On this Halloween night, I thought I'd regale you with tales of the macabre and loathsome, things so horrible that the mere mention of them is enough to turn your hair white and make you run from the room. But not before the two drink minimum. Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, I give you...
PUNCHLINES TO TERRIBLE JOKES!!!!!! BWAH-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!!
Those brave few of you who have dared to read further are made of stern stuff indeed. Imagine if you will a baggy-pants Catskills comedian, a man barely alive, telling jokes in the main dining room in exchange for room and board for the summer and the slightest chance to get lucky with one of the lady lifeguards. Horrible, stomach-churning terror indeed, my friends. These are zombie punchlines, the walking dead of jokes, bits of funny that should have been buried in hallowed ground decades ago. Read them at your own risk.
I was talking to the duck.
She really sits around the house.
Rectum? Damn near killed 'em.
That's no lady, that's my wife.
Help me find my keys and we can drive out.
You think I asked for a 12-inch pianist?
Every morning Dad knocks on the bathroom door and says 'God, are you still in there?'
Those aren't pillows!/ That's okay, that's not my hand.
Sanka
The taste.
When your hand falls asleep.
Okay, you're ugly too.
Why, Father O'Malley, it's not Tuesday.
Look, I'm 98 years old, I'll take the soup...
He wonders if there really is a dog.
A zebra who owes money.
If it had four doors, it'd be a sedan.
And the bartender says 'why the long face?'
Thank you, thank you! I'll be here all week! Enjoy the veal!
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Makeup Sponges and Cigarette Butts
When you do a job, any job, you generate a certain kind of debris. Working in an office you generate sheets of paper (especially in a 'paperless' office) and pens with no ink. If you're a chef you generate compostable wet garbage like the ends of carrots or chicken bones, if you're construction worker it's sawdust and stray nails. Every profession generates its junk, even the performing arts, it just took me a little thinking to find out what that was.
Given my status 'between assignments' I've had to drop acting classes; yes, oddly enough for someone in LA, I'm an actor, you can see my tour de force here. Anyway, it's been a month or more, and it took me a while to notice what I wasn't noticing, if you catch my drift. Since an actor doesn't produce anything - besides pure genius, I mean - I didn't think there were any by-products to the process. Then I realized the weeks since I'd been backstage at a theater was the exact same time since I'd seen any discarded makeup sponges or cigarette butts. The place used to be a wasteland of beige filter tips with matching foundation-stained sponges, like crab apples dropped from a gnarled, twisted stump of a tree. And if the theater played host to young Hollywood, with its one-note emoting and abominable line readings, you'd likely end up hip-deep in debris. But that hasn't been a problem since I dropped my classes.
It's been a while since I've seen anybody smoking at all, as a matter of fact (except the H-1B workers behind an office building), when I used to see actors smoking all the time, especially the young, greasy, desperate wanna-bes. And I haven't seen a used, carelessly discarded makeup sponge at all since I last left the theater.
Does this mean that actors in general and young actors in particular are dirty, thoughtless people, more concerned with how other people see them than with picking up after themselves? Of course it does. Does that make them bad people? Only the sloppy ones, the rest of us are pretty decent folks. Unless they're more successful than we are, then they're evil bastards.
Given my status 'between assignments' I've had to drop acting classes; yes, oddly enough for someone in LA, I'm an actor, you can see my tour de force here. Anyway, it's been a month or more, and it took me a while to notice what I wasn't noticing, if you catch my drift. Since an actor doesn't produce anything - besides pure genius, I mean - I didn't think there were any by-products to the process. Then I realized the weeks since I'd been backstage at a theater was the exact same time since I'd seen any discarded makeup sponges or cigarette butts. The place used to be a wasteland of beige filter tips with matching foundation-stained sponges, like crab apples dropped from a gnarled, twisted stump of a tree. And if the theater played host to young Hollywood, with its one-note emoting and abominable line readings, you'd likely end up hip-deep in debris. But that hasn't been a problem since I dropped my classes.
It's been a while since I've seen anybody smoking at all, as a matter of fact (except the H-1B workers behind an office building), when I used to see actors smoking all the time, especially the young, greasy, desperate wanna-bes. And I haven't seen a used, carelessly discarded makeup sponge at all since I last left the theater.
Does this mean that actors in general and young actors in particular are dirty, thoughtless people, more concerned with how other people see them than with picking up after themselves? Of course it does. Does that make them bad people? Only the sloppy ones, the rest of us are pretty decent folks. Unless they're more successful than we are, then they're evil bastards.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Smooth Operator
A few weeks back I had the opportunity (?) to hear and then record a smoove operator as he tried to pick up a chick. I seized that chance because being witness to ickiness like that doesn't happen every day. Turns out, though, that it does happen every few weeks. At least to me.
I was in the gym this morning, engaging in my earnest yet futile efforts to lose twenty pounds, when I heard the following conversation in the locker room. Don't worry, it's not graphic, but it is cringe-worthy. The two gentlemen in question were at the sinks, towels wrapped around their waists. Evidently one or both of them was deaf because they were practically yelling at each other even though they were side-by-side.
Dude 1: What kind of razor do you use?
Dude 2: Gilette, dude. Sensor 3.
What about shaving cream?
Don't use cream, use gel, it's better. Shaving cream sucks.
What about just soap? That would work right?
If you use one of those chick soaps, the kind with moisturizer in it. That would work.
Do you go against the grain or with the grain?
Both, dude. First you go with the grain, then you go against. Extra smooth.
Really? That works?
Oh yeah. But you gotta be careful around your nipples and your bellybutton.
Yup... they were talking about shaving their chests.
I almost laughed out loud but I covered it with a cough. Usually the men's locker room is a no-eye-contact zone, but there were about four of us puzzled, amused, and disturbed by this. Seriously, what do you do? Tell them they're talking too loud, and, oh, by the way, if we were in prison you'd be my bitch? Some stuff you just don't talk about in public, and you especially don't yell it out in an echoing men's locker room.
But at least if I ever decide to 'mow the field' I have notes for technique.
I was in the gym this morning, engaging in my earnest yet futile efforts to lose twenty pounds, when I heard the following conversation in the locker room. Don't worry, it's not graphic, but it is cringe-worthy. The two gentlemen in question were at the sinks, towels wrapped around their waists. Evidently one or both of them was deaf because they were practically yelling at each other even though they were side-by-side.
Dude 1: What kind of razor do you use?
Dude 2: Gilette, dude. Sensor 3.
What about shaving cream?
Don't use cream, use gel, it's better. Shaving cream sucks.
What about just soap? That would work right?
If you use one of those chick soaps, the kind with moisturizer in it. That would work.
Do you go against the grain or with the grain?
Both, dude. First you go with the grain, then you go against. Extra smooth.
Really? That works?
Oh yeah. But you gotta be careful around your nipples and your bellybutton.
Yup... they were talking about shaving their chests.
I almost laughed out loud but I covered it with a cough. Usually the men's locker room is a no-eye-contact zone, but there were about four of us puzzled, amused, and disturbed by this. Seriously, what do you do? Tell them they're talking too loud, and, oh, by the way, if we were in prison you'd be my bitch? Some stuff you just don't talk about in public, and you especially don't yell it out in an echoing men's locker room.
But at least if I ever decide to 'mow the field' I have notes for technique.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
At The Unemployment Office
I noticed that my 'Claim Balance' on my unemployment check keeps ticking down, and, after doing some simple algebra, I figured out when the money was due to run out. Only mildly panicked - and months before the cash ran dry - I went down to the local EDD office (that's the California unemployement office) to ask what I had to do to make sure the checks kept coming.
Let me first say the people at the EDD are extremely helpful. You can tell they take pride in getting people work, and I haven't met one of them who wasn't a genuinely nice person.
That said, they are still a California State bureaucracy. So I went through the door and stood behind the black tape, a good five feet from the counter, and waited my turn. That's when I noticed the 'Threatening a State worker is a felony' notice just beneath the 'wait here' sign. This alarmed me for two reasons, first because the staff evidently get enough threats that they feel they have to remind people that doing so is wrong, and second because evidently the threats workers receive are serious enough that making them constitutes a felony. Maybe they need hazard pay like soldiers get.
When the nice older gentleman called me to the desk he tapped the sign-in sheet - gotta fulfill the requirements of the bureaucracy - and asked me what I needed. I signed in and explained my concern about my money running out. 'Don't worry,' he told me, 'you're on your first renewal, right? We're working on four. It'll happen automatically, you have nothing to worry about.'
Yikes. Four renewals. That's two years. While I have enjoyed my time 'between assignments' I'm getting anxious to get back to work. I don't know if I can last two years.
The nice gentleman told me he was sure I'd find work before I hit my two-year limit, and I left the counter feeling that I would, indeed.
I stepped a few feet away to stow some of the paperwork he'd given me, and he called the next person over. 'I don't know why you people can't get this right,' the surly lady began the conversation. And then I understood the 'felony' sign up front.
Let me first say the people at the EDD are extremely helpful. You can tell they take pride in getting people work, and I haven't met one of them who wasn't a genuinely nice person.
That said, they are still a California State bureaucracy. So I went through the door and stood behind the black tape, a good five feet from the counter, and waited my turn. That's when I noticed the 'Threatening a State worker is a felony' notice just beneath the 'wait here' sign. This alarmed me for two reasons, first because the staff evidently get enough threats that they feel they have to remind people that doing so is wrong, and second because evidently the threats workers receive are serious enough that making them constitutes a felony. Maybe they need hazard pay like soldiers get.
When the nice older gentleman called me to the desk he tapped the sign-in sheet - gotta fulfill the requirements of the bureaucracy - and asked me what I needed. I signed in and explained my concern about my money running out. 'Don't worry,' he told me, 'you're on your first renewal, right? We're working on four. It'll happen automatically, you have nothing to worry about.'
Yikes. Four renewals. That's two years. While I have enjoyed my time 'between assignments' I'm getting anxious to get back to work. I don't know if I can last two years.
The nice gentleman told me he was sure I'd find work before I hit my two-year limit, and I left the counter feeling that I would, indeed.
I stepped a few feet away to stow some of the paperwork he'd given me, and he called the next person over. 'I don't know why you people can't get this right,' the surly lady began the conversation. And then I understood the 'felony' sign up front.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Cash Only
Since I've been 'between assignments' I've switched back to starving student mode, watching my pennies closely, getting free food from parties or happy hours when I can, paying a little less on my credit card and using it only when absolutely necessary. You know, the kind of thing you do when you're living on the edge and money's too tight to mention. Kind of makes me feel leaner, actually, hungrier, a little more mercenary and a little less complacent. I've had it too good for too long and I've gotten fat and lazy because of it.
But I've noticed a trend locally that disturbs me. It's a sign of the times that ought to alarm the people in charge, too. It's a trend that says not only are people tightening the belt and searching out other options, businesses are too.
I've seen tons of 'cash only' sales and promotions.
And usually the sales are for hefty discounts - 30% to 80% off retail price. This seems like a good deal for the consumer - those of you who can buy new stuff, that is - but it's actually a desperate tactic businesses use to stay afloat. They're purging inventory and increasing cash flow.
Why is that alarming? you might ask. Everybody likes cash. True enough, but when business purge inventory to increase their cash flow, that means they're not making enough with regular revenue to cover stuff like payroll, rent, or the purchase of new inventory. These deeply discounted sales mean businesses are probably taking a loss on the items - selling at or below their cost of goods - but they need the cash badly enough in the short term that they're willing to risk the long-term hit to their books. But the long term doesn't look too bright either.
It's like the family down the block that throws a rent party or has a garage sale to cover their mortgage. You can see the handwriting on the wall, they're going to be moving out sooner or later, but in the meantime they're fighting as hard as they can.
I think it's gonna get much worse before it gets any kind of better. And I desperately hope I'm wrong.
But I've noticed a trend locally that disturbs me. It's a sign of the times that ought to alarm the people in charge, too. It's a trend that says not only are people tightening the belt and searching out other options, businesses are too.
I've seen tons of 'cash only' sales and promotions.
And usually the sales are for hefty discounts - 30% to 80% off retail price. This seems like a good deal for the consumer - those of you who can buy new stuff, that is - but it's actually a desperate tactic businesses use to stay afloat. They're purging inventory and increasing cash flow.
Why is that alarming? you might ask. Everybody likes cash. True enough, but when business purge inventory to increase their cash flow, that means they're not making enough with regular revenue to cover stuff like payroll, rent, or the purchase of new inventory. These deeply discounted sales mean businesses are probably taking a loss on the items - selling at or below their cost of goods - but they need the cash badly enough in the short term that they're willing to risk the long-term hit to their books. But the long term doesn't look too bright either.
It's like the family down the block that throws a rent party or has a garage sale to cover their mortgage. You can see the handwriting on the wall, they're going to be moving out sooner or later, but in the meantime they're fighting as hard as they can.
I think it's gonna get much worse before it gets any kind of better. And I desperately hope I'm wrong.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Why Can't I Remember?
Has someone ever introduced you to a friend, colleague, relative, or what have you, and you shake their hands, look them in the eye and exchange pleasantries, only to then promptly and completely forget their name? And I mean the instant they turn away you have no idea what their name is, and if someone put a gun to your head and demanded you say that person's name you'd be a dead man?
Happens to me all the time. Just this evening, as a matter of fact, I was at a party where I knew exactly two (2) people. I got there kind of early - as always - so there were only a few others around. My friends introduced me, and I talked with these people, sometimes at length, about everything from football to politics to the parking ticket I was sure to get (which I did). As the crowd got larger I even introduced myself around, making small talk, getting to know people, and generally being a gracious guest.
But I will be damned if I can tell you anyone's name. They said it when they introduced themselves, the hosts called them by name, I even used their names in conversation, trying to reinforce the association in my head. But when I try to think back and remember even the first syllable of a name, my mind is a total blank.
Nothing.
This is a problem. Why can't I remember these names? And it's not just with new people, it's with old people too. I'll get Facebook friend invites, and I can see that this person is 'friends' with people I'm 'friends' with, but I cannot for the life of me remember who that person might be. One of my friends from high school who also went to college with me has a freaky Rain-Man memory for all sorts of things, so I'll turn to him sometimes, or my sister has a high school yearbook from my Senior year she'll look people up in to help me out. Sometimes I'll end up remembering these people, vaguely, but most of the time I don't.
So if you see me on the street, say 'hi' to me. I'll probably smile and wave back. But don't expect me to remember your name.
Happens to me all the time. Just this evening, as a matter of fact, I was at a party where I knew exactly two (2) people. I got there kind of early - as always - so there were only a few others around. My friends introduced me, and I talked with these people, sometimes at length, about everything from football to politics to the parking ticket I was sure to get (which I did). As the crowd got larger I even introduced myself around, making small talk, getting to know people, and generally being a gracious guest.
But I will be damned if I can tell you anyone's name. They said it when they introduced themselves, the hosts called them by name, I even used their names in conversation, trying to reinforce the association in my head. But when I try to think back and remember even the first syllable of a name, my mind is a total blank.
Nothing.
This is a problem. Why can't I remember these names? And it's not just with new people, it's with old people too. I'll get Facebook friend invites, and I can see that this person is 'friends' with people I'm 'friends' with, but I cannot for the life of me remember who that person might be. One of my friends from high school who also went to college with me has a freaky Rain-Man memory for all sorts of things, so I'll turn to him sometimes, or my sister has a high school yearbook from my Senior year she'll look people up in to help me out. Sometimes I'll end up remembering these people, vaguely, but most of the time I don't.
So if you see me on the street, say 'hi' to me. I'll probably smile and wave back. But don't expect me to remember your name.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Uh-oh...
After a particularly surreal phone interview in which I was turned down because I made too little in my prior job - yup, you read that right, I didn't make enough to be considered for this new position - I had to take a few minutes to unwind. So I clicked through the broadcast channels and settled on 20.1, which in Pasadena is a Spanish-language channel. I don't really speak Spanish, just the curse words, but I was following the story, and after a few minutes it was all making sense to me. Then, in horror, I made a terrible, terrible, shocking revelation. With that one simple act, watching Spanish-language TV even though I don't speak Spanish, my life had completely changed.
I had turned into my father.
Once, years ago, I walked into the house to find him watching 'The Seven Samurai' on channel 41, Univision in San Antonio. The movie was spoken in Japanese, but subtitled in Spanish, and my father neither reads, writes, nor speaks either of those languages. When I called him on it he outlined the story for me and continued watching.
And now the curse has fallen on the next generation. On me. I can see that I will eventually turn into my own grandfather, no use in fighting it, I'm gonna grab this bull by the horns and ride it to the bitter end. I'll need polyester jumpsuits in colors not found in nature, a fedora, black socks with worn dress shoes, and a great-big American land yacht of a car.
I drive a Chevy Tahoe, so I already got the last one covered. Pray for me.
I had turned into my father.
Once, years ago, I walked into the house to find him watching 'The Seven Samurai' on channel 41, Univision in San Antonio. The movie was spoken in Japanese, but subtitled in Spanish, and my father neither reads, writes, nor speaks either of those languages. When I called him on it he outlined the story for me and continued watching.
And now the curse has fallen on the next generation. On me. I can see that I will eventually turn into my own grandfather, no use in fighting it, I'm gonna grab this bull by the horns and ride it to the bitter end. I'll need polyester jumpsuits in colors not found in nature, a fedora, black socks with worn dress shoes, and a great-big American land yacht of a car.
I drive a Chevy Tahoe, so I already got the last one covered. Pray for me.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm worried that a zombie plague will take over the planet, turning everyone else into flesh-eating undead things, and I'll end up being the last non-zombie person on the face of the Earth.
But I'm not concerned because I think that I would be the ultimate target for the stagging, ravenous walking corpses, the one bright spot of light in a world of darkness. I'm not worried that I'd be the last guardian of a vanished society, bravely facing each day determined to hold on to my humanity. I'm not worried that the zombie horde will stalk me like hyenas stalk their prey, waiting for me to make the one mistake that will allow them to finally consume me and make me one of them at last.
No, I'm worried that if I'm the last non-zombie on the Earth, when the inevitable last day comes and I get turned into a zombie they'll be fresh out of brains.
Think about it, if everyone in the world got turned into zombies but me, and if zombies eat brains (they do), then wouldn't they have pretty much run out of brains by the time they got around to infecting me?
The last thing I want is to be the loneliest zombie, starving to death after Armageddon because the other greedy bastard zombies ate up all the brains before I could get there.
But I'm not concerned because I think that I would be the ultimate target for the stagging, ravenous walking corpses, the one bright spot of light in a world of darkness. I'm not worried that I'd be the last guardian of a vanished society, bravely facing each day determined to hold on to my humanity. I'm not worried that the zombie horde will stalk me like hyenas stalk their prey, waiting for me to make the one mistake that will allow them to finally consume me and make me one of them at last.
No, I'm worried that if I'm the last non-zombie on the Earth, when the inevitable last day comes and I get turned into a zombie they'll be fresh out of brains.
Think about it, if everyone in the world got turned into zombies but me, and if zombies eat brains (they do), then wouldn't they have pretty much run out of brains by the time they got around to infecting me?
The last thing I want is to be the loneliest zombie, starving to death after Armageddon because the other greedy bastard zombies ate up all the brains before I could get there.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
It's True
I've been 'between assignments' for a while now, and I've gotten into a routine that avoids rush hours and high-traffic times. I'm out and about during the between times, when there are fewer people on the roads, in businesses, everywhere. And I've noticed a few things.
1. Old people really do swerve when they drive. Even though there are far fewer cars on the road during the day, I fear for my life more at 2 PM than I did at 5:30. Lane markers aren't suggestions, grandpa.
2. If you wear wool slacks and a dress shirt to the grocery store in the middle of the day, the staff assumes you're there to buy a birthday cake or party supplies. Seriously, I get more directions to the bakery department than I ever did in the evening.
3. There are plenty of post office clerks at 10:30 in the morning. Three people in line, three windows open. And the clerks are friendly. After 3 they go down to two clerks, no matter how many people are in line, and not a smile in sight. 'Splain that one.
4. Leaf blowers. Are. Everywhere.
5. Shifty-loking, shady people stick out. Very few full-sleeve tattoos out and about before nightfall. No facial piercings gleaming in the noonday sun.
6. Those people hanging out in the coffee shop all day, hogging the wireless internet? Your suspicions are confirmed, they really don't have anything better to do. Trust me on this one.
7. Public works repairs happen during the business day. And they always happen on the street I'm travelling, at exactly the worst time. It's like those guys have a map of places I go and they plot their repairs according to my schedule.
I'll share more as things come up.
1. Old people really do swerve when they drive. Even though there are far fewer cars on the road during the day, I fear for my life more at 2 PM than I did at 5:30. Lane markers aren't suggestions, grandpa.
2. If you wear wool slacks and a dress shirt to the grocery store in the middle of the day, the staff assumes you're there to buy a birthday cake or party supplies. Seriously, I get more directions to the bakery department than I ever did in the evening.
3. There are plenty of post office clerks at 10:30 in the morning. Three people in line, three windows open. And the clerks are friendly. After 3 they go down to two clerks, no matter how many people are in line, and not a smile in sight. 'Splain that one.
4. Leaf blowers. Are. Everywhere.
5. Shifty-loking, shady people stick out. Very few full-sleeve tattoos out and about before nightfall. No facial piercings gleaming in the noonday sun.
6. Those people hanging out in the coffee shop all day, hogging the wireless internet? Your suspicions are confirmed, they really don't have anything better to do. Trust me on this one.
7. Public works repairs happen during the business day. And they always happen on the street I'm travelling, at exactly the worst time. It's like those guys have a map of places I go and they plot their repairs according to my schedule.
I'll share more as things come up.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Mmmmm... Pie Charts...
I've been hitting the job search pretty hard for a few weeks now - I know, I know, it's disappointing for me too - and I can see that it's going to take some time. That time will allow me to ease back into the work routine, long hours spent away from home, the couch sadly neglected, the refrigerator door grossly under-used. I've been trying to think of what I would look forward to at work, aside from the birthday cake, and the list was woefully short. And then I thought a little bit more and I had it.
I look forward to pointless technical innovation.
You'd think there would be plenty of that in the non-corporate world, what with your Twitters and your iPhone apps and android what-nots. But some of the pointless technical innovation in society eventually proves useful somewhere - Twitter about the Iranian elections, for instance. But only in the corporate world can you get technology that presents itself as helpful which is anything but.
Pie charts, for instance. I don't know how much programming time has been wasted getting pie charts easier and easier to produce, and yet I've never seen a serious presentation that actually uses a pie chart. Or a bar graph, or line graph or any of the bloat that spreadsheet programs list as 'features.'
What about the presentations themselves? Power Point, Keynote, whatever, I've never seen, been shown, or handed a stack of presentation slides that wasn't a total waste of time. A waste of time to produce, a waste of time to explain or read aloud, a waste of time to e-mail. But there are people whose entire job is to produce Power Point presentations, and they think what they're doing adds value. Big-four consultants, I'm looking your way here...
How about security access doors? You have to swipe you employee ID to get inside. And if you read the fine print in the documents you sign to get that ID, you're not supposed to let anyone in unless they swipe their ID too. Find me one person who abides by that provision, even the head of corporate security. If five people go out for lunch, only one person swipes all of them back in the building. Might as well just prop open the door with a rock.
I could go on, but it's getting close to time for my afternoon nap. Gotta grab this opportunity while I have it.
I look forward to pointless technical innovation.
You'd think there would be plenty of that in the non-corporate world, what with your Twitters and your iPhone apps and android what-nots. But some of the pointless technical innovation in society eventually proves useful somewhere - Twitter about the Iranian elections, for instance. But only in the corporate world can you get technology that presents itself as helpful which is anything but.
Pie charts, for instance. I don't know how much programming time has been wasted getting pie charts easier and easier to produce, and yet I've never seen a serious presentation that actually uses a pie chart. Or a bar graph, or line graph or any of the bloat that spreadsheet programs list as 'features.'
What about the presentations themselves? Power Point, Keynote, whatever, I've never seen, been shown, or handed a stack of presentation slides that wasn't a total waste of time. A waste of time to produce, a waste of time to explain or read aloud, a waste of time to e-mail. But there are people whose entire job is to produce Power Point presentations, and they think what they're doing adds value. Big-four consultants, I'm looking your way here...
How about security access doors? You have to swipe you employee ID to get inside. And if you read the fine print in the documents you sign to get that ID, you're not supposed to let anyone in unless they swipe their ID too. Find me one person who abides by that provision, even the head of corporate security. If five people go out for lunch, only one person swipes all of them back in the building. Might as well just prop open the door with a rock.
I could go on, but it's getting close to time for my afternoon nap. Gotta grab this opportunity while I have it.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Say My Name
I have one of those names that's easy for people to get wrong at first. Dom, Dane, Dave, Doug, Dan, Donovan, I've heard them all many times. Usually I'll just correct the person if they call me the wrong name, they laugh self-consciously and then remember my real name from then on. The only time there's a problem is when I don't correct the person. And that's where I am now.
My next door neighbor calls me Dan. It started years ago, when I left him a note on his car (it was leaking bright green coolant) and signed my name. My letter 'o' looked like an 'a' evidently, and he called me Dan. I didn't correct him because he was going to move out before too long. At least that's how I understood things. Didn't quite work out that way.
Fast forward a few months and he's still living in the building. We see each other and he calls me Dan again. And again I don't correct him. I don't know why.
Fast forward a few years, and he's still calling me Dan to this day. I only talk to him every few months, and he takes pride in using my name, he says it often when we converse. But it's the wrong name.
I've let it go on so long now that I can't correct him, because rather than laughing self-consciously he'd demand to know why I let him call me Dan for years now. And he'd be right, it's entirely my fault. So now I dread the times when he wants to talk to me, because I know he'll call me Dan over and over again, and I know that I'll be unable to correct him, either because I want to spare his feelings or my own, the result is the same.
Maybe he'll move out soon.
My next door neighbor calls me Dan. It started years ago, when I left him a note on his car (it was leaking bright green coolant) and signed my name. My letter 'o' looked like an 'a' evidently, and he called me Dan. I didn't correct him because he was going to move out before too long. At least that's how I understood things. Didn't quite work out that way.
Fast forward a few months and he's still living in the building. We see each other and he calls me Dan again. And again I don't correct him. I don't know why.
Fast forward a few years, and he's still calling me Dan to this day. I only talk to him every few months, and he takes pride in using my name, he says it often when we converse. But it's the wrong name.
I've let it go on so long now that I can't correct him, because rather than laughing self-consciously he'd demand to know why I let him call me Dan for years now. And he'd be right, it's entirely my fault. So now I dread the times when he wants to talk to me, because I know he'll call me Dan over and over again, and I know that I'll be unable to correct him, either because I want to spare his feelings or my own, the result is the same.
Maybe he'll move out soon.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Bent Time
Here's something that's bothered me for a while, not in the 'keep you up at night' kind of way, but in the 'stub your toe' kind of way. That's the kind of bothered where you don't really notice it until you think about it, and then it bothers you constantly for a little while then goes away. And then you'll think about it again and it'll get you stirred up all over again.
Why hasn't anyone explained to me the 'bent time' part of bent spacetime?
Spacetime is the prediction of Einstein's theory of general relativity, which states that gravity is a byproduct of massive objects bending spacetime. All of the examples I've ever read about or seen on TV discuss gravitational lensing, either from galaxies or our own sun, and as far as I can tell these examples only show bent space. That is, you can see multiples of the same star appearing multiple times around a distant galaxy (lensing), or you can see how our sun bends the light from stars behind it, making them appear to change positions in the sky. On TV shows they always roll a ball across a net to show the reticulated distortions in the square grid, using that as an analogy of the sun making a dent in spacetime that the earth has fallen into. Space.
But what about bent time? I never hear explanations of how time is also bent.
If massive objects can bend light in space, and if spacetime is the combination of 3 dimensions of space and 1 of time, then shouldn't a bend in spacetime not only affect position (x, y, and z axes), but shouldn't it also affect time? And what does that mean? If our sun distorts the apparent position of a star behind it, then does that mean we see that light before or after we otherwise would if the sun weren't there? And what are the implications for that? We already know using atomic clocks that relativistic effects are measurable for human beings, how does bent time affect us?
I don't have any answers on this one, only questions. I think physicists are short-changing us when they explain general relativity if they leave bent time out of 'bent spacetime.'
This is the long way around to saying 'I want my time machine, you bastards.'
Why hasn't anyone explained to me the 'bent time' part of bent spacetime?
Spacetime is the prediction of Einstein's theory of general relativity, which states that gravity is a byproduct of massive objects bending spacetime. All of the examples I've ever read about or seen on TV discuss gravitational lensing, either from galaxies or our own sun, and as far as I can tell these examples only show bent space. That is, you can see multiples of the same star appearing multiple times around a distant galaxy (lensing), or you can see how our sun bends the light from stars behind it, making them appear to change positions in the sky. On TV shows they always roll a ball across a net to show the reticulated distortions in the square grid, using that as an analogy of the sun making a dent in spacetime that the earth has fallen into. Space.
But what about bent time? I never hear explanations of how time is also bent.
If massive objects can bend light in space, and if spacetime is the combination of 3 dimensions of space and 1 of time, then shouldn't a bend in spacetime not only affect position (x, y, and z axes), but shouldn't it also affect time? And what does that mean? If our sun distorts the apparent position of a star behind it, then does that mean we see that light before or after we otherwise would if the sun weren't there? And what are the implications for that? We already know using atomic clocks that relativistic effects are measurable for human beings, how does bent time affect us?
I don't have any answers on this one, only questions. I think physicists are short-changing us when they explain general relativity if they leave bent time out of 'bent spacetime.'
This is the long way around to saying 'I want my time machine, you bastards.'
Thursday, October 15, 2009
You Make Me Feel So Young
It's been raining here in SoCal, not a very common occurrence, and the cold and wet kind of puts me in a 'comfort food' mood. And then, with the recent gunplay a few doors down, last night I didn't feel much like spending time in my kitchen, which faces South where the... unpleasantness happened. So I decided to buy a pizza.
It's a decent local place, where they still make and toss their own dough. It's been a while since I've bought a pizza - made my own a few times - and it was good, pepperoni and Canadian bacon, which I've always called ham, but, whatever. Hot and cheesy and mmm-mmm good. But there is one after-effect of me eating pizza that always happens, it's inevitable.
I break out like a thirteen-year-old.
Yup, zit farm, more a factory, really. Usually starting underneath my chin, then spreading up under my lower lip to dig in at the corner of my mouth. Usually the sebum blockage skips the middle of my face, maybe one on the tip of my nose, and then I'll get a few up near my hairline, where they're really, really painful to pop. If it's commercial pizza there's a very good chance I'll get some backne too, which I haven't enjoyed regularly since my Sophomore year in college.
It's a definite Faustian bargain, I get to enjoy the deliciousness that is cheese, meat, and sauce on thin crust, but I end up looking like an overgrown Honor Society goober with five o'clock shadow. All I'd need are the BC glasses with tape wrapped around the nose piece and I could be in the AV Club.
I think the Universe is telling me to quit eating pizza. But I'm not gonna let that son of a bitch tell me what to do.
It's a decent local place, where they still make and toss their own dough. It's been a while since I've bought a pizza - made my own a few times - and it was good, pepperoni and Canadian bacon, which I've always called ham, but, whatever. Hot and cheesy and mmm-mmm good. But there is one after-effect of me eating pizza that always happens, it's inevitable.
I break out like a thirteen-year-old.
Yup, zit farm, more a factory, really. Usually starting underneath my chin, then spreading up under my lower lip to dig in at the corner of my mouth. Usually the sebum blockage skips the middle of my face, maybe one on the tip of my nose, and then I'll get a few up near my hairline, where they're really, really painful to pop. If it's commercial pizza there's a very good chance I'll get some backne too, which I haven't enjoyed regularly since my Sophomore year in college.
It's a definite Faustian bargain, I get to enjoy the deliciousness that is cheese, meat, and sauce on thin crust, but I end up looking like an overgrown Honor Society goober with five o'clock shadow. All I'd need are the BC glasses with tape wrapped around the nose piece and I could be in the AV Club.
I think the Universe is telling me to quit eating pizza. But I'm not gonna let that son of a bitch tell me what to do.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
A Shot Rang Out
Last night I heard two gunshots in my neighborhood.
It wasn't a car backfiring, it wasn't pots and pans, it wasn't something falling from a tree. I'm from Texas and I know a gunshot when I hear it, and this was it. Two shots with half a second between them, a double-action pistol with the trigger squeezed quickly twice in a row, bam-bam! I have never, ever heard gunshots in my neighborhood before, I've heard car wrecks, sure, and fireworks, and I live across the street from an old folks' home, so ambulance sirens are a regrettable, though regular sound. But a gun discharging was brand new.
So I called the cops and stayed away from windows on that side of my apartment. Within minutes I saw the flashing lights but heard nothing. About half an hour later I heard sirens coming from two directions, so I put on my shoes and grabbed my umbrella to go see what was happening.
I stood in the rain watching as the EMTs unloaded the gurney from their ambulance and wheeled it into third building down from my own. They didn't look to be in a hurry, which is either very good, or very, very, very bad. As the thin rain continued to fall I remained on the front steps of my building, watching and waiting. I felt responsible, somehow, for what was happening inside, even though it had nothing to do with me. A few people walked by on the sidewalk, hurrying to get out of the rain, and I stayed in the same spot, peering through the drizzle and waiting and feeling guilty. And wondering where the police had gone.
Then the door opened and the EMTs wheeled their gurney back out. Empty. Nobody on it. I felt a little sick to my stomach, expecting the worst. Then the door opened again and a fireman escorted a woman and a man out of the building. The woman climbed into the ambulance and they closed the door. The fireman put a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder and took his leave, and then the man got the same reassuring contact from another guy as he went back into the building.
The fire truck and ambulance rolled down the street, lights off, turning right at the intersection, the way to the hospital. I stayed on the steps, staring at the third building down from my own, wondering what went on. What was the story? What just happened, and what was going to happen tomorrow?
But I knew I wasn't going to get any answers, and even thinking the questions felt a little inappropriate. So I went inside, praying I wouldn't hear any more gunshots.
It wasn't a car backfiring, it wasn't pots and pans, it wasn't something falling from a tree. I'm from Texas and I know a gunshot when I hear it, and this was it. Two shots with half a second between them, a double-action pistol with the trigger squeezed quickly twice in a row, bam-bam! I have never, ever heard gunshots in my neighborhood before, I've heard car wrecks, sure, and fireworks, and I live across the street from an old folks' home, so ambulance sirens are a regrettable, though regular sound. But a gun discharging was brand new.
So I called the cops and stayed away from windows on that side of my apartment. Within minutes I saw the flashing lights but heard nothing. About half an hour later I heard sirens coming from two directions, so I put on my shoes and grabbed my umbrella to go see what was happening.
I stood in the rain watching as the EMTs unloaded the gurney from their ambulance and wheeled it into third building down from my own. They didn't look to be in a hurry, which is either very good, or very, very, very bad. As the thin rain continued to fall I remained on the front steps of my building, watching and waiting. I felt responsible, somehow, for what was happening inside, even though it had nothing to do with me. A few people walked by on the sidewalk, hurrying to get out of the rain, and I stayed in the same spot, peering through the drizzle and waiting and feeling guilty. And wondering where the police had gone.
Then the door opened and the EMTs wheeled their gurney back out. Empty. Nobody on it. I felt a little sick to my stomach, expecting the worst. Then the door opened again and a fireman escorted a woman and a man out of the building. The woman climbed into the ambulance and they closed the door. The fireman put a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder and took his leave, and then the man got the same reassuring contact from another guy as he went back into the building.
The fire truck and ambulance rolled down the street, lights off, turning right at the intersection, the way to the hospital. I stayed on the steps, staring at the third building down from my own, wondering what went on. What was the story? What just happened, and what was going to happen tomorrow?
But I knew I wasn't going to get any answers, and even thinking the questions felt a little inappropriate. So I went inside, praying I wouldn't hear any more gunshots.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Slow Down
Last week, out of the blue, I decided I needed to get my wrist watches running again. I have a few, but one is from a grabber machine at Dave and Buster's and one has Ren and Stimpy on the face (remember them?). The ones I wanted to get running again are my two nice ones, with worn and broken wrist bands and hands that haven't moved in years. So I took them up the street and got new batteries and new bands, and $60 later I have two working wrist watches.
But when I thought about it, I had no idea why I suddenly wanted to get my watches repaired.
It's been years since I've worn one, literally. I remember that I stopped wearing a watch because everything around me had a clock, the computer at work, my truck, my cell phone, the cable box, every receipt from every store. I didn't need a watch to tell me the time because time was all around me, all day every day.
And then it hit me, that's why I decided to wear a watch again. Everything around me tells me the time, demands that I know the time of day, all day every day. If I look at my cell phone, it tells me the time is exactly 8:48. No guesswork, no interpretation. Cell phones, computers, cable boxes, they're all synchronized with the national clock in Colorado every night, so they're spot-on accurate almost all the time. To the millisecond.
My wrist watches are analog, sweeping hands on a round dial, not blocky digital numbers on a square readout. With a wrist watch, I can decide for myself what time it is. If the big hand is near the 10, it's about ten before the hour. But it might be a little before that, it might be a little after that. If the battery is running low, the big hand might be lagging well behind the 'actual' time. And I'm cool with that.
I'm the last guy to get all freaky and New Age - I've ranted about that before - but maybe people should divorce themselves from the clock, at least for a little while. Let the digital age slip away, embrace analog again. Get back to wrist watches, to pencil and paper, to vinyl records, to a good book on real paper. Maybe talk to your family a little bit, see what they're all about, instead of watching too much TV and taking a pill to go to sleep.
But when I thought about it, I had no idea why I suddenly wanted to get my watches repaired.
It's been years since I've worn one, literally. I remember that I stopped wearing a watch because everything around me had a clock, the computer at work, my truck, my cell phone, the cable box, every receipt from every store. I didn't need a watch to tell me the time because time was all around me, all day every day.
And then it hit me, that's why I decided to wear a watch again. Everything around me tells me the time, demands that I know the time of day, all day every day. If I look at my cell phone, it tells me the time is exactly 8:48. No guesswork, no interpretation. Cell phones, computers, cable boxes, they're all synchronized with the national clock in Colorado every night, so they're spot-on accurate almost all the time. To the millisecond.
My wrist watches are analog, sweeping hands on a round dial, not blocky digital numbers on a square readout. With a wrist watch, I can decide for myself what time it is. If the big hand is near the 10, it's about ten before the hour. But it might be a little before that, it might be a little after that. If the battery is running low, the big hand might be lagging well behind the 'actual' time. And I'm cool with that.
I'm the last guy to get all freaky and New Age - I've ranted about that before - but maybe people should divorce themselves from the clock, at least for a little while. Let the digital age slip away, embrace analog again. Get back to wrist watches, to pencil and paper, to vinyl records, to a good book on real paper. Maybe talk to your family a little bit, see what they're all about, instead of watching too much TV and taking a pill to go to sleep.
Monday, October 12, 2009
I'm With The Band
I've been hitting the job boards the last few weeks, trying to find a new gig. Not that I'm all that enthusiastic about another corporate job, but I do need somewhere to sit from 9 to 5 Monday through Friday. But as I was filling out yet another online profile for a job no one is ever going to call me for, a solution to my dilemma hit me like a bolt from the blue.
I'll start a boy band.
And I don't mean I'll be the Svengali-like behind the scenes maestro, like that creepy tax evader guy from the 90's. No, I'll be out in front, singing the songs and dancing the dances. The fact that I can't sing is in no way a hindrance to my plans. I'll be just one of five out-of-work old dudes in this new boy band. But which archetype should I follow?
The Cute One - you might think he's gay, but he gets more ladies than all the others combined.
The Shy One - his shyness is less a function of his own personality and more a function of the others' overbearing 'look-at-me-now' personalities.
The Funny One - funny is such a relative term. He's funny in comparison to the other four, and in comparison to, say, bubonic plague.
The Dangerous One - he's dangerous in a non-threatening way. Mostly this is expressed with tattoos (real or temporary), pierced ears, and greasy hair.
The Smart One - he's smart because he knows what a book is, and he's pretty certain what one does, or at least what other have told him a book does.
I think I want to be the dangerous one, but I'm probably more suited to being the shy one.
Now I just need a name for the group, and the good ones are already taken: Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Air Supply...
I'll start a boy band.
And I don't mean I'll be the Svengali-like behind the scenes maestro, like that creepy tax evader guy from the 90's. No, I'll be out in front, singing the songs and dancing the dances. The fact that I can't sing is in no way a hindrance to my plans. I'll be just one of five out-of-work old dudes in this new boy band. But which archetype should I follow?
The Cute One - you might think he's gay, but he gets more ladies than all the others combined.
The Shy One - his shyness is less a function of his own personality and more a function of the others' overbearing 'look-at-me-now' personalities.
The Funny One - funny is such a relative term. He's funny in comparison to the other four, and in comparison to, say, bubonic plague.
The Dangerous One - he's dangerous in a non-threatening way. Mostly this is expressed with tattoos (real or temporary), pierced ears, and greasy hair.
The Smart One - he's smart because he knows what a book is, and he's pretty certain what one does, or at least what other have told him a book does.
I think I want to be the dangerous one, but I'm probably more suited to being the shy one.
Now I just need a name for the group, and the good ones are already taken: Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Air Supply...
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Sa Prize
Life rolls on, it's inevitable. But that doesn't mean certain developments can't smack you in the face and leave you shaking your head in wonderment.
Yesterday I saw Dr. Dre pitching Dr. Pepper on TV.
It wasn't that long ago that I asked whether a 17-year-old kid who'd never known N.W.A. should be allowed to wear an 'Eazy Duz It' t-shirt. I guess I have my answer. If the founder of Death Row records can become a pitch man for Dr. Pepper, all bets are off, anything goes, and the world can devolve into chaos.
Dre, I know you have bills to pay like everybody else, and I know you've been working steadily as a producer since N.W.A., but come on... Dr. Pepper? What happened to Straight Outta Compton? What happened to the anger and the energy of those days? Has it turned into a house in Brentwood and private school for the kids? If it has, good for you, but bad for the rest of us.
To tell you the truth, we expected this kind of thing from Ice Cube - what with 'Three Kings' and 'Barber Shop,' and 'Are We There Yet' - but you got to it first. For soda pop. For God's sake, even Billy D managed to shill Colt 45.
So long, N.W.A., it really is all over now.
Shootin' everything in sight, tonight's the night to get hyped
and fight for what's wrong, f**k what's right...
but before you do, why not have a cool, refreshing Dr. Pepper?
Yesterday I saw Dr. Dre pitching Dr. Pepper on TV.
It wasn't that long ago that I asked whether a 17-year-old kid who'd never known N.W.A. should be allowed to wear an 'Eazy Duz It' t-shirt. I guess I have my answer. If the founder of Death Row records can become a pitch man for Dr. Pepper, all bets are off, anything goes, and the world can devolve into chaos.
Dre, I know you have bills to pay like everybody else, and I know you've been working steadily as a producer since N.W.A., but come on... Dr. Pepper? What happened to Straight Outta Compton? What happened to the anger and the energy of those days? Has it turned into a house in Brentwood and private school for the kids? If it has, good for you, but bad for the rest of us.
To tell you the truth, we expected this kind of thing from Ice Cube - what with 'Three Kings' and 'Barber Shop,' and 'Are We There Yet' - but you got to it first. For soda pop. For God's sake, even Billy D managed to shill Colt 45.
So long, N.W.A., it really is all over now.
Shootin' everything in sight, tonight's the night to get hyped
and fight for what's wrong, f**k what's right...
but before you do, why not have a cool, refreshing Dr. Pepper?
Friday, October 9, 2009
My Proust Questionnaire
Vanity Fair magazine has a regular feature on its last page in which they ask celebrities or people of note to answer the same 18-30 questions. The Proust Questionnaire. Since I may never have Vanity Fair knocking on my door asking for my two cents, I decided to short-cut the process and just post my answers to a few of those questions right away.
Yeah, I read Vanity Fair. So what? You want to fight about it? Right... didn't think so...
Anyway, I tried not to be as evasive and superior as Martha Stewart - who would not really answer a single question, no surprise there - or as self-absorbed and old-Hollywood as Tony Curtis.
What is your idea of perfect happiness?
When Gotham City is finally free from the scourge of crime... hold on, that's Batman...
uh... a good steak dinner - with potatoes and asparagus and creme brulle and all that - that I didn't make for myself and that I didn't have to pay for.
What is your greatest fear?
That chimps, gorillas, and orangoutangs are plotting to take over the world. And that they'd do a better job than we have.
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Laziness.
What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Unearned arrogance.
What is your current state of mind?
Pretty good for an unemployed bum
What is your greatest regret?
That I didn't stay in Venice for Carnival when the pretty rental car clerk asked me to. Not a joke, it really happened and it's my one regret.
How would you like to die?
On my hundredth birthday, falling fifty feet from a circus trapeze, and I survive the fall but the sound I make when I hit the ground spooks the elephant and he scoops me up in his tusks and flings me into the Human Cannonball's cannon, which goes off and shoots me into the fair grounds where I land in the cotton candy machine. And then I smother on cotton candy.
Yeah, I read Vanity Fair. So what? You want to fight about it? Right... didn't think so...
Anyway, I tried not to be as evasive and superior as Martha Stewart - who would not really answer a single question, no surprise there - or as self-absorbed and old-Hollywood as Tony Curtis.
What is your idea of perfect happiness?
When Gotham City is finally free from the scourge of crime... hold on, that's Batman...
uh... a good steak dinner - with potatoes and asparagus and creme brulle and all that - that I didn't make for myself and that I didn't have to pay for.
What is your greatest fear?
That chimps, gorillas, and orangoutangs are plotting to take over the world. And that they'd do a better job than we have.
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Laziness.
What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Unearned arrogance.
What is your current state of mind?
Pretty good for an unemployed bum
What is your greatest regret?
That I didn't stay in Venice for Carnival when the pretty rental car clerk asked me to. Not a joke, it really happened and it's my one regret.
How would you like to die?
On my hundredth birthday, falling fifty feet from a circus trapeze, and I survive the fall but the sound I make when I hit the ground spooks the elephant and he scoops me up in his tusks and flings me into the Human Cannonball's cannon, which goes off and shoots me into the fair grounds where I land in the cotton candy machine. And then I smother on cotton candy.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Dream A Little Dream
You ever have a dream where you're speaking another language? Except you don't really speak another language, you just read several ancient ones really well? And so when you're having the dream and everybody is speaking another language, including you, when you try to make sense of what people are saying, within the dream you realize that none of the words are from any language you've ever heard or studied? So you know you're dreaming, and you know that everybody in the dream is speaking a non-existent language, except that there does seem to be some internal consistency and grammar to the nonsense, and people use the same word to refer to the same thing, so it's not like everybody's doing their own thing? And even while you know you're dreaming you try to make sense of the fake language that really only exists inside your own head while at the same time in the dream you continue to speak that same made-up language? And while you're speaking it in the dream, in your own head you're really wondering if this is some kind of real language you've tapped into, or if all the internally-consistent linguistics that seem to be around this made-up language come entirely from your own imagination? And if it is all from your own imagination, then you're either seriously f**ked up or a certifiable genius? Or both?
You have? Really? What a weirdo.
You have? Really? What a weirdo.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
To Boldly Go...
A few weeks back I turned off my cable service - told you I would - and now my TV is pure antenna. I have line-of-sight to the transmitters on Mt. Wilson about 5 miles away, so I get many, many stations crystal clear and perfect. And on one of those channels last night, I re-discovered the original Star Trek.
Years ago, back when I was in elementary school, I discovered Trek at after-school care. I found myself alone in the Lego room one day, wandered out to the TV room where people were gathered, took one look at the show - it was the one with the rock-eating monster protecting her babies - and I was hooked. Hooked like a perch on a worm, like a duck on a junebug, like a runway model on smack. I watched every episode from then on, forgetting Legos and even abandoning Lincoln Logs. I managed to convince my mother to take me to one of the first Star Trek conventions, where I got a windbreaker and a copy of the Starfleet Technical Manual. Yeah, I was a wee little nerd.
In the intervening years Paramount has put out movie after movie, and done series after series. But I gotta tell you, none of them match classic Trek. I haven't seen an episode with the original cast in years, and this was actually very well written, Shatner was a far better actor than he's given credit for, James Doohan was excellent, and even if I found faults with the direction and editing, the whole thing was waaaaay better than I remember it being.
So now, decades later, I'm going back to where it all started. Classic Trek. The wee little nerd inside me is jumping for joy.
Years ago, back when I was in elementary school, I discovered Trek at after-school care. I found myself alone in the Lego room one day, wandered out to the TV room where people were gathered, took one look at the show - it was the one with the rock-eating monster protecting her babies - and I was hooked. Hooked like a perch on a worm, like a duck on a junebug, like a runway model on smack. I watched every episode from then on, forgetting Legos and even abandoning Lincoln Logs. I managed to convince my mother to take me to one of the first Star Trek conventions, where I got a windbreaker and a copy of the Starfleet Technical Manual. Yeah, I was a wee little nerd.
In the intervening years Paramount has put out movie after movie, and done series after series. But I gotta tell you, none of them match classic Trek. I haven't seen an episode with the original cast in years, and this was actually very well written, Shatner was a far better actor than he's given credit for, James Doohan was excellent, and even if I found faults with the direction and editing, the whole thing was waaaaay better than I remember it being.
So now, decades later, I'm going back to where it all started. Classic Trek. The wee little nerd inside me is jumping for joy.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
A Very Special Posting
You know what I miss? 'Very Special' episodes of TV shows. Time was the TV networks actually made the effort to appear to be serving the public interest, at least a little bit. Back in the day ABC actually had the After School Special, which aired after school - duh - and always seemed to star Christy MacNichol for some reason. The stories explored topics like divorce, or substance abuse, or teen pregnancy. I was a little young to watch them, and I also didn't care. My sister recently gave me a boxed set of the shows on DVD, and they came in a miniature Trapper Keeper. Sweet!
Then we got a few 'very special' episodes of shows like Diff'rent Strokes or Blossom or Punky Brewster. And it seemed like every episode of Moesha was 'very special.'
And now... nothing.
Maybe I'm not watching the proper channels, but I haven't seen or heard of a 'very special' anything in quite a while. As far as I can tell this means either a) kids have wised up in the past twenty years, or b) the TV networks stopped caring enough even to pretend to be socially relevant.
I'm guessing it's b).
Then we got a few 'very special' episodes of shows like Diff'rent Strokes or Blossom or Punky Brewster. And it seemed like every episode of Moesha was 'very special.'
And now... nothing.
Maybe I'm not watching the proper channels, but I haven't seen or heard of a 'very special' anything in quite a while. As far as I can tell this means either a) kids have wised up in the past twenty years, or b) the TV networks stopped caring enough even to pretend to be socially relevant.
I'm guessing it's b).
Monday, October 5, 2009
Did You Ever Notice...?
I used to like stand-up comedy. Really. Back in the good ol' days, before there were entire TV channels devoted to replaying mediocre comics over and over and over again. I think I reached critical mass last week, when I stumbled across a Seinfeld episode, and before I could change the channel I was subjected to some of his 'what marketing genuis thought of that...' lines.
Ugh. Painful. So I thought about all the comedy routines I've seen over the years, and I've come up with a checklist, in case you want to try your hand behind the microphone.
How to construct your own stand-up routine and get on HBO:
1. Dress down, but not too down. T-shirt and jeans are out, but so is a suit and tie. Business casual is right out, so you're left with 'Friday night club-hopping' attire. Since no clubs will let you in, ask someone.
2. Get something to drink. Water is good, but so is a bourbon and coke if the bar is complimentary for performers.
3. Get a stool to put next to the microphone. You'll need something to play with, and something to prop yourself up if you have too many bourbons and coke.
4. Practice mugging in front of a mirror. You'll need funny faces, especially if your material is weak. And be honest, you know it's weak.
5. Work out one physical bit. You'll need to jump across the stage, or fall down or something, because movement makes good television. Remember that you're working towards a mediocre sitcom, so think visual. Dane Cook is master of the non-funny, kinetic performance art standup comedy.
6. Think about what to say to a heckler. Those meanines try to ruin your show by pointing out inconsistencies or telling you that you suck. This is especially devastating to those of you who do suck, so prepare a witty rejoinder in advance.
7. Have head shots and credits ready just in case a network exec or agent is in the audience and wants to offer you a development deal. Have contract demands worked out, and be prepared to stand firm.
8. Oh yeah. Think of something funny to say. (see next checklist)
Funny stand-up topics:
1. Those pin heads in Washington.
2. Airplane food.
3. Your traumatic childhood.
4. Your goofy relatives.
5. Commercials you hate.
6. Commercials you love.
7. What if television characters were real?
8. Some guy in line at the coffee shop.
9. Black people (if you're black).
10. White people (if you're black or white).
11. Asian people (if you're black, white, or asian).
12. Women drivers.
13. Since you haven't really done much with your life, your childhood is a rich mine of material, and it plays in with the physical stuff.
Ugh. Painful. So I thought about all the comedy routines I've seen over the years, and I've come up with a checklist, in case you want to try your hand behind the microphone.
How to construct your own stand-up routine and get on HBO:
1. Dress down, but not too down. T-shirt and jeans are out, but so is a suit and tie. Business casual is right out, so you're left with 'Friday night club-hopping' attire. Since no clubs will let you in, ask someone.
2. Get something to drink. Water is good, but so is a bourbon and coke if the bar is complimentary for performers.
3. Get a stool to put next to the microphone. You'll need something to play with, and something to prop yourself up if you have too many bourbons and coke.
4. Practice mugging in front of a mirror. You'll need funny faces, especially if your material is weak. And be honest, you know it's weak.
5. Work out one physical bit. You'll need to jump across the stage, or fall down or something, because movement makes good television. Remember that you're working towards a mediocre sitcom, so think visual. Dane Cook is master of the non-funny, kinetic performance art standup comedy.
6. Think about what to say to a heckler. Those meanines try to ruin your show by pointing out inconsistencies or telling you that you suck. This is especially devastating to those of you who do suck, so prepare a witty rejoinder in advance.
7. Have head shots and credits ready just in case a network exec or agent is in the audience and wants to offer you a development deal. Have contract demands worked out, and be prepared to stand firm.
8. Oh yeah. Think of something funny to say. (see next checklist)
Funny stand-up topics:
1. Those pin heads in Washington.
2. Airplane food.
3. Your traumatic childhood.
4. Your goofy relatives.
5. Commercials you hate.
6. Commercials you love.
7. What if television characters were real?
8. Some guy in line at the coffee shop.
9. Black people (if you're black).
10. White people (if you're black or white).
11. Asian people (if you're black, white, or asian).
12. Women drivers.
13. Since you haven't really done much with your life, your childhood is a rich mine of material, and it plays in with the physical stuff.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Maybe It's Me?
I think I'm giving off an odd vibe. Odder than normal, I mean. Usually I'm a magnet for strange people, crazy people, people with an agenda. I'm used to that, it's been that way for me for as long as I can remember. But I was just walking back from the gym now, and I had something odder than usual happen.
A guy tried to sell me groceries from the back of his car.
Seriously. On Colorado Blvd, a major thoroughfare in Pasadena. I was minding my own business, just going home, and I saw this guy messing around in the back of his little beater car. He had a collection of grocery bags - plastic not paper - and he just seemed to be rearranging them. As I approached he turned around, eased forward like Lefty the Salesman from Sesame Street, and asked me if I needed any apples or milk. I declined and moved on. It was like a very bad film noir, especially since it was 9 AM and I was wearing shorts and a sweaty shirt.
But I got to thinking, setting aside his rank amateurism - how did he know I wasn't a cop? - this guy has to be desperate, things for him have to have gotten very, very serious. Bad enough that it became a good idea to sell stolen groceries. (And I have no doubt that they were, in fact, stolen.) Economic recovery? Maybe it's not as close as the media wants us to believe.
And what is it about me that I look like the kind of guy who would buy a gallon of milk out of the back of a Yugo?
A guy tried to sell me groceries from the back of his car.
Seriously. On Colorado Blvd, a major thoroughfare in Pasadena. I was minding my own business, just going home, and I saw this guy messing around in the back of his little beater car. He had a collection of grocery bags - plastic not paper - and he just seemed to be rearranging them. As I approached he turned around, eased forward like Lefty the Salesman from Sesame Street, and asked me if I needed any apples or milk. I declined and moved on. It was like a very bad film noir, especially since it was 9 AM and I was wearing shorts and a sweaty shirt.
But I got to thinking, setting aside his rank amateurism - how did he know I wasn't a cop? - this guy has to be desperate, things for him have to have gotten very, very serious. Bad enough that it became a good idea to sell stolen groceries. (And I have no doubt that they were, in fact, stolen.) Economic recovery? Maybe it's not as close as the media wants us to believe.
And what is it about me that I look like the kind of guy who would buy a gallon of milk out of the back of a Yugo?
Friday, October 2, 2009
Tales From My Past - Crazy Lake Michigan
Before I relate this story, I swear it is completely, 100% true. I'll swear to God, Buddha, SpongeBob, whoever you want. I have a witness who was there for the whole thing.
A few years back my friend Sean and I were in Milwuakee, WI on a road trip. We'd flown into Chicago and accidentally happened upon Uno, the real one, where you order your pizza when you put your name on the waiting list. Say what you will about a New York pie, authentic Chicago pizza is awesome. After stuffing ourselves on three-inch-thick slices, we drove to Milwaukee, and on the way had to stop at the Mars Cheese Castle in Kenosha. It's a cool place, but it smells like fondue. And the building is constructed with cinderblock, not cheese, so it's kind of false advertising. If they say 'cheese castle' I expect the whole thing to be made of cheddar.
Anyway, we finished our business in Milwuakee and we had over half a day to kill before we had to be back at O'Hare in Chicago, so we went to Lake Michigan and rented bicycles. There's a bike path that winds around there, and even in August the wind off the lake was freezing cold. We got tired so we stopped at one of the park benches positioned every fifty yards or so.
We saw an old couple walking together - it's not just a bike path - and they stopped at the bench next to us and spoke to the people there. Those people looked kind of confused and amused, but I thought nothing of it. The couple then ambled over to me and Sean.
The man stood back, saying nothing, but the lady came over to us. She wore a pink and green pastel shirt, beige shorts, and she held her hands held up to her shoulders, palms down. She smiled. We smiled back. And then she said these exact words as she patted her hands on her shoulders.
"Goody goody, goody goody, goody goody goo."
Then she and her husband (I'm assuming) walked off. No explanation, they just went to the people sitting on the next bench over, and from the expression on those people's faces, the lady did exactly the same thing to them.
.....
Yeah. Freaky. And I swear it actually happened, Sean was right there for it, and to this day we are both completely at a loss to explain what the hell that was. Was she just bonkers and the guy was humoring her? Was she doing it on a dare? At her age? Was she marking us for death by ninjas at some time later in life? Who knows?
That whole trip was full of odd things. Like the homeless guy Sean wouldn't let me have a conversation with, or the Miller Beer mad scientist's lair, or the Brewers game, or the dangerous convenience store in the bad part of town. All stories for another time.
A few years back my friend Sean and I were in Milwuakee, WI on a road trip. We'd flown into Chicago and accidentally happened upon Uno, the real one, where you order your pizza when you put your name on the waiting list. Say what you will about a New York pie, authentic Chicago pizza is awesome. After stuffing ourselves on three-inch-thick slices, we drove to Milwaukee, and on the way had to stop at the Mars Cheese Castle in Kenosha. It's a cool place, but it smells like fondue. And the building is constructed with cinderblock, not cheese, so it's kind of false advertising. If they say 'cheese castle' I expect the whole thing to be made of cheddar.
Anyway, we finished our business in Milwuakee and we had over half a day to kill before we had to be back at O'Hare in Chicago, so we went to Lake Michigan and rented bicycles. There's a bike path that winds around there, and even in August the wind off the lake was freezing cold. We got tired so we stopped at one of the park benches positioned every fifty yards or so.
We saw an old couple walking together - it's not just a bike path - and they stopped at the bench next to us and spoke to the people there. Those people looked kind of confused and amused, but I thought nothing of it. The couple then ambled over to me and Sean.
The man stood back, saying nothing, but the lady came over to us. She wore a pink and green pastel shirt, beige shorts, and she held her hands held up to her shoulders, palms down. She smiled. We smiled back. And then she said these exact words as she patted her hands on her shoulders.
"Goody goody, goody goody, goody goody goo."
Then she and her husband (I'm assuming) walked off. No explanation, they just went to the people sitting on the next bench over, and from the expression on those people's faces, the lady did exactly the same thing to them.
.....
Yeah. Freaky. And I swear it actually happened, Sean was right there for it, and to this day we are both completely at a loss to explain what the hell that was. Was she just bonkers and the guy was humoring her? Was she doing it on a dare? At her age? Was she marking us for death by ninjas at some time later in life? Who knows?
That whole trip was full of odd things. Like the homeless guy Sean wouldn't let me have a conversation with, or the Miller Beer mad scientist's lair, or the Brewers game, or the dangerous convenience store in the bad part of town. All stories for another time.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Where's My Giant Pineapple?
When I moved out to Pasadena a few years ago, I expected several things. Warmer winters, for one, which I got. A few celebrity sightings, which I got. An earthquake or two, which I got. And I expected to see lots of buildings in the shape of food. This one I did not get, and I'm still kind of miffed.
When you think about Los Angeles you think about buildings shaped like food. You also think about rampant police corruption, plastic surgery, and Ponch from CHiPs, but mostly you think of gargantuan food-shaped buildings. At least I did. But Los Angeles has lost its only cultural roots, the food-shaped buildings aren't here any more. They're all gone, the Brown Derby, Tail O' The Pup, that one shaped like a hamburger. The only one left is Randy's Donuts, and that's waaaay down by LAX, not a drive I'm willing to make, even for doughnuts.
Without a big hat, or a huge milkshake, or a colossal apple every few blocks or so, Los Angeles lounges in the California sun like what it is, mile after mile of urban blight. Just like the allure of 'Hollywood' disguises the terrible truth of the entertainment business, LA needs the architectural distraction provided by a hot-dog-shaped building to keep people from noticing how desperately ugly the rest of the city actually is.
And even though I'm picking on LA, most cities in the US are ugly too. Especially with the highway-adjacent sameness you find everywhere, Wal-Mart and Target and TGIFridays with Borders and Home Depot and vacant shells of Circuit City. Our highways are sad, homely conduits leading us to buy more things at an outlet mall just like the one thirty miles away. It's depressing. But we can fix it.
We should all tell President Obama that even though he's working hard on other stuff, he needs to put forward the Food-Shaped Building Act of 2009. We need more buildings shaped like something else, and it's time we started demanding them.
When you think about Los Angeles you think about buildings shaped like food. You also think about rampant police corruption, plastic surgery, and Ponch from CHiPs, but mostly you think of gargantuan food-shaped buildings. At least I did. But Los Angeles has lost its only cultural roots, the food-shaped buildings aren't here any more. They're all gone, the Brown Derby, Tail O' The Pup, that one shaped like a hamburger. The only one left is Randy's Donuts, and that's waaaay down by LAX, not a drive I'm willing to make, even for doughnuts.
Without a big hat, or a huge milkshake, or a colossal apple every few blocks or so, Los Angeles lounges in the California sun like what it is, mile after mile of urban blight. Just like the allure of 'Hollywood' disguises the terrible truth of the entertainment business, LA needs the architectural distraction provided by a hot-dog-shaped building to keep people from noticing how desperately ugly the rest of the city actually is.
And even though I'm picking on LA, most cities in the US are ugly too. Especially with the highway-adjacent sameness you find everywhere, Wal-Mart and Target and TGIFridays with Borders and Home Depot and vacant shells of Circuit City. Our highways are sad, homely conduits leading us to buy more things at an outlet mall just like the one thirty miles away. It's depressing. But we can fix it.
We should all tell President Obama that even though he's working hard on other stuff, he needs to put forward the Food-Shaped Building Act of 2009. We need more buildings shaped like something else, and it's time we started demanding them.
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