's 8-year program. A college diploma in 1992 would have put him in the work force just in time to catch the first wave of the dot-com boom. I imagine he would have ridden the boom, getting other people to risk their money for him as he built a company that didn't really make anything or do anything. Until the bubble burst, at which time he would have already cashed out, selling his do-nothing internet company to investors who didn't know any better.
   Then, in the early 2000s, he would have had his dot-com fortune to play with, and he probably would have gotten into the housing bubble - old habits die hard, you know. He would have done the same thing, conscience-less trading in other people's dreams of home ownership all to benefit himself. Then he would have cashed out, but not before back-dating stock sales and totally destroying the landscape of American finance with his greed and incompetence.
   So I'm thinking Ferris Bueller would have been a combination of Mark Cuban and Angelo Mozilo. Yeah, scary. And what kind of job would he have today? Given those two choices, he'd either be a pariah NBA owner under investigation for insider trading, or a pariah former CEO under investigation for insider trading. Either way he'd have more money than you or I. Bastard.

Another Career

I've been watching the History Channel a lot lately, I can't get enough of R. Lee Ermey blowing away watermelons (he was Gunny Hartman in 'Full Metal Jacket'), or the hefty proprietors in Pawn Stars, or nerds on TV in The Universe. But I really get into the Nostradamus/2012/Armageddon stuff, probably for the same reason I love circus sideshows and carnival midways, it's just too crazy to ignore. Watching the nearly-unhinged people who delve into medieval French and Mayan calendar stuff made me realize there's a career opportunity there.
   I'm going to become a Doomsday predictor.
   You know, one of those guys who gets on TV, wearing a turtleneck and a tweed jacket and looking all serious, proclaiming the end of the world is just around the corner. I don't want to be a crazy megachurch preacher - yet - I'm talking about the kind of guy who can get on a morning talk show and get people to buy into his ration of crap just by seeming to be sincere about it. I'll have a book to sell too, obviously. I'm thinking if I can get an appearance on Rachael Ray and The View, then Oprah can't be far behind. And everyone knows if you have the Oprah stamp of approval, you're golden.
   The only thing is, I may be late to the bandwagon on this one. 2012 is only three years away, and if the shows on the History Channel are any indication, the crazy-eyebrowed Nostradamus-and-Mayan doomsday guys may already have the market sewn up.
   But there's always room for one more loud, ill-informed pundit on TV, isn't there?

Sunk So Low

Everyone has things in their life that they're not proud of. Maybe you swept leaves onto your neighbor's lawn, maybe you drove in the carpool lane when you were by yourself, maybe you lied on your resume, maybe you shoplifted Reese's Peanut Butter Cups from the convenience store. Hell, maybe you robbed the convenience store for money to buy meth. Well, I myself have reached a new low.
   Last night, I watched fart videos on YouTube.
   It started out innocently enough, I was looking for clips of epee fencing (that's my sport, what I do for exercise). I went through a few of them, and then I saw this clip of farting dinosaurs available on the right-hand side. I'm not made of stone... come, on, it's dinosaurs farting. So I clicked, and that was the end of the fencing videos.
   An hour later and I still had not scratched the surface of farting videos available on YouTube. Dinosaurs, pigs, hippos, they all farted for my amusement. And the people - jeez, just try to STOP them from farting when there's a video camera around... impossible.
   I knew I had to quit watching, but every time I played one clip, there was another on the list I hadn't seen. I felt like a crack addict must, ashamed of myself but unable to stop the tragedy from unfolding. Finally I had to turn the computer off.
   I'd like to say I cried myself to sleep, but I can't. Some of those videos really are funny...

A Couple Extra Bucks

I've been thinking about ways to make a few extra buck under the table, enough to pay for gasoline or the water bill, whatever. It can't be too much money, or I'll attract undue attention from The Man, but it has to be enough to make the effort worthwhile. I've been thinking about it a while, coming up with ideas and then discarding them, until I hit on the perfect solution.
   I'll make moonshine.
   I'm not talking 'home brew' beer here, I'm talking rotgut, distilled corn mash, the kind of stuff that goes into ceramic jugs with 'xxx' on side. The kind of stuff hillbillies dream about, the kind of stuff Applachian bootleggers made small fortunes off of (and subsequently created NASCAR because of, it's true, look it up). Li'l Abner stuff, bare feet and squealing pigs and corncob pipes.
   The fact that I have absolutely no experience with any kind of brewing or distilling only ensures my success, beginners luck, as it were. It's time to take a trip to the hardware store, I need copper tubing, propane, that kind of thing. I don't really use my balcony for anything, it would make a perfect mini-distillery.
   I'm pretty sure I'd be the only moonshine operation in Pasadena, CA - at least I hope I'd be - so I'd get away with it longer than if I lived in, say, Little Rock, where no doubt they have a moonshine task force. My local authorities just won't be on the lookout for someone crafting white lightning. Although you never know, there could be thriving moonshine underground in Bungalow Heaven.
   This will also go a long way towards fulfilling my dream of being on COPS. I won't get away with it forever, you know.

Non-Laboring Day

I had someone ask me recently what my plans for Labor Day were. Since I have every day off from work now, I explained, Labor Day was just another in a long string of nearly-identical days. As I've written previously, sometimes I forget whether it's a weekday. And besides, Labor Day is now a signpost for fund-raising telethons and an excuse for retailers to have yet another sale.
   But I got to thinking about Labor Day, what it's supposed to mean and how it came about. It arose from populism in the late 19th Century, spurred on by growing awareness of robber barons' exploitation of all their workers, especially children. Workers got their own holiday, which was good for them, but kind of quaint now, and certainly outdated.
   Or is it?
   Most office workers today wouldn't think of themselves as laborers, and in the strictest sense they aren't; the heaviest thing most of us lifted in the office was a coffee cup. However - just because you don't sweat doesn't mean you're not oppressed. How many of you feel the pressure to put in more than eight hours a day, even though you're a five-day-a-week, forty-hour employee? How many of you take work home every night, or work on the weekends, every weekend? How many of you have bosses who put the screws to you not because they want to get the job done, but to look good to their own bosses?
   At some point in the past ten or fifteen years, corporate America adopted the idea that their workers are 'resources' to be 'managed' instead of people to be led, and that the company demands total loyalty, to the detriment of employees' personal lives and even their health. While at the same time corporate 'leaders' lie, cheat, steal, and betray their way to fatter and fatter paychecks, based on nothing but the fact that they can get away with it. And the concept of leading by example? Vanished, like a coin palmed by David Blaine in one of his terrible TV specials.
   The next time you stay late to finish a document or log in from home to read your work e-mail, ask yourself why you're doing it. Is it because you really want to, or because you're afraid of the consequences if you don't? If the answer is the second one - and it probably is - you deserve Labor Day as much as dock workers in 1899 did.
   Just say 'no' to corporate weasels, it's the only way they'll get the message.

Cable Rage

Click-click-click
   Welcome to Charter, all our service representatives are busy, the wait time is... two minutes.
   Did you know Charter can save you money by bundling...
Click-click-click
   Thank you for calling Charter, this is Corey, how can I help you today?
Hi, I got this thing in the mail, it says you can bundle my cable, internet, and phone for $120 a month.
   Yes, sir, that's a great package, you get everything for one low price.
Okay, thing is, I'm totally not interested in having my phone through the cable line. I'm sticking with my regular phone. How much to bundle just the cable and internet?
   Oh, the deal includes the phone, sir.
What kind of deal can I get with just the cable and internet?
   Give me just a second here... it looks like you already have cable and internet with us, sir.
That's right, I'm looking to get the price reduced. $120 a month is less than what I pay now for cable and internet, so if $120 includes the phone thing, then I should be able to get just cable and internet for less than $120, right?
   The promotional offer includes the phone, sir.
I understand that, the $120 a month includes the phone, but I don't want the phone... All right. What other deals do you have on just cable and internet?
   Let me check, sir. Give me a second here... oh, we have a good deal for $132 a month, cable and internet.
That's only like $15 off what I pay now. And it's still more than $120.
   Yes, sir.
You don't have a better deal than that?
   $132 a month includes everything you have now, sir, without the phone service.
Okay, I suppose. Better than nothing. I'll take $132 a month.
   Hold on a moment, sir... there, I've applied the promotion. You'll be billed at $132 a month now, plus applicable taxes.
I know this isn't anything you have control over, but does it make any sense to you that three things costs less than two things? Shouldn't I be paying less for just cable and internet than I would if I also had my phone with you guys?
   New deals come through all the time, sir, you may want to check back.
You know I'm just going to cancel cable entirely, don't you?
   Charter appreciates your business, sir.
But not enough to give me a fair price, huh?
    Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?
Nope, that's it. Thanks for putting up with me, Corey.
   You have a nice day, sir.

How Hard Is It To Scan Groceries?

I'll be the first to admit it, I have a bit of free time being 'between assignments.' But that time is my own, and I guard every little bit of it jealously. I look for jobs (yes, I really do), I write, I work out, I do a bit of design work in Adobe Illustrator, I try to keep busy. If I wanted to learn a new skill, believe me, I'd be able to devote as many hours to it as it would take to master.
   This is the long way around to saying that I really don't want to spend my time figuring out how to run the 'Self Service' machines at the grocery store. My local Von's has a bunch of these things, and when I'm shopping somebody comes over the intercom every five minutes or so, really pushing people to do their own labor. They kind of lay on a guilt trip, saying 'no waiting at the self-service, you should try it,' or 'regular checkout is full, but self-service is available,' that kind of stuff. Like your lonely grandmother worked there or something.
   Seriously, if I wanted to be a grocery store clerk I'd join the freakin' union and wear an apron and a nametag. I want to pick out my groceries, wheel my cart to the front of the store, and make awkward conversation with someone while they silently judge my eating habits. Then I want some high-school student to put all my canned goods on top of my carton of eggs and roll his eyes when I tell him to re-do it.
   I don't ask the grocery store clerks to fill out my unemployment form for me, why are they asking me to scan and bag my own stuff?
   I definitely feel a cranky old-man tirade coming on...

Furniture Store Conundrum

There are many things that bother me about this economic downturn - oddly enough me being unemployed isn't one of them - but there's one thing in particular that's got my head spinning. Why is it that when a furniture store goes out of business, somebody puts another furniture store in exactly the same spot?
   Two blocks up from my house there was a furniture store, right on Colorado, which went out of business about two years ago. The place was empty for a few months, then - BAM! - another furniture store. Three blocks down from that one, near the Carvel ice cream place, a sofa store went out of business, and, sure enough, another one goes in its place.
   There were two - TWO - furniture stores near the gym where I work out, one across the street from the other. You can see them in the first Transformers movie, when Shia Laboef is chasing his yellow car. Anyhoo... earlier this year both stores went out of business within one month of each other, complete with the 'Everything must go!' signs and 'Auction today' signs. And then... you guessed it, one month later there's a furniture store in the exact same place.
   Is this part of an MBA education? If one particular type of business fails, then go ahead and put exactly the same business in exactly the same location? Is this the 'lightning never strikes twice' theory of business? Am I the only one bothered by this? And why does Ikea thrive while real furniture stores tank miserably? What do those Swedes know that we don't?

Don't get me started on the Oriental rug places... jeez, how many rugs can one society purchase?

Doggie Tooth Fairy

Do you think dogs have a tooth fairy? Puppies lose their baby teeth just like human beings do. Those needle-sharp little puppy teeth fall out, usually embedded in a chair leg or old shoe. Sometimes you'll step on this oddly-shaped thing that stabs itself into your foot and when you check your dog's mouth you'll see a space where a tooth had once been.
   The people tooth fairy comes at night, taking the baby tooth the little kid left under her pillow and leaving some loose change, or maybe an IOU if Dad really needed smokes that night.
   Since dogs don't have pillows - most of them anyway - and since dogs really, really, really don't like being surprised when they're asleep, how does the doggie tooth fairy get it done? Don't you think she's kind of battle-scarred from dogs nipping at her when she accidentally wakes them up? And what does she give the dogs in exchange for their teeth? Dogs don't spend money, they don't have any pockets. Or thumbs. Does she carry around a bag of Snausages instead? And then wouldn't dogs chase her and try to steal the Snausages, even if they hadn't lost any teeth?
   I imagine the doggie tooth fairy would probably hate her job, and she'd have developed a drinking problem.

Chinese Food Across the Globe

I used to travel a lot for a job I had, both within the United States and across the globe. It was kind of a trade-off, for every cool place I got to go, say Germany or Japan, I also had to go to O'Fallon IL, or Beaufort, SC. My trips were funded by the US Government, which means they were funded by the American taxpayer. So if you're reading this and you're American, and you've paid your taxes, thanks, I had a great time.
   One of the things I realized being away from home is that you have to have your rituals, little things that stay the same for you, no matter where in the world you might end up on any given day. One of my favorite was my resolution to have Chinese food in every country I went to.
   It's really very, very easy. There are so many Chinese people that they're slowly infiltrating every corner of the world. I don't know for sure, but I would venture to say that there are probably Chinese people in every country. Probably more of them than people in those countries realize.
   My favorite Chinese food was in Germany - nothing like hot fried rice on a cold Bavarian evening in February - but the most fun had to be in Italy. The place was in Aviano, up a hill and in a Renaissance courtyard. There was a tiny illuminated sign outside the shop, which provided just enough light for the two tables out front. The proprietors didn't quite know what to do when I walked in speaking English, but they got their son to translate. The best thing ever, though, was when a local Italian walked in, and the owner and the man got to talking in Italian, both of them gesturing expansively in that Italian way, trying to make their point before the other guy. Then the owner called his wife over to join the conversation, which she did - loudly - and the Italian man called his friend in from outside. After a few minutes there were seven people crowded in this minuscule restaurant, all practically yelling to be heard over one another, all of the clamor happening in Italian, even though half the participants didn't look remotely native.
   They gave me my food almost as an afterthought, barely an interruption in the discussion. When I left the noise was echoing out onto the street, and I imagined Renaissance thinkers discussing the newest art theory over a plate of fried rice and lemon chicken.