Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Where's My Flying Car?

I'm supposed to have a flying car by now. When I was a kid, I used to read in my grandfather's Popular Science magazines that flying cars were ten, maybe fifteen years away. It's been longer than that now, and I still don't have my flying car.
   I don't have my kitchen of the future, either. Or a rocket pack. Or easy passage between immense, sparkling metropolises via art-deco airships.
   And where the hell are my robots? I'm supposed to have at least three or four by now, but how many do I actually have? That's right, none. Zilch. Zip. Nada. No death rays either.
   I'm so tired of being lied to...

Monday, June 29, 2009

Big Girl In The Crosswalk

So I was driving home from class last night, top down, enjoying the night air. I came to a stop light at two very wide streets (Colorado and Figueroa, for those truly interested). It was night, and there were very few cars on the road.
   Empty as the streets were, however, a car came screaming up in the lane next to me, going too fast then laying heavy on the brakes. It was one of those awful little Scion things, ugly as a bar of homemade soap with the bass a-thumpin' and the driver leaning waaaaay back in his seat. Living the stereotype.
   The light on Colorado changed and I saw a big girl start to cross the street, taking her in front of my car and the backwards-hat-wearing junior douchebag next to me. When I say big girl, I mean BIG GIRL, not someone who could stand to 'lose a few pounds,' this was a girl who could lose an entire person's worth of weight and still be very, very fat. She was moving as fast as she could, which is to say not fast at all, and Figueroa is a lot of street to cross in not a lot of time.
   I could see that she wasn't going to clear the intersection before the light changed, and I just knew the idiot in the Scion was going to either run her down or do or say something horrible to her.
   Sure enough, the light changed just as the big girl was in front of the Scion, and the guy inside laid on the horn. The big girl slammed her hands on the hood and started yelling back at him. It was going to get ugly, and I was a witness.
   Then... they started laughing. The big girl and the jerkoff in the Scion knew each other. Curtis and Jen, who hadn't seen each other in months, I was helpless to overhear as they loudly reconnected in the middle of the street. As I drove away I saw big girl go around to the passenger side and get in.
   This kind of thing happens to me so often I wonder why I'm surprised any longer. Get my friend Sean to tell you about the guy outside the convention center in Milwuakee...

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Bad Week For The Discovery Channel

Say it ain't so, Joe!!
   Billy Mays died.
   It was barely a month ago that I confessed my fandom for all things Billy Mays, and now he's passed on. The Discovery Channel is going to have an open spot for a show - and blocks of reruns - now that Billy is gone to that great direct-marketing studio in the sky.
   This was also the week that the Gosselins - Jon and Kate - announced their divorce; if anyone was truly surprised by that I have a bridge between Manhattan and Brooklyn I'd like to sell you. This show was on TLC, which is part of the Discovery networks.
   I watched Jon and Kate and I watched Pitchmen. And now they're both going off the air. Coincidence? I think not. Seems like I might be the Typhoid Mary of reality TV. Which got me to thinking, especially since I'm unemployed and need to find a steady stream of income.
   So here's the deal, Discovery Channel and related networks. I'm going to become a huge fan of all your shows - every single one of them. I'm going to watch nothing but TLC, Discovery, Animal Planet, and the Science Channel all day every day. Tragedy of some sort is bound to befall your stars if I start watching the shows. Let me be clear, I'm not threatening anything, it just seems to be the way things go. More than likely that Bear Grylls fellow is going first, he's the one tempting fate the most recently.
   You can avoid this terrible doom, Discovery Channel and related networks, by paying me not to watch your shows. It's simple, if you want success, if you want to keep shows on the air and producing revenue, you have to make sure I don't watch them.
   Don't think of it as extortion, think of it as insurance.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Stealth Creativity

This morning seemed like any other, sun up, squirrels on the roof, garbage bins clattering on the asphalt, dude next door on his Harley rattling windows and setting off car alarms as he roars off to work. You know, the regular stuff. Then I glanced at the notebook I keep by the side of my bed, where I record the occasional dream.
   There's a page devoted to a dream I don't remember having, and I don't recall writing anything down .
   So, not only do I not remember the dream - in itself not unusual, and kind of the point of writing them down - but I don't remember waking up to take the notes. The handwriting is mine, so nobody crept in and filled out a page in my notebook while I slumbered, but I absolutely do not remember waking up to write anything down. Which took me quite a while, evidently, since the description is a page long. In the past, even if I didn't remember the dream I remembered taking the notes.
   This disturbs me. I wonder what else I might be doing in my sleep that I don't remember. Like fighting crime. Dressed as a bat. Or a ninja. Criminals are a superstitious, cowardly lot, so either disguise would strike fear in their hearts. Or it could be something less noble entirely, like snacking, or washing dishes. Probably snacking.
   I think I'm going to rig my apartment with tripwires and cameras, to capture my nocturnal wanderings. The same equipment those guys used to get pictures of the snow leopard. Then I can finally see what I've been up to.

note: the dream was nothing special, it involved my first car - a green four-door 1972 Chevelle, best car ever - and the Guadalupe River in Texas. Evidently the car fell off the bridge into the river. Analyze that one.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Is This Wrong?

I'm on the horns of a dilemma here, and I'm not sure if I should be doing what I'm doing. I'm old enough now to know right from wrong, but I've fallen into a moral fog and I can't feel my way out. You could say 'go with your gut' but sometimes my gut tells me I'm doing the right thing and sometimes it tells me I'm oh-so-wrong. What's got me tied up in knots?
   I buy cigarettes for a homeless guy.
   As you may know from reading some of my other posts, I recognize many of the homeless people around my neighborhood. When I was working the office was about five blocks away, so I walked, which gave me ample opportunity to encounter the local unfortunates. Also, there's a Salvation Army mission behind the local Ralph's, so the indigent population stays pretty stable. They also got to recognize me over time, which was a little disconcerting, yet oddly comforting and familiar.
   Anyway, there's one guy who hangs out by the Chevron where I get my gas, he's been there for years. I used to give him a couple of bucks every so often, especially when it was very hot or very cold outside. His line is usually 'can you help me get something from the store?' So one day I asked him what he was after, I'd get it for him. He wanted smokes, and told me his brand.
   So I got them for him, Carlton 100's, soft pack. I even got him a book of matches just in case. When I handed them to him I told him that I wasn't sure I should be supporting his habit, and he just laughed and took the pack.
   It's been two years now, and about once a month or so I'll see the guy outside the Chevron with his shopping cart loaded with whatever homeless guys fill shopping carts with, and he'll ask 'can you help me get something from the store?' and I'll say 'Carlton 100's, soft pack, right?' and he'll smile and nod, and then five minutes later I'll hand over the smokes.
   So while I am practicing charity at the most grass-roots level, I'm doing it by helping a man slowly kill himself with tobacco. Is that wrong? I did notice that the New York Times says Carlton is the lowest in tar of any tested cigarette, but that's like saying your particular brand of cyanide causes the fewest convulsions, faint praise at best.
   And now it's like a thing we have, me and the homeless guy whose name I'll probably never know. He doesn't press the point, he never asks me for cigarettes specifically, and there are times I see him at the gas station and he doesn't ask for anything. But he knows who to talk to when he needs a smoke.
   On the plus side, the President sneaks a smoke every so often too, so the homeless guy at the Chevron is in good company.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

From My Bookshelf

I'm still feeling science-y, but I'm also feeling a bit hero-worship-y, so this week I chose a book that I've had for a very long time. No matter what happens with my other books, some into storage, some out of storage, this one always stays on the shelf.

Cosmos by Carl Sagan
   Wow, where do I start? This is the book that is the companion to the TV series, which came first. The series was where Carl Sagan got his reputation for saying 'billions and billions,' in that kind of sonorous way he had. He denied that he said it quite so much, but he really did say it a lot. I remember sitting, glued to the TV each week, as Dr. Sagan explained the universe and how it came about. To say I was entranced is to diminish the extent of my involvement in that show. I loved it, waited eagerly all week for it, devoured it when it was on-screen and missed it when it wasn't. It was an amazing achievement, one that still hasn't been matched in all the years since.
   The book is the TV series, just between two covers. After seeing how much I loved the TV series, my mother got me the book as soon as it came out; I think it may have cost her a membership to the local PBS station. Every few months I take the book down and read a bit of it, amazed by just how good it is, and how relevant it still is, decades on.
   Also, even though the book is credited to Dr. Sagan, and he lists Ann Druyan as a co-writer, this is as much her achievement as his. She was his wife and partner, and even though she's content to give full credit to him, Cosmos is easily half hers as well. Hers is the only name in the author's dedication.
   Go to the library, check it out, you'll love it as much as I do.

Quote:
"The Cosmos is all that ever was or ever will be. Our feeblest contemplations of the Cosmos stir us - there is a tingling in the spine, a catch in the voice, a faint sensation, as if a distant memory, of falling from a height. We know we are approaching the greatest of mysteries."

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Know Your 70's TV

I've noticed that people don't remember their 70's TV any longer, and that makes me sad. In order to remedy that situation, I've prepared a primer, to remind those of us who were there what was on, and to let the younger generation be properly horrified. Those who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it.

Detective Shows
What would you do after eight PM on a weekday without detective shows?

Baretta
   A street-smart cop who plays by his own rules. He's anti-establishment enough to be an anti-hero, but he has a heart of gold, much like the hookers he hangs out with. Baretta liked to wear disguises to work.

Starsky and Hutch
   Two street-smart cops who play by their own rules. It's like a buddy picture, only worse. Both Starsky and Hutch, while tough, have hearts of gold and a friend who's a pimp.

Vega$
   A street-smart Vietnam veteran turned private investigator in Las Vegas, who plays by his own rules. He knows mafia people, but he doesn't owe them anything. He lets his heart of gold guide his actions. And though he doesn't really hang out with prostitutes, he does know a lot of showgirls and has two secretaries.

Cannon
   A street-smart former cop turned private detective, who plays by his own rules. Though morbidly obese, Cannon does not hesitate to engage in foot pursuit of wrongdoers, which puts his heart of gold at risk of a heart attack.

Kojak
   A street-smart police detective who plays by his own rules. He sucks on lollipops and shaves his head daily. He has a heart of gold, which he keeps in a box by his desk.

Mannix
   A street-smart Korean War veteran turned private investigator who plays by his own rules. He has a devoted secretary, who was never a prostitute. And he not only has a heart of gold, he has a car phone too, back when only Elvis had a car phone.

Streets of San Francisco
   A new police detective, with a heart of gold, helps fight crime alongside an older, crustier decteive, who also has a heart of gold. Though firmly entrenched in the system and a model for 'The Man,' they both play by their own rules.

Rockford Files
   A low-key ex-con, with a heart of gold, lives on the beach in a trailer. Almost needless to say, he plays by his own rules. In the era of low-tech, he had an answering machine.

Monday, June 22, 2009

What I Miss About Work

There are many things I do not miss about work: commuting, self-important do-nothings, pointless rules that people feel the need to follow without question, evil executives who spout platitudes while lining their pockets with investors' money. The toilet paper in the office bathrooms. But there is one thing I do miss about work:
   Birthday cake.
   It's been two and a half months and I haven't had any birthday cake, I'm going through withdrawal. Store bought or homemade, it doesn't matter to me, all I want is to celebrate someone's birthday with a sugar rush in the afternoon, right around 2:30 PM, after lunch and close to going-home time but not so close that you have to rush to finish or clean up.
   Yeah, sure, I could make my own cake, but it's just not the same. There's nothing quite like getting a visit in your office from someone with a birthday card, it brightens your morning because you know that in a few hours you'll be getting cake. For free. Maybe some ice cream too, if people in the office like the birthday boy or girl enough.
   Maybe I can crash one of the office buildings nearby, somebody there has to have a birthday today...

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Dino Dad

When I was a little kid my mother took me to buy a Father's Day gift for my father. I was probably five or six years old. The only thing I could find that he could possibly appreciate was a bag of plastic dinosaurs. I mean, I thought they were really cool, he would obviously think the same thing.
   So when his Father's Day came he opened the package of plastic dinosaurs and seemed underwhelmed. I took the time to explain them to him - the green one would eat the orange one, except the orange one was really big, you see - but he still showed more interest in the socket wrench set. I even told him they would be great in the bathtub, but he'd moved on to the beige turtleneck sweater. I thought maybe I hadn't given him such a great present after all.
   A few days later I followed my mother into my father's bathroom, and there, in the shower, were the dinosaurs, arranged in descending order by size, right next to the shampoo and below the soap-on-a-rope.
   I thought that was pretty cool. Thanks, Dad.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Candy-Assed Vampires

Maybe I'm slow... all right, no 'maybe' about it... but I've recently noticed the spate of non-threatening, nice-guy vampires on TV and movies. These are teen-idol pretty-boy 'vampires with a conscience' who don't actually suck blood or kill people or even gnaw on the occasional stray cat, like that douchebag from 'Twilight' who looks like a gay version of Adam Ant, God rest his crazy, alternator-tossing soul. Oh wait, Adam Ant isn't dead.
   Anyway... you know what I'm saying. There was that good vampire detective on CBS, the Lousiana Romeo-and-Juliet good girl/ vampire couple now on HBO, I'll even count Buffy the Vampire Slayer even though she wasn't the vampire, there's gonna be another 'nice vampire' show on the CW this fall, etc. etc. etc.
   To make it worse, most of these terrible shows started out as terrible books, so we have candy-assed vampires across many different media.
   Am I the only one who remembers when vampires were evil? When they were undead killing machines who drank blood instead of angst-y, conflicted weiners with too much mascara?
   Vampires aren't romantic, they're scary. Nightmare scary. They suck blood, the stuff you need to keep you alive. They burn at the touch of holy objects, and pure, cleansing sunlight destroys them. These things are metaphors, in case you didn't realize it, for the evil things inside us that need removing. The whole vampire myth is one great big metaphor for coming to terms with your own failings and weaknesses and overcoming them. When you make vampires wimpy metrosexuals you destroy the power of the metaphor.
   I blame Ann Rice, all this started with her.


note: I checked, and I'm not the only one who's noticed this and is bothered by it. So are these two.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

When I Can See It

I love LA. Mostly. Usually. Often. Uh... from time to time.
   I was out running errands just now, and I thought I needed to clean my glasses. The road ahead was hazy and indistinct. So I took my glasses off and the road was still hazy and indistinct. I blinked my eyes and rubbed them, still hazy. I turned on the windshield wipers, still hazy.
   I rolled down the window and stuck my head out. Still hazy.
   What are you gonna do when the atmosphere looks like you're wearing smudged lenses? Cut yourself a slice of air and breathe deep, you're in LA.

Oddly Connected

Does anybody remember that TV show 'Connections' on PBS? It was by James Burke and it detailed the ways that various scientific achievements were connected to one another, sometimes across centuries. I loved that show.
   When I was in New York recently I discovered a few wildly improbable connections of my own, people who don't know one another, who have never met and probably never will, connected through me.
   I had dinner with a friend of mine from high school who now lives in Manhattan, Steve, and as we walked the city afterward he was telling me about his experiences in the city on September 11, 2001. Steve worked across the street from the World Trade Center, and he has some horrific, ghastly stories about what he saw that day, really terrible stuff. I told him that I have friend here in Los Angeles who was also in New York on 9/11, she worked at AIG not too far from his building, and she was one of the thousands of people who had to walk back across the Brooklyn Bridge to get home that day.
   Amazingly, Steve told me he lived in Brooklyn then, and he was also one of those Bridge pedestrians. He and Marna were on the bridge at the same time, going to the same place.
   Coincidence enough, right? Then I was visiting my uncle who, among other things, is an EMT. He volunteered down at Ground Zero starting on September 12th. I told him about Steve, and my uncle knew exactly where Steve's office building was - he'd been working right there - and he described several things exactly as Steve had, without any prompting from me. Two more people who didn't know each other who had been in the same place and seen the same things, their only connection being me.
   Still coincidence enough. But there's more. My friend Marna also volunteered at Ground Zero in the months following the attack. She had been cleaning up as much as they let civilians, and serving food to the emergency workers. One of whom was my uncle. He's not one to pass up a meal, especially after that kind of work, so Marna probably encountered my uncle several times.
   It's freaky if you think about it, a more tragic version of the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon game. Three people in a city like New York, all of them crossing paths at the one time or another, their only connection - besides the tragedy of that day - being that they know me.
   The world's not as big as you might think it is.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

And Get Off My Lawn!

If I had any doubts about my impending old-man-ness I don't now. I'm well on my way to inch-thick glasses, a combover, and black socks with white tennis shoes. Why do I say this with such certainty?
   I involved myself with local government last night.
   My district - our district, I suppose, since I don't own it... yet - had a meeting about beginning re-work on Pasadena's General Plan. Since I'm 'between assignments' I decided to attend. Good way to kill a Tuesday night, if nothing else. Not only was I the only one wearing shorts, I was easily the youngest person in the auditorium by twenty years, not counting the city staffers.
   The attendees were not nearly as uniformly caucasian as I assumed they would be, but they were as old as I suspected they might be. I got more than one quizzical glance, then a second glance, and usually a third because I was wearing a t-shirt that had words on it. And you could see my sexy knees. Many of the 'community' knew one another by name and obviously from other city government functions, further cementing my iconoclasm.
   During the course of the hour-long meeting I was thoroughly impressed with those elected and appointed to our city government (go Councilman Tournak!!), people who are clearly not doing it for the money. But I realized during the inevitable 'question and answer' period that the main problem with community involvement is that it involves the community.
   Out of the twenty or so questions posed, only four of them were really questions rather than rambling manifestoes spouted by people who couldn't take the hint to shut the hell up. Our councilman and the city planner running the meeting were nothing but polite and deferential, which was a mistake in my opinion. Maybe I was just cranky - I really, really needed to cut one and couldn't in an auditorium full of geezers - but I felt like tearing my eyes out when some of the public were droning on and on and on and on without getting to the point. There are no stupid questions, just stupid people.
   Besides, if someone wants to make their point repeatedly and without interruption or consideration for others, they should start a blog.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

I'm concerned that the Japanese have taken this whole 'lifelike robot' thing waaaay too far.
   It was kind of neato with Asimo, the not-really independent robot who interacts with people. It's actually remotely controlled, but the robot is standing upright by itself, which is a feat. Asimo begat the little robot dogs, and consumer electronics that are fun for kids to play with.
   But the Japanese are getting kind of creepy with their robots now, making 'lifelike' women robots who look like they popped out of a 1960's Godzilla movie, and creepy little girl robots who obviously want the codes to our nuclear weapon arsenal. Or our souls.
   I know the Japanese are weird - it's their defining characteristic and gives them an excuse for all those talking toilets - but seriously, this is taking things too far. The next time I'm in Japan (because I go so often) I'm going to pinch people, to make sure they're not robots.

It's a Conspiracy Update

After hearing squirrels dashing across the roof for most of the day yesterday, this morning I've heard nothing.
   Not a peep. Not one tentative footfall on the roof. Not a single squirrel going from the North side of the building to the South over my bedroom.
   So either they've reached some sort of squirrel detente, or both sides of the conflict have managed to wipe each other out completely.
   Or... they've read this blog and they're trying to drive me mad. They're clever little beasts, I wouldn't put it past them.

Monday, June 15, 2009

It's a Conspiracy, I Tells Ya

This time of year the sun comes up earlier and earlier every day. Which means that animals who don't have alarm clocks or curtains or nice, comfy queen-sized beds also get up earlier and earlier. Among the many equations that govern our lives, this early-sunlit morning I discovered a new one:
      ((Squirrels + Roof) * Scampering) + Too Early = Lost Sleep
   About 5:30 AM or so, when the sun breaks the horizon here in Pasadena, I heard tiny feet running across the roof, right over my bedroom. There is a tree there, a big yew that the neighborhood squirrels use to get from the ground to the roof, and from the roof to the trees on the other side of the building. The main squirrel highway for this traverse is right over my head, where I lay in blissful slumber.
   Today it seemed there was a conflict, squirrels waging a turf war for rights to my particular patch of roof. There wasn't just the usual pitter-patter of squirrel feet, there was a regular River Dance of racket, with a little squirrel Michael Flatley tapping furiously. I imagine the Jets and the Sharks, vying for control of The Trees, by which the entire squirrel community gains access to the sacred ground of The Roof.
   In any event, the f**kers kept running back and forth over my head for half an hour. I finally got up and went to work out, since it was clear they weren't going to let me go back to sleep.
   And then ... when I came back from working out just now, there was a squirrel on the wall separating my building from the one next door. Usually the squirrels run away, but this one actually made the effort to get on the wall before me, as I was coming in the front gate, and then stop and watch as I came in. And then it sat there, glaring at me with its beady little black eyes. As I passed within two feet of it - grabbing distance - it stood its ground, and it turned away only after I was gone.
   You know, you're not paranoid if they really are out to get you.

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Not Your Father's Woodstock

When I was in NYC a few weeks back I took a trip upstate to visit my uncle. He lives in Bethel, NY, which is where the Woodstock Festival was held in 1969. Bethel is a great little town, up in the Catskills, and visiting there you can see how a town of 5,000 would have been completely overwhelmed by half a million hippies forty years ago.
   When I was last there, fifteen years ago, my uncle took me to the site of the Woodstock festival. At the time, we just pulled off the main road onto Yasgur's cow pasture, where there was a single concrete monument commemorating that time. Nice enough, but oddly spartan for such a generational happening.
   Fast forward to a few weeks ago. My uncle once again took me to the site, and it has completely changed. Evidently the guy who once owned Cablevision had bought up the Yasgur farm and much of the surrounding property, and decided to build a performing arts center, the Bethel Woods Center for the Performing Arts.
   Holy cow, this place is amazing. What was once a pasture now has a huge outdoor amphitheater, a museum, a gift shop, and several more places for performances both indoor and outdoor. Being the amazingly friendly and forthright person he is, my uncle even scored us a guided tour of the place - for free - so we got to see almost everything they've built. Not even close to the muddy field covered in snow I once saw.
   While I was thoroughly impressed and wished I were in town for one of the concerts, seeing that multi-million-dollar facility built on the site of the world's largest street party got me to thinking. While it is an amazing tribute, is this world-class facility in the spirit of the Festival it's commemorating? What would the muddy, stoned, carefree people in 1969 think of this place in 2009?
   I don't think they'd appreciate the slick corporate approach, amazingly well-done though it is. But then again they'd probably be too baked to do anything about it.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Insant Gratification My Ass...

I've noticed something recently, maybe you have too. In our culture of instant gratification, suddenly I'm the one who's supposed to be doing the gratifying.
   I got a call just now from one of my friends, who asked, rather impatiently it seemed to me, if I had gotten his e-mail. I've been working this morning, and I turn off e-mail when I'm working, don't need the 'ding' of incoming Viagra discounts distracting me. So, concerned that maybe Earthlink was dropping messages, I asked when he sent it, thinking it was yesterday, last week, something like that.
   An hour ago.
   The jackass was calling me, asking if I'd read his e-mail yet, when he'd only just sent it. Now, I know I'm 'between assignments' currently, but that doesn't mean I have nothing to do but sit around all day waiting for e-mails from this guy. And it certainly doesn't mean that when I do read his message that I have to reply immediately.
   Guess what the e-mail was about? A potential barbeque. A month from now. Grrrrr....
   I have a writing partner who absolutely, positively WILL NOT LEAVE A PHONE MESSAGE. It's the most annoying thing in the world. She calls, and if I don't answer the phone she'll call back. Twice. Almost demanding that I pick up the phone right then. Sometimes she'll switch phones and try again, so I'll get six calls instead of three, and not a single Goddamn message. Not one.
   What the hell? Did these people get a memo saying my life operated at their convenience? I don't do this to people, what makes them think they can do it to me?
   Fair warning, if you call and I don't answer leave a message. If you send me an e-mail and it takes me a while to get back to you, that's the way the world works. And if that makes me a grumpy old man, then find me some liniment and hair cream, I'll be an old man.

When Latin Comes In Handy

One of my majors in college was Classics, the study of Latin and Greek. Yup, one of the Humanities, on that side of campus, with the girls who never shaved their legs and the thin, sensitive guys who never took a bath. For the record, I am not thin and I do bathe regularly. My other two majors were History and English, a triple-threat of 'too smart for his own good' and 'do you want fries with that.'
   The business majors and chemistry majors and even the communications majors used to ask me what use Classics was, how was knowing Latin and Greek going to help me in my later career? The point was, I would explain, to learn how to learn by challenging yourself. Basing your life around constant improvement couldn't be a bad idea, right? Besides, with all the declensions and conjugations filling my head I felt like a smarty-pants compared to them. Especially the communications majors.
   Then, two years out of college I got a job teaching Latin on a distance learning network. That's right, I taught Latin on TV. So take that, corrupt and incompetent business majors, I actually got a job that involved Latin and Greek, bringing the majesty of language to eager young minds. Well, mostly eager. Plus, I got paid, and that's the bottom line, at least according to those trolls.
   Knowing Latin and Greek has also helped me understand English better. When you understand certain commonalities in the way languages are constructed and used, you can then master your native language, make it stand up and take notice. Make it dance.
   But even better, I rarely have to look up new words. I use my big brain and Latin and Greek to get the meaning in context. Take this word, for instance:
      Conurbation
   I ran across this word while looking into the upcoming 2010 US Census. Though I'd never seen nor heard this word before I didn't even have to look it up, because I know Latin.
   And, no, I'm not going to define it for you or link to it. Look it up, you lazy bastards.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Bacon Is Magic

It's a culinary axiom: Bacon is magic.
   And I'm not talking the metaphorical kind of magic, either, not the kind of 'magic' behind a home run or a the 'magic' of children's laughter or the 'magic' of a Van Halen reunion with David Lee Roth. No, bacon is real magic, like a Van Halen reunion with Sammy Hagar.
   Here's the proof - there is nothing savory that can't be made better by adding bacon.
   I'm not talking sweet. Bacon and ice cream? Probably not the best. Bacon and cheesecake? Pass
   But - bacon and pizza? Mmmmm... Bacon and fillet mignon? Mmmmm... Bacon-wrapped shrimp? Well, I hate shrimp, but people tell me it's good. Bacon and macaroni and cheese, or mashed potatoes or cous cous or spaghetti... I tell you, the list is endless.
   I will go out on a limb here and say that no one can find a savory food that isn't made better by the addition of bacon. Prove me wrong.

Bad But Oh So Good

A few weeks ago I got nostalgic and bought some Spam. It was nostalgic because the last time I actually ate Spam on purpose I was fifteen years old. My Scout troop (go 157!!) was on a canoe trip, and even though every breakfast came with Spam we didn't eat it, we saved it. So on the last day we had 10 breakfasts' worth of Spam to fry up and devour. And then we had to paddle ten miles downstream to our pick-up spot. That kind of put me off Spam for a few decades.
   But after I fried up this most recent batch - Spam no longer uses the church key, it has a pop-top - and savored the contents I looked at the nutrition label, and it's a good thing they didn't have these labels back in the 80's, our Scout leaders might have had a rebellion on their hands. Spam is so not good for you, but it's sooooo good. Mmmm...
   It got me thinking about other foods that are good but aren't good for you.
   Pop-Tarts yeah, sure, on the box it says they have vitamins and minerals, but Pop-Tarts are candy disguised as a breakfast food.
   Cheetos the best part is the Cheeto dust, it's supposed to be cheese but it's not a color found in nature and it's too salty to be real cheese. But try to eat only a few. Go on, I'll wait.
   Oreos With a tall glass of whole milk Oreos are the best dessert in the entire history of mankind. I remember the good old days when the white center of Oreos was whipped beef fat. This was back in the day when McDonald's french fries were also fried in beef fat. Nothing tastes as good, and nothing could be worse for you. Except maybe Spam fat...
   Chocodiles No pretending here, these are chocolate-coated Twinkies. Nothing but fat and sugar and mm-mmm good.
   Anything Little Debbie Same thing as Chocodiles, they don't pretend to be good for you, not like those poser Pop-Tarts. If you eat a Little Debbie snack you're indulging, plain and simple, get used to it.
   Funyuns They're like onion rings, but without the inconvenience of actual vegetables. My best friend used to slouch in his parent's big puffy loveseat and devour an entire bag of Funyuns, then wonder why he wasn't feeling so good.
   Big Red soda This is a Texas thing, bottled in my hometown of San Antonio. It's one of those products you had to grow up with to enjoy, or even to be able to tolerate; you're not going to develop a taste for Big Red as an adult. Its motto says it all 'It just tastes red.' And if you drink enough of it you'll be buzzing like a hummingbird.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

From My Bookshelf

When I was working out this morning I was listening to a podcast of last week's Science Friday, which got me in a science-y mood. So this week's book selection is from one of the greatest - perhaps THE greatest - scientists of the 20th Century.

Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman by Richard P. Feynman as told to Ralph Leighton
   This book is a collection of stories Dr. Feynman told over the course of years to Ralph Leighton, and they're all great taless, ripping yarns as it were. Feynman was not only a nuclear physicist, he was a true polymath, with skills in many areas including safecracking, painting, biology, drawing, and bongo drums. Though he won a Nobel Prize in 1965, recently he is most remembered for his work on the investigation of the space shuttle Challenger disaster. He also spent the bulk of his career at CalTech, which is a few blocks from my house, so we're almost connected. Kind of.
   Quite a character and a great man. I want to be him when I grow up.

Quote:
"To be a practical man was, to me, always somehow a positive virtue, and to be "cultured" or "intellectual" was not. The first was right, of course, but the second was crazy."

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

What I Remember About... Disco

Mostly I just remember being very, very embarrassed. And not for myself, for all those who didn't know enough to be embarrassed for themselves. I wasn't old enough to be part of that whole travesty of a social experiment. I was old enough, however, to recognize that it was an AM-radio phenomenon in an FM-radio world.
   Kids, radio is something your parents used to listen to before smart people invented MP3 players. AM radio used to be all there was until God showed FM radio to some hippies, which gave them a place to play Stairway to Heaven while they slipped outside for a toke. These days AM is for talk radio and ketamine-addicted hypocrite announcers, while FM is still a place where a laid-back guy can put on the live version of Freebird and go indulge in a little herbage.
   One horrible, scarring memory: back when I was nine and my sister was seven, we took a family trip to Pennsylvania. I'll detail the whole driving-cross-country adventure some other time, but while we were visiting my grandmother, I was forced to endure my cousin's dance practice, in the freezing drizzle of a Poconos July, where as the girls learned their steps they played The Hustle over and over and over and over and OVER AGAIN.
   This is why even to this day I have a phobia about bell-bottoms.

I'm Lucky, But Not Too Lucky

When I was in Boise two weeks ago, I found seven dollars on the street. Yup, right out on the sidewalk, two ones and a five just laying there forlornly where they'd obviously fallen out of some dude's pocket. My host and I had just come from a restaurant and there was - literally - no one on the street to claim it.
   So I claimed it. Tucked that seven bucks in my back pocket and skedaddled because I had a plan. I was going to use my found money - which God, or Buddha, or Spongebob or somebody obviously wanted me to have - and play the Powerball lottery. Which we don't have in California. The jackpot was $232 million, and I saw myself with fancy yachts, big houses, fur-lined sinks, electric dog polishers, the whole magilla.
   Cut to the chase - I didn't win. Nothing. Not even a buck. The winning ticket was sold in South Dakota, and since I've never been to South Dakota I knew it wasn't me.
   So I'm lucky enough to find seven dollars, but not lucky enough to turn that seven dollars into $232 million. It's good when a man knows his limits.

Monday, June 8, 2009

There's A Story In This

I was out walking just now, a constitutional to clear the mind and open the lungs. And to get my lazy ass off the couch too. The oddest thing just happened.
   A block up from my place the buildings are this interesting mix of residential and office space - the buildings look the same no matter what's in them - and the office space is mostly psychiatrists and psychologists. Weird, huh? There's some sort of mental health professionals' enclave a block from my apartment.
   So anyway, I'm walking up the street, and the door to one of the psychiatrist's offices bangs open, and a very thin man in a white dress shirt, blue slacks, with an undone neck tie runs down the front steps, tries to jump from the steps to the sidewalk but lands on the lawn, then runs with a very stiff-legged gait up the street. He's clearly late for something, or someone's chasing him; it's obviously very urgent business, especially with the undone neck tie. Mind you, this all happens within four feet of where I'm walking.
   He rounds the corner, still running oddly, and hurries up to a mini-van parked on the street. The door opens, and the guy with the neck tie leans in and says, very loudly, 'What'd I miss?'
   The driver of the mini-van replies so softly I couldn't hear him (or her) - and I couldn't see what he looked like because he had a sun shade propped in the windshield, no lie - then the guy with the neck tie nods then dashes back to the psychiatrist's office like his pants are ablaze.
   Does freaky crap like this happen to other people, or am I alone on this one?

I Should Feel Worse

This morning I applied for unemployment insurance for the first time ever.
   It was surprisingly easy, done on-line with a form that took fifteen minutes to fill out and submit. So, just like that, I join the ranks of those on public assistance, those sucking at the government's teat, so to speak. The great unwashed. I now have more in common with the local homeless folks than ever, and we were pretty tight before.
   Yet I am not troubled.
   I imagined that I would be more... resistant?... to filing for unemployment. Too proud. But the past decade of 'work' for various corporations has ripped all self-esteem from me, any semblance of dignity and honor long since left in a pile by the security door.
   Besides, I'm old enough to know how this stuff works; there's a pool of cash corporations contribute to every paycheck cycle, a certain amount for every type of employee. The money's there waiting to be claimed, an entitlement like Social Security, except you don't have to be old to get to it. It's a social safety net, and I've fallen from the trapeeze.
   So, no, I don't feel bad. I'm really just continuing a grand tradition. Just like Keats. Or Barney Gumble.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

Tin and Tungsten and Tantalum, oh my!

I got an e-mail the other day, some random stuff from someone I'm not sure I remember meeting, something I would normally scan and delete. Then I saw a tag at the bottom urging me to help protest 'conflict metals.' Intrigued, I spared the message from File 13.
   Now, I'm familiar with the idea of 'blood diamonds' - mining diamonds in order to fund civil wars in Africa - which has recently been re-named 'conflict diamonds' in a particularly PC attempt to appease the perceived squeamishness of the audience. The idea is a noble one: don't buy diamonds that you suspect have come from a strife-ridden area of the world. This is ultimately unworkable because diamonds are as fungible as cash or crude oil. Once they go into a pile in Amsterdam, there's no telling where each diamond originated. Pledging not to buy blood diamonds is like pledging not to buy beef from brown cows, by the time the decision comes to you, there's no way to tell.
   But this 'conflict metals' business... some wide- and moist-eyed compassionate souls have found out that Africa doesn't only have diamonds, it also has metals, which bad people also use to fund their activities. So we're not supposed to buy things with tin, tungsten, or tantalum mined in those areas.
   Seriously, how the hell am I supposed to know what bits of electronics have what kinds of metals in them? As far as I'm concerned tantalum is just a fun word to say over and over to yourself. Go on, try it. Tantalum, tantalum, tantalum, tantalum, tantalum, tantalum... I feel like I'm in a buddhist ashram, chanting my mantra.
   I don't know about you, but it's been quite a while since I've purchased a large block of tungsten, so I wouldn't have the first clue how to get any now. But there's a dude I see down on Ventura, he looks like he could be a tungsten connection...

Friday, June 5, 2009

A Little Older Each Day...

I'm slowing down. No sense fighting it, I'll just go with the flow, zen-like in my acceptance of those things I cannot change. If I seem a little depressed, well, maybe I am. Why?
   I can't eat my weight in doughnuts any longer.
   Time was, in the heady days of my youth, doughnuts were like Pez, they just popped into my stomach, with a minor interruption provided by my teeth. I could go through six without blinking, and I'd have to pace myself out of respect for the others in the office. After lunch, though, all bets were off, any remaining doughnuts were counting their remaining time in minutes.
   On this National Doughnut Day, I celebrated by purchasing two doughnuts from Winchell's (no Dunkin' Donuts here in Pasadena), one sugar-coated regular, and one chocolate cake with frosting and nuts. No problem, right? Two doughnuts, one glass of milk, bada-bing, bada-boom, and we're looking forward to lunch.
   I couldn't finish them both. I actually saved half of the chocolate one in the refrigerator.
   I'm worthless and weak. I've disgraced the memory of the gourmand I used to be. I'd drown my sorrows in a pint of ice cream, but I probably couldn't choke that down either.
   I might as well hike my pants up to my armpits and start muttering to myself, I'm already an old man. Now get off my lawn, you damn kids...

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Mourn For Times Square

I was in New York City last week, mostly Midtown, and on my one free day I managed to get to Times Square and 42nd Street. I was both amazed and dismayed by what had happened to the city I once knew.
   I was last in New York City fifteen years ago, in Times Square for New Year's Eve. Back then Times Square had a Sbarro pizza place on every block, both sides of the square. Now there are none. Back then Times Square played host to a wide variety of three-card Monte games, desperate men bilking tourists out of their cash atop cardboard boxes. Gone. No more pay phones. No more honking horns. No more Guardian Angels watching. The seamy, gritty, dangerous Times Square I remember has gone the way of the dinosaur and the barely-qualified mortgage broker, swept away by the forces conspiring against it.
   Now Times Square sits aglow with flashing neon and scrolling LED billboards. The ball from the New Year's celebration still sits on top of One Times Square, changing colors every few minutes. ABC is there, and ESPN, and an M&M's store, and Levis, and Bubba Gump's Shrimp thingy and probably every other retail establishment in the country too. For the summer NYC has closed Broadway to auto traffic, and they've put lawn chairs on the asphalt. For an hour I sat in one of those lawn chairs in the middle of Broadway at 44th, right in front of the Toys-R-Us, feeling ambivalent even as I took advantage of the changes. Fifteen years ago I checked my wallet every block, today someone would probably chase after me to return it if I dropped it.
   Safer? Absolutely, positively, safer by far than fifteen years ago. Better? Eh... I kind of liked the old Times Square, it was a red badge of courage to have survived it. Now it's like wearing a helmet and elbow pads in a bouncy castle, taking the risk away has taken away the fun.
   And don't even get me started on 42nd Street. No more drug dealers? No more porno theaters? Scummy people have a right to work too, you know.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

A Trend That Should Stay Dead

In the past three weeks I've seen a lot of men around Pasadena sporting mohawks. And by a lot I mean more than I expect, which should be none at all.
   And I'm not talking the sissy-boy Hollywood mohawk, which is just some no-talent hack 'actor' with his hair moussed up in the center of his head. No, I've been seeing no-shit, for-real, shaved-temple mohawk-wearing sons-of-bitches (I get paid extra by the hyphen).
   I saw two guys going into the bicycle shop next to where I buy my comics. I saw a really tall doofus in Old Town, I saw some black-leather jackass in the grocery store, I saw a dude with mascara and stencilled eyebrows at a Mexican restaurant. None of these were the same person. I even saw a guy in his cooking school uniform with a fresh mohawk - which I could tell because the sides of his head were pale white.
   What happened? Did it become 1983 all of a sudden while I wasn't looking? I thought society was done with this stupid trend back before I graduated high school, back when that dork from Flock of Seagulls had his... whatever the hell that was on his head.
   Here's a thought: maybe this has something to do with the tanking global economy. Seriously, think about it. How many mohawks did you see before this year? None. And now it's become the new statement. Maybe when there's less economic pressure to succeed, there's less social pressure to conform? I smell a Master's Thesis in Sociology here...

As Seen On TV

I have a confession to make, and it's not easy for me. I hope you don't think less of me once I've revealed my terrible secret.
   I'm a huge fan of all things Billy Mays.
   I think it has to do with that part of my brain that loves boardwalk midways and crooked carnival games and circus sideshows. Whenever I hear his voice on TV it's like a dog hearing the electric can opener, I immediately pay attention. Yes, he does yell ALL THE TIME. Yes, he does use black shoe polish on his beard and hair. Yes, he overuses the 'thumbs-up' gesture as a substitute for sincerity. But, Lord help me, when my TV sounds the words "Hi, Billy Mays here..." my day gets just a little bit brighter.
   Mind you, I have never once purchased any Mighty Putty, or the Hercules Hook, or the Awesome Auger, or Zorbees, or the Big City Slider Station, so as a pitchman he's not got the best average. I did buy OxiClean, though, a few years back, before I developed my immunity to Billy's grinning charms.
   I can't wait for Saturday and idle air time stations fill with infomercials. See you then, Billy.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

...And Horses Too, Maybe Cows

Those who are acquainted with me know that dogs, cats and babies love me. Pets flock to me, especially when I'm wearing wool dress pants and don't need the extra cat hair, and I'm a baby magnet even though I have none of my own. Yes, 'that I know of...'
   Evidently my dominion now extends over horses and cows too.
   I was recently visiting a friend in Idaho who keeps a horse or two and four steer in her pasture. The first day I was there we went to feed the animals, and I was standing at the fence rail, minding my own business as my friend rounded up one of the horses. The other horse, Cheyenne, was in the barn behind me. Before I knew it she was shoving her head under my hand, demanding that I scratch her nose, shoving up against me as if I were another 1500 pound horse instead of a puny person. Instant friend. I also made instant friends with my host's dog Buddy and the other neighborhood dogs, who roam the apple orchards in what has to be an Earthly representation of doggie heaven, where there are infinitely many trees to pee on.
   The cows, though... ah, the cows...
   I was the center of attention the moment I got out of the car. They followed my every move whenever I was in the pasture, wary and cautious and yet fixatedly curious. When I approached they'd scatter, move off a few yards and then watch me again.
   Here's a picture of all four of them, watching me as I was watching them:From left to right they are: Lester, Lucky, Rufus, and Rex.
   Lucky is the only one with horns, and, as you can tell, the one who gave me the most attitude. Rufus was the leader of the gang - sorry, it's not a gang it's a club - kind of like Pinky Tuscadero and the Pinkettes.
   The guys are yearling cattle, which means that come winter they're destined to become hamburger, which is too bad because otherwise I could see boy band in their future.