It's the last day of 2010, and I was going to resolve not to make New Year's Resolutions, but that would have resulted in a space-time continuum paradox that might have created an alternate timeline where William Shatner was never Captain Kirk.* So I didn't do that.
But I did come up with some resolutions that might work for me.
Learn to speak dolphin. This might be more difficult that it might at first seem, seeing as how there aren't a lot of dolphins off the LA coast, and I live in Pasadena anyway, about 25 miles inland. It might be better to learn parrot.
Take the stairs less. The elevator in my building should be fixed by the time I get back. Let's hope.
Either go to an all-soda diet or eliminate soda entirely. My long-time friends know that I've been 'giving up soda' for years now, just like one of my friends has been quitting smoking every time he lights up. So I'm either gonna quit the junk entirely or abandon the pretense of drinking anything else. No middle ground.
Get a monkey butler. Not a chimp that will tear my face off when he gets old, a monkey. With a prehensile tail. And without any tendencies towards evil. It wouldn't hurt if he could mix a good milkshake.
Earn my flying carpet license. It would be much easier to get around the city on a flying carpet rather than in a car.
Go to a psychic. I've always wanted to do this but just can't part with the cash for such an obvious charade. I need to look on it as an entertainment expense.
Climb a tree. Adults don't do enough of that.
Solve a Rubik's cube. Back in high school a friend of mine could do it in less than a minute, and my younger niece can do it in less than two minutes.
Go to Ireland and capture a leprechaun. I used to just want to visit the land of my forefathers, but how hard is it to get to Ireland these days? With their depressed economy they're practically paying you to come over. But to capture a leprechaun... there's the challenge.
Get a job as one of those flippy-sign guys. You know, the ones trying to get you to rent an apartment or come into the tax preparer's office? There's a training class for them in Studio City, and I want to learn.
* if you've seen the latest Star Trek movie you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, just go with the flow.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Peanut Butter Baron
I have friends in Australia. They live there, I mean, not just visiting. Family friends who emigrated years ago and are now citizens. They love their adopted country and with good reason, I've been to Australia and it's a pretty cool place. But there's one thing...
They can't get peanut butter candy there. The kids who were born here in America miss the bad-for-you-but-oh-so-good empty calories that is a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, for example. I've sent them care packages before, I need to send another one.
My sister hosted a German exchange student last year, Lara, who could eat her weight in peanut butter if you let her. In an interesting coincidence, she can't get peanut butter in Germany, or Reese's Peanut Butter cups either. So my sister has sent her the big-ass Costco jars of PB to brighten the dreary Teutonic winter.
But the fact that people in Australia and Germany can't get simple junk food we take for granted here seems like it might be a business opportunity. There has to be a bigger market than one former exchange student in Germany and four adults in Australia, there's got to be all kinds of expats and visitors and what have you all across this globe just drooling for the chance to get their chocolate into some peanut butter that they can't find in their own country.
And I could be the guy to give it to them. The Tony Montana* of peanut butter, if you will. Or the Nino Brown**, if you prefer. I could be the Godfather of peanut butter product imports, spreading out my creamy favors like Jif on white bread. I would be - literally - the candy man.
I'd build my empire like Andrew Carnegie, one crushed soul at a time, until I amassed wealth and power far outstripping that of small third-world nations. And as I gained more and more money and influence I'd realize how terribly shallow and unfulfilling my ambitions had been, and I would end up alone and friendless in an echoing mansion built with the profits from my peanut butter empire. My last words would be 'green machine' mumbled through lips almost plastered shut with peanut butter.
Yeah... I got it all planned out. First you get the peanut butter, then you get the power, then you get the women...
* from Scarface, the one with Al Pacino not the one with Paul Muni
** from New Jack City, with Wesley Snipes, who is in prison for tax evasion now
They can't get peanut butter candy there. The kids who were born here in America miss the bad-for-you-but-oh-so-good empty calories that is a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, for example. I've sent them care packages before, I need to send another one.
My sister hosted a German exchange student last year, Lara, who could eat her weight in peanut butter if you let her. In an interesting coincidence, she can't get peanut butter in Germany, or Reese's Peanut Butter cups either. So my sister has sent her the big-ass Costco jars of PB to brighten the dreary Teutonic winter.
But the fact that people in Australia and Germany can't get simple junk food we take for granted here seems like it might be a business opportunity. There has to be a bigger market than one former exchange student in Germany and four adults in Australia, there's got to be all kinds of expats and visitors and what have you all across this globe just drooling for the chance to get their chocolate into some peanut butter that they can't find in their own country.
And I could be the guy to give it to them. The Tony Montana* of peanut butter, if you will. Or the Nino Brown**, if you prefer. I could be the Godfather of peanut butter product imports, spreading out my creamy favors like Jif on white bread. I would be - literally - the candy man.
I'd build my empire like Andrew Carnegie, one crushed soul at a time, until I amassed wealth and power far outstripping that of small third-world nations. And as I gained more and more money and influence I'd realize how terribly shallow and unfulfilling my ambitions had been, and I would end up alone and friendless in an echoing mansion built with the profits from my peanut butter empire. My last words would be 'green machine' mumbled through lips almost plastered shut with peanut butter.
Yeah... I got it all planned out. First you get the peanut butter, then you get the power, then you get the women...
* from Scarface, the one with Al Pacino not the one with Paul Muni
** from New Jack City, with Wesley Snipes, who is in prison for tax evasion now
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
The Stooges Gene
I went to Ikea with my sister and brother-in-law yesterday. That is apropos of nothing, except the fact that Ikea is in Round Rock, which is over an hour away. We took my nephew as well, who is a solid two-and-a-half years old and loving every moment of it. So in addition to the time we spent in Ikea, I had several hours of driving time to observe him and his reactions to things.
I know I'm not treading new ground here, but little boys are very different from little girls.
My nephew has The Stooges Gene, which is that genetic quirk in boys that lets them find the hilarity in noisy bodily functions. Boogers were a favorite while we were in Ikea, but on the trip back he encountered the adult male's ability to burp on command. Since he's two years old he wanted me and my brother-in-law to burp over and over and over again, which we did, and he squealed with delight each and every time.
My sister endured silently, then called one of her friends to chat while we echoed the truck cab with belches.
I have two nieces as well, both of them substantially older than my nephew, and both of them gifted with wickedly funny senses of humor. Neither of them, however, would have found fifteen minutes of burping nearly as funny as my nephew did, not even when they were that little. I can tell you that not once did either of them laugh uncontrollably at a burp, then demand that I burp over and over and over again. I would have if they wanted me to, but it just never came up. It's a guy thing, chicks just don't understand.
Burps are funny. Intrinsically funny, axiomatically funny. If a dying man interrupted his last words for a burp, guys would laugh, that's just the way it is. Farts are funny too, even if you're the victim of a particularly rank one. People getting slapped in the face is funny, and getting knocked in the head with a big board is funny, and getting poked in the eyes is funny, or jabbed in the stomach or pinched in the nipples by lobster claws or having a sledge hammer dropped on your foot... the list goes on and on and on, anything The Three Stooges did is funny. Always. And getting hit in the nuts is always funny too, as long as it happens to someone else.
The Stooges Gene. It's only a matter of time before modern science isolates it within the human genome. It's probably in the same region as the Playing With Fireworks gene and the Hey Watch This gene. Once the Stooges gene is isolated we can get you ladies gene therapy so you can share in the glory that is two grown men burping on command for a two-and-a-half year old.
I know I'm not treading new ground here, but little boys are very different from little girls.
My nephew has The Stooges Gene, which is that genetic quirk in boys that lets them find the hilarity in noisy bodily functions. Boogers were a favorite while we were in Ikea, but on the trip back he encountered the adult male's ability to burp on command. Since he's two years old he wanted me and my brother-in-law to burp over and over and over again, which we did, and he squealed with delight each and every time.
My sister endured silently, then called one of her friends to chat while we echoed the truck cab with belches.
I have two nieces as well, both of them substantially older than my nephew, and both of them gifted with wickedly funny senses of humor. Neither of them, however, would have found fifteen minutes of burping nearly as funny as my nephew did, not even when they were that little. I can tell you that not once did either of them laugh uncontrollably at a burp, then demand that I burp over and over and over again. I would have if they wanted me to, but it just never came up. It's a guy thing, chicks just don't understand.
Burps are funny. Intrinsically funny, axiomatically funny. If a dying man interrupted his last words for a burp, guys would laugh, that's just the way it is. Farts are funny too, even if you're the victim of a particularly rank one. People getting slapped in the face is funny, and getting knocked in the head with a big board is funny, and getting poked in the eyes is funny, or jabbed in the stomach or pinched in the nipples by lobster claws or having a sledge hammer dropped on your foot... the list goes on and on and on, anything The Three Stooges did is funny. Always. And getting hit in the nuts is always funny too, as long as it happens to someone else.
The Stooges Gene. It's only a matter of time before modern science isolates it within the human genome. It's probably in the same region as the Playing With Fireworks gene and the Hey Watch This gene. Once the Stooges gene is isolated we can get you ladies gene therapy so you can share in the glory that is two grown men burping on command for a two-and-a-half year old.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Boots On The Ground
I took a walk through my old neighborhood today. This is the place where grew up, from elementary school through post-college, streets that have years worth of my tennis shoe rubber on them, asphalt soaked in the blood of my knees and elbows, streets I don't even know the names of yet that I can navigate in my sleep. I know the area, is what I'm saying.
But walking it, the way I used to, following the same route I trudged to high school, traversing the same alleys and back ways that took me to my first adult job as a waiter, things started coming back to me. Vignettes I hadn't thought of in years came back fresh as the day they happened, moments in time that helped form who I am today came bubbling up, demanding admission to my conscious mind.
There was the house where Andrew had been standing outside, waiting for a kid like me to ride by on his bike. 'Mummy, I found a new playmate,' he said. Seriously, he said it like that. I was on my three-speed with the banana seat and the sissy bar, going to Winn's to see if they had any swim fins that would fit me. Andrew and his mother had just moved to town.
Catching toads in the drainage ditch down the street a ways from Andrew's house (but not with that little weirdo), where the cement ended and the tiny stream took over. It's all paved now, but I know where the mesquite trees used to be, their branches leaning over to sweep the water that ran from a little spring.
Walking across that same drainage ditch years later in high school with my friend Steve, only to have some kid run up and slug him. A neighbor dispute that spilled over to the kids. Which explained why Steve suddenly wanted to walk home with me the week before.
My daily, personal Long March from high school, slogging up the hill headed for home, heavy book bag over one shoulder because using both straps was for dorks, watching as people with cars passed me by. I always held out hope that someone I knew would stop and offer me a ride but that never happened. Which is why, when I finally got a car, I would stop and give rides to people I knew, because I remembered how much it sucked to be on foot hoping for help that never came.
That place I assumed had always been a Home Depot? Nope, they built that after my time. The building I was thinking of was a toy store, a great-big stand alone toy store out in the middle of nowhere. I had forgotten that it was a toy store first, for years actually, before it became the office supply store it is now. But walking towards it through an alley as I would have back in middle school it all came roaring back to me. That's the place where I would buy Micronauts and my sister got whatever lame girl toys she was interested in. Strip malls and parking lots - and a Home Depot - have since grown up around it, and what was once a trail blazing iconoclast of a building is now just another contributor to suburban sprawl.
It's amazing what comes back to you when you put yourself in the same place under the same conditions as you were back then. I've driven those same roads in a car, even this past week, and I didn't remember that stuff. But being outside, in the cold with my nose running a little, with my legs aching a little, with my fingers tingling a little, brought it all back, just like it happened yesterday. Kind of spooky, actually. But it does make me want to go exploring a little more, so I can remember what I've forgotten.
But walking it, the way I used to, following the same route I trudged to high school, traversing the same alleys and back ways that took me to my first adult job as a waiter, things started coming back to me. Vignettes I hadn't thought of in years came back fresh as the day they happened, moments in time that helped form who I am today came bubbling up, demanding admission to my conscious mind.
There was the house where Andrew had been standing outside, waiting for a kid like me to ride by on his bike. 'Mummy, I found a new playmate,' he said. Seriously, he said it like that. I was on my three-speed with the banana seat and the sissy bar, going to Winn's to see if they had any swim fins that would fit me. Andrew and his mother had just moved to town.
Catching toads in the drainage ditch down the street a ways from Andrew's house (but not with that little weirdo), where the cement ended and the tiny stream took over. It's all paved now, but I know where the mesquite trees used to be, their branches leaning over to sweep the water that ran from a little spring.
Walking across that same drainage ditch years later in high school with my friend Steve, only to have some kid run up and slug him. A neighbor dispute that spilled over to the kids. Which explained why Steve suddenly wanted to walk home with me the week before.
My daily, personal Long March from high school, slogging up the hill headed for home, heavy book bag over one shoulder because using both straps was for dorks, watching as people with cars passed me by. I always held out hope that someone I knew would stop and offer me a ride but that never happened. Which is why, when I finally got a car, I would stop and give rides to people I knew, because I remembered how much it sucked to be on foot hoping for help that never came.
That place I assumed had always been a Home Depot? Nope, they built that after my time. The building I was thinking of was a toy store, a great-big stand alone toy store out in the middle of nowhere. I had forgotten that it was a toy store first, for years actually, before it became the office supply store it is now. But walking towards it through an alley as I would have back in middle school it all came roaring back to me. That's the place where I would buy Micronauts and my sister got whatever lame girl toys she was interested in. Strip malls and parking lots - and a Home Depot - have since grown up around it, and what was once a trail blazing iconoclast of a building is now just another contributor to suburban sprawl.
It's amazing what comes back to you when you put yourself in the same place under the same conditions as you were back then. I've driven those same roads in a car, even this past week, and I didn't remember that stuff. But being outside, in the cold with my nose running a little, with my legs aching a little, with my fingers tingling a little, brought it all back, just like it happened yesterday. Kind of spooky, actually. But it does make me want to go exploring a little more, so I can remember what I've forgotten.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Conversation With My Mother's Cat
It's said that on Christmas Eve, at midnight, animals can talk. So last night I waited up so I could have it out with Smokey, my mother's horrible cat. About 11:55 PM he tried to escape through his cat door, but I followed him outside, even though it was cold and windy. We sat on the front porch and had a little talk. What follows is a transcript of that conversation.
Me: All right, it's midnight on Christmas Eve. I know you can understand me, and now I can understand you back. Don't pretend you can't, I know how it works.
Smokey: Yeah? So? I got nothing to say.
I got plenty. Let's start with why you're such a disagreeable little bastard.
What do you mean?
We're not going to get anywhere if you shut down like that.
We're also not going to get anywhere if you keep insulting me.
Fine. Why do you present such an angry front all the time?
Well, to tell you the truth, I'd really rather just sit around all day licking my balls.
But you don't have any... Oh...
Yeah. Oh.
It's really a common thing, what all responsible pet owners do.
And that's supposed to make everything okay?
Well, I mean, I never really...
No, your kind never does. I can't tell you how many times a day I'm grooming myself, getting the feet and the ears and the tail, then I decide to go downtown, polish up the twins, only to find they're gone.
It's been years...
How about I get a little scissor happy below your belt? You think you wouldn't miss your two good buddies?
Let's not get hasty here...
So you think maybe something like that might make you angry too?
I suppose it would. But are you saying that's the only reason you get in fights with other animals? Why you attack ankles and feet? Why you hiss and growl and tear around the house? You're telling me you've been such a little savage all this time because my parents had you fixed?
That's about the size of it.
Huh. Kind of a long time to hold a grudge.
Can you think of a better reason?
I suppose not.
You feel better now that we've had a talk, you freakin' hippy? Glad to have something to tell your therapist?
Hey, I only live in California, I was born and raised here.
Whatever you say, Moondoggy.
You know, when you can talk you're even more of a jerk.
I gotta be me. Deal with it. Or don't, makes no difference.
Well... it is Christmas Eve. You want some cat treats?
I could eat. The chicken kind, I hate the liver ones. But this doesn't make us friends.
Absolutely not. And I'm still keeping the bedroom door closed so you can't get in.
Wouldn't have it any other way.
Me: All right, it's midnight on Christmas Eve. I know you can understand me, and now I can understand you back. Don't pretend you can't, I know how it works.
Smokey: Yeah? So? I got nothing to say.
I got plenty. Let's start with why you're such a disagreeable little bastard.
What do you mean?
We're not going to get anywhere if you shut down like that.
We're also not going to get anywhere if you keep insulting me.
Fine. Why do you present such an angry front all the time?
Well, to tell you the truth, I'd really rather just sit around all day licking my balls.
But you don't have any... Oh...
Yeah. Oh.
It's really a common thing, what all responsible pet owners do.
And that's supposed to make everything okay?
Well, I mean, I never really...
No, your kind never does. I can't tell you how many times a day I'm grooming myself, getting the feet and the ears and the tail, then I decide to go downtown, polish up the twins, only to find they're gone.
It's been years...
How about I get a little scissor happy below your belt? You think you wouldn't miss your two good buddies?
Let's not get hasty here...
So you think maybe something like that might make you angry too?
I suppose it would. But are you saying that's the only reason you get in fights with other animals? Why you attack ankles and feet? Why you hiss and growl and tear around the house? You're telling me you've been such a little savage all this time because my parents had you fixed?
That's about the size of it.
Huh. Kind of a long time to hold a grudge.
Can you think of a better reason?
I suppose not.
You feel better now that we've had a talk, you freakin' hippy? Glad to have something to tell your therapist?
Hey, I only live in California, I was born and raised here.
Whatever you say, Moondoggy.
You know, when you can talk you're even more of a jerk.
I gotta be me. Deal with it. Or don't, makes no difference.
Well... it is Christmas Eve. You want some cat treats?
I could eat. The chicken kind, I hate the liver ones. But this doesn't make us friends.
Absolutely not. And I'm still keeping the bedroom door closed so you can't get in.
Wouldn't have it any other way.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Smith And Wesson Christmas
You know you're back in Texas when you hug your best friend and your hand falls on the pistol he has holstered under his jacket.
Perfectly legal, I assure you, he has a permit to carry a concealed weapon and is fully trained in the safe and judicious use of firearms.
But still...
I was born and raised here, and I'm not sure I like the concealed weapons permits. Seems a little too frontier for me. If you're going to ward off attacks by Indians - whom you previously gifted with smallpox blankets - then I can understand packing heat. Or if you're a cattle man trying to make it in sheep herder country. Or if you have a water rights dispute with the local cotton farmer and the sheriff is on the far side of the county sorting out a neighbor's feud. But if you're an IT professional and the closest you come to a Native American is the reservation casino, then a loaded firearm on your belt is probably not your best move.
Yeah, I know, it's un-Texan of me, but just like nothing good ever happens after midnight, nothing good ever comes of carrying a pistol, legally or otherwise. When you carry a loaded weapon you start wanting to solve all your problems with a bullet instead of rational thinking. And if you rationalize it by saying you're going into a dangerous area, all the more reason for either a) not going or b) not provoking anyone by flashing a piece.
I hope my concerns are unfounded, but I know that one day I'm going to get a phone call and I'm going to learn that someone's been shot. Either my friend or someone he encountered. And I'm not looking forward to that day.
Perfectly legal, I assure you, he has a permit to carry a concealed weapon and is fully trained in the safe and judicious use of firearms.
But still...
I was born and raised here, and I'm not sure I like the concealed weapons permits. Seems a little too frontier for me. If you're going to ward off attacks by Indians - whom you previously gifted with smallpox blankets - then I can understand packing heat. Or if you're a cattle man trying to make it in sheep herder country. Or if you have a water rights dispute with the local cotton farmer and the sheriff is on the far side of the county sorting out a neighbor's feud. But if you're an IT professional and the closest you come to a Native American is the reservation casino, then a loaded firearm on your belt is probably not your best move.
Yeah, I know, it's un-Texan of me, but just like nothing good ever happens after midnight, nothing good ever comes of carrying a pistol, legally or otherwise. When you carry a loaded weapon you start wanting to solve all your problems with a bullet instead of rational thinking. And if you rationalize it by saying you're going into a dangerous area, all the more reason for either a) not going or b) not provoking anyone by flashing a piece.
I hope my concerns are unfounded, but I know that one day I'm going to get a phone call and I'm going to learn that someone's been shot. Either my friend or someone he encountered. And I'm not looking forward to that day.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
When You Win You Lose
Did you know San Antonio was ranked 3rd fattest city by the CDC this year? I didn't either until I looked it up just now, but I should have been able to guess it by the Christmas shopping I've been doing the past few days.
Don't get me wrong, I love my home town. But damn... we got some big fat suckers here. Usually in SoCal I see a big fat sucker or two once a day. And I mean someone 300+ pounds, sometimes waddling on foot sometimes on their straining-to-roll Rascal. But here in SA if you go out anywhere - and I mean ANYWHERE - you're going to see several morbidly obese people, sometimes whole families, more jiggling flesh than can safely board an elevator. I started counting but after I got to ten (or thirty chins) in about half an hour I got so discouraged I stopped.
This ain't right. This is not a title to aspire to, nor is it something to be proud of. We need to slim down, San Antonio. Not after the holidays, not when you get around to it, right now.
I'm not the world's most svelte person, but I'm positively emaciated compared to some of these Shamus I've seen recently. And, yes, I'm being unkind, because they're grotesquely fat and telling people it's a 'lifestyle choice' to have a body fat percentage of 50% to 60% is nothing short of terminal. Put the fork down, you ridiculous, sweating, stretch-pants-wearing sons of bitches.
And, lest anyone accuse me of elitism, let me clue you in on something. My father weighed well over 300 pounds when he had a heart attack and died. He was not eight feet tall. His trigylicerides were over 400, when a normal number is around 100. Or less. He was an undiagnosed diabetic who never addressed his condition. If he had even tried to take care of himself he'd probably be alive right now, and given the longevity of his mother and her side of the family he probably had another 15 years in him. But he was one of the SA obese. And he died because of it. And all you big fat suckers are going to die because of it too. Yeah, I'm more than a little pissed, and if you take exception to that, challenge me to a foot race. If you can run more than three steps and can catch me, you can sit on me.
So shape the fuck up, San Antonio. If you're not going to do it for yourself, do it because I'm being a total unsympathetic asshole about it and you want to throw it in my face. Or do it for the families your untimely death is going to leave behind. Or do it because you saw Jesus in the tortilla that's slowly clogging your arteries. But do it.
Don't get me wrong, I love my home town. But damn... we got some big fat suckers here. Usually in SoCal I see a big fat sucker or two once a day. And I mean someone 300+ pounds, sometimes waddling on foot sometimes on their straining-to-roll Rascal. But here in SA if you go out anywhere - and I mean ANYWHERE - you're going to see several morbidly obese people, sometimes whole families, more jiggling flesh than can safely board an elevator. I started counting but after I got to ten (or thirty chins) in about half an hour I got so discouraged I stopped.
This ain't right. This is not a title to aspire to, nor is it something to be proud of. We need to slim down, San Antonio. Not after the holidays, not when you get around to it, right now.
I'm not the world's most svelte person, but I'm positively emaciated compared to some of these Shamus I've seen recently. And, yes, I'm being unkind, because they're grotesquely fat and telling people it's a 'lifestyle choice' to have a body fat percentage of 50% to 60% is nothing short of terminal. Put the fork down, you ridiculous, sweating, stretch-pants-wearing sons of bitches.
And, lest anyone accuse me of elitism, let me clue you in on something. My father weighed well over 300 pounds when he had a heart attack and died. He was not eight feet tall. His trigylicerides were over 400, when a normal number is around 100. Or less. He was an undiagnosed diabetic who never addressed his condition. If he had even tried to take care of himself he'd probably be alive right now, and given the longevity of his mother and her side of the family he probably had another 15 years in him. But he was one of the SA obese. And he died because of it. And all you big fat suckers are going to die because of it too. Yeah, I'm more than a little pissed, and if you take exception to that, challenge me to a foot race. If you can run more than three steps and can catch me, you can sit on me.
So shape the fuck up, San Antonio. If you're not going to do it for yourself, do it because I'm being a total unsympathetic asshole about it and you want to throw it in my face. Or do it for the families your untimely death is going to leave behind. Or do it because you saw Jesus in the tortilla that's slowly clogging your arteries. But do it.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Light-Up
I grew up on the border between suburbia and the country. My grandparents built in a new subdivision on the extreme Northern edge of San Antonio in the early 60's, in what had been ranchland and cotton fields. But it was close to Randolph AFB, which is where my grandparents would get their care and services during their twilight years. And by that I mean their dotage, not when they turned into vampires, which they did not do. So far as I know.
In order to draw prospective residents so far out of town, the city council - WWII veterans all - decided to host a Christmas light-up. The idea was to festoon the town in bright lights and maybe the people who came out would decide to buy a half acre and become residents. It worked, the town grew. Later on my parents bought a house a block away from my grandparents. And by the time I was in my early 20's San Antonio had grown up to touch Windcrest, our small incorporated city, and the cow pastures and cotton fields gave way to more tract homes and strip malls. So maybe the founders' idea worked just a bit too well.
During my childhood - what I call the 'indentured servant years' - I created Christmas for my parents and grandparents, I put out plywood elves and big plastic Santas, I attached lights to bushes and trees, I hung from the eaves to string lights from the house and set timers to make it all come together seamlessly. Mostly seamlessly. The neighbors did the same and for as long as can remember back the entire community participated, even goig so far as to make the water tower look like a giant candle. The effort was well worth it, as Windcrest became well-known for its Christmas lights. As I became old enough to drive the sheer number of people became a nuisance, as it took three times as long to get around than it did any other time of year because of the gawkers.
But the years wore on. The original residents, those retirees who had built the town, died off. The light-up tradition died with them. I watched as slowly the Windcrest Christmas tradition became block after block of dark houses.
This year it's different. There are cars stretching down the block, there are traffic jams and it's difficult for emergency vehicles to get by. Just like old times. It could be that people my age, those who remember the old times, have bought houses here, it could be the City Council is trying harder to make it a happening, it could be that hard times have made people appreciate once again the simple pleasures of driving around to look at Christmas decorations. The reason doesn't matter to me. The people are back, lots of them, and it's good to have my suburban streets clogged with gawkers once again.
Merry Christmas, families in cars and trucks, enjoy the lights and come back next year. There are no more open lots for you to pick to build your 1960's suburban dream home, but we like you here anyway. Take the tradition back with you wherever you're from and pass it on. Maybe we can take this sucker global.
In order to draw prospective residents so far out of town, the city council - WWII veterans all - decided to host a Christmas light-up. The idea was to festoon the town in bright lights and maybe the people who came out would decide to buy a half acre and become residents. It worked, the town grew. Later on my parents bought a house a block away from my grandparents. And by the time I was in my early 20's San Antonio had grown up to touch Windcrest, our small incorporated city, and the cow pastures and cotton fields gave way to more tract homes and strip malls. So maybe the founders' idea worked just a bit too well.
During my childhood - what I call the 'indentured servant years' - I created Christmas for my parents and grandparents, I put out plywood elves and big plastic Santas, I attached lights to bushes and trees, I hung from the eaves to string lights from the house and set timers to make it all come together seamlessly. Mostly seamlessly. The neighbors did the same and for as long as can remember back the entire community participated, even goig so far as to make the water tower look like a giant candle. The effort was well worth it, as Windcrest became well-known for its Christmas lights. As I became old enough to drive the sheer number of people became a nuisance, as it took three times as long to get around than it did any other time of year because of the gawkers.
But the years wore on. The original residents, those retirees who had built the town, died off. The light-up tradition died with them. I watched as slowly the Windcrest Christmas tradition became block after block of dark houses.
This year it's different. There are cars stretching down the block, there are traffic jams and it's difficult for emergency vehicles to get by. Just like old times. It could be that people my age, those who remember the old times, have bought houses here, it could be the City Council is trying harder to make it a happening, it could be that hard times have made people appreciate once again the simple pleasures of driving around to look at Christmas decorations. The reason doesn't matter to me. The people are back, lots of them, and it's good to have my suburban streets clogged with gawkers once again.
Merry Christmas, families in cars and trucks, enjoy the lights and come back next year. There are no more open lots for you to pick to build your 1960's suburban dream home, but we like you here anyway. Take the tradition back with you wherever you're from and pass it on. Maybe we can take this sucker global.
Monday, December 20, 2010
The Moon Is Bright
I'm waiting for the lunar eclipse, which is supposed to start in a little more than an hour. Though I'm perfectly capable of staying up I may not, partly because I'm working on becoming an old man before my time and partly because the moon is so freakin' bright tonight I'm not sure I want to spoil it.
The Winter Solstice, a full moon, and a lunar eclipse don't all happen on the same night very often and tonight's the night they're all crammed together like the Super Bowl, World Series and... uh... whatever hockey has all in the same day. It's a special time, cosmologially speaking, is what I'm trying to say, and the universe is delivering the goods. I was just outside with a newspaper and I could read all but the smallest type pretty easily.
Comets are supposed to portend big changes, perhaps apocalyptic changes, and comets come by way more often than lunar eclipses on the Winter Solstice, which have happened together twice before in the past 2,000 years, most recently 372 years ago. I'm not particularly alarmist, but I am guessing this celesital happening is foreshadowing some big changes. Or hoping it does anyway.
So keep your fingers and toes crossed the changes are good ones. Or that the clouds stay away until I get to see the eclipse, at the very least.
The Winter Solstice, a full moon, and a lunar eclipse don't all happen on the same night very often and tonight's the night they're all crammed together like the Super Bowl, World Series and... uh... whatever hockey has all in the same day. It's a special time, cosmologially speaking, is what I'm trying to say, and the universe is delivering the goods. I was just outside with a newspaper and I could read all but the smallest type pretty easily.
Comets are supposed to portend big changes, perhaps apocalyptic changes, and comets come by way more often than lunar eclipses on the Winter Solstice, which have happened together twice before in the past 2,000 years, most recently 372 years ago. I'm not particularly alarmist, but I am guessing this celesital happening is foreshadowing some big changes. Or hoping it does anyway.
So keep your fingers and toes crossed the changes are good ones. Or that the clouds stay away until I get to see the eclipse, at the very least.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Semiotics
You ever wonder what people are thiking? I do all the time, mostly because I'm mystified at their behavior. I'm not talking about foreigners, they get a pass; if I see someone dressed oddly or acting oddly and they have an accent I know they're not coming from the same place I am. If, however, I see a fellow American looking like a circus sideshow... get me my robe and gavel and let the judgement begin.
I was out last night with my mother, who needed to return a reconsidered Christmas present to Kohl's. And then, since we were in the store already, to shop for a new present in its place. This was just like Sears when I was younger, except this time she didn't feel the need to pretend to shop for me for a few minutes before taking an hour or more on something else. For my part I watched people. Who were, largely, unassuming and just going about their business.
And then I saw... HER.
Imagine, if you will, a woman whose hair is dyed not once but twice. Bleached blonde on top, bad home-dye job red underneath, both colors bound up in a sloppy, too-short ponytail with bits sticking out all over. Eyebrows gone and then painted in like a surprise. Thick pancake makeup. Lots of lip liner but no lipstick.
Moving down the neck I saw the angel wing tattoos on her chest peeking out from a black lace shirt, over which was mercifully thrown a shiny white coat. Brick red fingernails - I didn't even know they made brick red nail polish - and a wrist full of those shaped rubber band thingys kids go ape over. Some sort of knit skirt (yes, a knit skirt) that stopped just below the shiny white coat, and legs that sported patterned black lace tights. Her shoes were closed-toed gold lame which nevertheless revealed the tattoos she sported on the tops of her feet.
Best of all... pushing a baby stroller.
Dear God in Heaven, what could this woman possibly have been thinking? It was like she chose on purpose everything that would make her look not just bad but terrible. Like a cliched Hollywood interpretation of poor taste and judgement. But there were no cameras, this was real life. I'd be charitable and say she just didn't know any better, but she was at least my age, possibly older, and if I can tell she's a fugitive from the fashion police she has to know as well. What's more, this is the face of 'Grandma' (let's hope) for the poor little baby she was pushing around. A tattooed, dyed, hooker version of Nana.
Wow. Three things had to happen for me to encounter this train wreck in Kohl's. She had to think that ensemble looked good; she had to think it looked good on her; and she had to decide to go out in public looking like that. Triply bad.
You might say 'Don, why don't you just live and let live?' But you weren't there. You didn't see her, large as life, pass within feet of you, unashamed, like a mental patient who'd gone over the wall. I tried to imagine her home, but visions of black velvet Elvises and Franklin Mint collector NASCAR plates shut my mind down. It's always funny until someone loses an eye.
And for God's sake, take a look at yourself in the mirror before you go out. You're not the only person in the world, you know.
I was out last night with my mother, who needed to return a reconsidered Christmas present to Kohl's. And then, since we were in the store already, to shop for a new present in its place. This was just like Sears when I was younger, except this time she didn't feel the need to pretend to shop for me for a few minutes before taking an hour or more on something else. For my part I watched people. Who were, largely, unassuming and just going about their business.
And then I saw... HER.
Imagine, if you will, a woman whose hair is dyed not once but twice. Bleached blonde on top, bad home-dye job red underneath, both colors bound up in a sloppy, too-short ponytail with bits sticking out all over. Eyebrows gone and then painted in like a surprise. Thick pancake makeup. Lots of lip liner but no lipstick.
Moving down the neck I saw the angel wing tattoos on her chest peeking out from a black lace shirt, over which was mercifully thrown a shiny white coat. Brick red fingernails - I didn't even know they made brick red nail polish - and a wrist full of those shaped rubber band thingys kids go ape over. Some sort of knit skirt (yes, a knit skirt) that stopped just below the shiny white coat, and legs that sported patterned black lace tights. Her shoes were closed-toed gold lame which nevertheless revealed the tattoos she sported on the tops of her feet.
Best of all... pushing a baby stroller.
Dear God in Heaven, what could this woman possibly have been thinking? It was like she chose on purpose everything that would make her look not just bad but terrible. Like a cliched Hollywood interpretation of poor taste and judgement. But there were no cameras, this was real life. I'd be charitable and say she just didn't know any better, but she was at least my age, possibly older, and if I can tell she's a fugitive from the fashion police she has to know as well. What's more, this is the face of 'Grandma' (let's hope) for the poor little baby she was pushing around. A tattooed, dyed, hooker version of Nana.
Wow. Three things had to happen for me to encounter this train wreck in Kohl's. She had to think that ensemble looked good; she had to think it looked good on her; and she had to decide to go out in public looking like that. Triply bad.
You might say 'Don, why don't you just live and let live?' But you weren't there. You didn't see her, large as life, pass within feet of you, unashamed, like a mental patient who'd gone over the wall. I tried to imagine her home, but visions of black velvet Elvises and Franklin Mint collector NASCAR plates shut my mind down. It's always funny until someone loses an eye.
And for God's sake, take a look at yourself in the mirror before you go out. You're not the only person in the world, you know.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Bait-N-Switch
I've mentioned before about advice my grandfather gave me that I didn't understand at the time but which turned out to be useful later. Like his admonition to 'spend a little extra, get nice shoes that fit.' Brilliant. My grandfather was a bit of a scam artist, to tell the truth, and I really wish I had discovered more about his upbringing before he died, I'm sure it was a sordid tale full of human drama.
Anyway... one of the many things he warned me about was the old 'bait and switch' sales method. It used to happen all the time, especially with car sales. A dealer would advertise a '54 Chrysler Imperial for, say $500. Except they didn't have a Chrysler Imperial on the lot, let alone one for $500. So when you went to the lot to test drive the Imperial, they'd tell you of your bad luck ('someone just drove it off') and then try to sell you the 55 Chrysler New Yorker for $1500. Bait - cheap car - and switch - present you with a more expensive one.
Bait and switch is illegal. If a vendor advertises a certain item, they'd better have that item on-hand or they'll get fined or shut down, possibly both.
Well, let's look at Facebook's advertising rates. I have a page on Facebook for this very blog, and I have a budget each day for FB to place that ad on pages. I bid a certain amount, say 60 cents, for each click. This amount is far lower than the 'suggested' bid of 70 cents, and so my ad does not get served out because the rate never gets down to 60 cents. I left it like that for a very long time because I just didn't care to play the game I knew was coming. This past week I decided to play.
The 'suggested' rate was 70 cents. So I raised my bid to 70 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' rate went up to 79 cents.
Hmmm....
I raised my bid to 80 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' bid went up to 90 cents. My mama didn't raise no fool, but I decided to play along, to establish a pattern. I raised my bid to 91 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' bid went up to $1.03
Classic bait and switch. You couldn't do it better if you were a car dealer in 1965. You want us to serve your ad? That'll be 70 cents a click. Oh, hold on a moment, that 70 cents is no longer valid. But, just for you, we can do 80 cents a click, are you interested in that one? Ooooh... sorry, but that 80 cents a click isn't right either, the price just went up. We could put you in a very nice ad for just 90 cents a click, though...
Rat bastard sons of bitches. We need to get some investigative journalists on this, start cracking heads.
My next step is to steadily decrease my bid and see how the rates follow. My guess is the 'suggested' bid stays just tantalizingly out of reach.
Anyway... one of the many things he warned me about was the old 'bait and switch' sales method. It used to happen all the time, especially with car sales. A dealer would advertise a '54 Chrysler Imperial for, say $500. Except they didn't have a Chrysler Imperial on the lot, let alone one for $500. So when you went to the lot to test drive the Imperial, they'd tell you of your bad luck ('someone just drove it off') and then try to sell you the 55 Chrysler New Yorker for $1500. Bait - cheap car - and switch - present you with a more expensive one.
Bait and switch is illegal. If a vendor advertises a certain item, they'd better have that item on-hand or they'll get fined or shut down, possibly both.
Well, let's look at Facebook's advertising rates. I have a page on Facebook for this very blog, and I have a budget each day for FB to place that ad on pages. I bid a certain amount, say 60 cents, for each click. This amount is far lower than the 'suggested' bid of 70 cents, and so my ad does not get served out because the rate never gets down to 60 cents. I left it like that for a very long time because I just didn't care to play the game I knew was coming. This past week I decided to play.
The 'suggested' rate was 70 cents. So I raised my bid to 70 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' rate went up to 79 cents.
Hmmm....
I raised my bid to 80 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' bid went up to 90 cents. My mama didn't raise no fool, but I decided to play along, to establish a pattern. I raised my bid to 91 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' bid went up to $1.03
Classic bait and switch. You couldn't do it better if you were a car dealer in 1965. You want us to serve your ad? That'll be 70 cents a click. Oh, hold on a moment, that 70 cents is no longer valid. But, just for you, we can do 80 cents a click, are you interested in that one? Ooooh... sorry, but that 80 cents a click isn't right either, the price just went up. We could put you in a very nice ad for just 90 cents a click, though...
Rat bastard sons of bitches. We need to get some investigative journalists on this, start cracking heads.
My next step is to steadily decrease my bid and see how the rates follow. My guess is the 'suggested' bid stays just tantalizingly out of reach.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Beards?
Why do men have beards?
And I don't mean the physiological basis, androgens and all that mess. I get that. I want to know why men have bears on a more evolutionary basis. What advantage does having a beard convey to men? And why do some men have relatively hairless chins - like many Native Americans - and others look like insane mountain men after two days of not shaving?
This is interesting to me because 50,000 years ago, before there were razors, cavemen would have sported long, luxurious beards. To go along with their back hair. But cavewomen would have remained mustache-less, at least until cavewoman menopause. They shared the same environment, ate the same things, did much the same work, and yet men evolved beards and women did not.
Por que?
Maybe it's really just a side effect of the hormones that make men more aggressive, stronger, and predisposed to hunt instead of gather. Women have the same shoulder muscles men do, after all, but more slender versions that will never bulk up the way men's shoulders do. But if it were just a side effect, then presumably all men would have beards. And yet, as we discussed earlier, not all men grow facial hair. The difference is by global region, which points to some sort of evolutionary adaptation.
Do Native American men have more naturally warm faces? So that when it gets cold outside they don't need the same kind of insulation European men do? Maybe ancient European women found beards much more attractive than hairless chins, and so there was natural selection for beardy-ness in European men? Maybe ancient Native Americans didn't scalp their enemies, they 'bearded' them? I'm just shooting in the dark here.
This needs funding and serious research. Because I want to know.
And I don't mean the physiological basis, androgens and all that mess. I get that. I want to know why men have bears on a more evolutionary basis. What advantage does having a beard convey to men? And why do some men have relatively hairless chins - like many Native Americans - and others look like insane mountain men after two days of not shaving?
This is interesting to me because 50,000 years ago, before there were razors, cavemen would have sported long, luxurious beards. To go along with their back hair. But cavewomen would have remained mustache-less, at least until cavewoman menopause. They shared the same environment, ate the same things, did much the same work, and yet men evolved beards and women did not.
Por que?
Maybe it's really just a side effect of the hormones that make men more aggressive, stronger, and predisposed to hunt instead of gather. Women have the same shoulder muscles men do, after all, but more slender versions that will never bulk up the way men's shoulders do. But if it were just a side effect, then presumably all men would have beards. And yet, as we discussed earlier, not all men grow facial hair. The difference is by global region, which points to some sort of evolutionary adaptation.
Do Native American men have more naturally warm faces? So that when it gets cold outside they don't need the same kind of insulation European men do? Maybe ancient European women found beards much more attractive than hairless chins, and so there was natural selection for beardy-ness in European men? Maybe ancient Native Americans didn't scalp their enemies, they 'bearded' them? I'm just shooting in the dark here.
This needs funding and serious research. Because I want to know.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Formerly Fat Comedians
I've been watching The Price Is Right off and on for a week or so. This is after Drew Carey lost something like seventy pounds this year. He's skinny now, practically a beanpole. Undoubtedly this is a great move for him, losing so much weight and keeping it off will almost guarantee him years more life with fewer problems like diabetes or joint pain, that kind of thing.
But he's not funny any more.
The first day I watched I wasn't sure. It has been a while since I'd seen the show, and it's a new season, things weren't 100% the way I remembered. Drew wasn't zinging them quite the way he used to, but maybe it was my imagination. I thought. So I gave it another day. And another. And another. I was thinking maybe I wasn't paying attention, or he was subtler, or God knows what. But everything else was pretty much the same, same models, mostly the same games, same wildly exuberant crowd. I can only assume that the production staff is the same, even though they got rid of Rich Fields as announcer. Same same same same same. Only the host was no longer fat.
After a few days' viewing I reached the inescapable conclusion, Drew just wasn't as funny thin as he was fat.
Which got me to thinking. Why is that? Why would Drew Carey be funny fat and not funny thin? Is it my expectations? Maybe. My memories of the other season and my time 'between assignments?' Maybe. But I think empirically it's the case that he's not as funny when he's thin.
I think that whatever changed inside him - for the better, most assuredly - that led him to want to drop seventy pounds is also the thing that made him lose that comic edge. Funny comes from a place of pain, and when you smooth the edges of that pain you take the bite out of your funny. It's the curse of comedian's success; when you ease the trauma and pain of your early days you get rid of the thing that made you funny in the first place. Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock, Seinfeld, Ray Romano, Kevin James, it happens to them all. It happened to Drew Carey too.
I don't begrudge him the change, but The Price Is Right just ain't the same. I guess I'll have to find something else to occupy my time in the middle of the morning. Maybe Sesame Street is on, I could use a dose of Elmo.
But he's not funny any more.
The first day I watched I wasn't sure. It has been a while since I'd seen the show, and it's a new season, things weren't 100% the way I remembered. Drew wasn't zinging them quite the way he used to, but maybe it was my imagination. I thought. So I gave it another day. And another. And another. I was thinking maybe I wasn't paying attention, or he was subtler, or God knows what. But everything else was pretty much the same, same models, mostly the same games, same wildly exuberant crowd. I can only assume that the production staff is the same, even though they got rid of Rich Fields as announcer. Same same same same same. Only the host was no longer fat.
After a few days' viewing I reached the inescapable conclusion, Drew just wasn't as funny thin as he was fat.
Which got me to thinking. Why is that? Why would Drew Carey be funny fat and not funny thin? Is it my expectations? Maybe. My memories of the other season and my time 'between assignments?' Maybe. But I think empirically it's the case that he's not as funny when he's thin.
I think that whatever changed inside him - for the better, most assuredly - that led him to want to drop seventy pounds is also the thing that made him lose that comic edge. Funny comes from a place of pain, and when you smooth the edges of that pain you take the bite out of your funny. It's the curse of comedian's success; when you ease the trauma and pain of your early days you get rid of the thing that made you funny in the first place. Eddie Murphy, Chris Rock, Seinfeld, Ray Romano, Kevin James, it happens to them all. It happened to Drew Carey too.
I don't begrudge him the change, but The Price Is Right just ain't the same. I guess I'll have to find something else to occupy my time in the middle of the morning. Maybe Sesame Street is on, I could use a dose of Elmo.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Safe Inside Or Out In The Nuclear Wasteland
You want to have a little fun with your friends? And by fun I mean start more trouble than you thought you would or are really comfortable handling? You are? Good. Try this:
When you're gathered around twenty or thirty people - friends, family, co-workers, what have you - get one other person and start playing a hypothetical 'what if' game. Or, as Einstein put it, ein Gedankenexperiment. What you'll do is assume that the world has been utterly destroyed in a nuclear holocaust except the building you're inside. Every door and window has been sealed, there is no way for any of the radiation to get you. You're all safe.
However... there are not enough resources to keep everyone alive. So you and your friend have to make the tough decisions regarding who gets to stay safe inside and who gets shoved to almost certain death (or mutation) outside. And you can't do it in secret, you have to discuss this right out in front of everyone. If people ask why you're the ones making the decision just tell them because you thought of it first.
A friend of mine and I did this years ago, between shifts at the Olive Garden. We had some time to kill and decided to rank everyone in sight according to their fitness to stay inside our non-nuclear safe zone. For a while there we had a Purgatory of an airlock, halfway between salvation and damnation, but we had to abandon that idea when the population inside the airlock was greater than that either in or out. Being that we were in our early 20's we kept a lot of the hot waitresses because we'd need breeding stock to repopulate the Earth when the time came, and we kept a few of the smart guys because they'd be fun company, and then most everybody else we shoved outside. We kept only one guy in the airlock, so he could run outside and repair the antenna when we needed him to.
What for us was a way to kill ten minutes turned into a days-long back and forth, complete with negotiations and pleas and backstabbing mutterings. Our population grew from just those people we could see that afternoon to the entire population of the restaurant, cooks, bus boys, waiters, cashiers, bartenders, managers, regional mangers, absolutely everyone. People really got into it, with those we kept inside very proud and disdainful of those outside, and those outside eager to make their case as to why they should stay safe and become part of the 'in' crowd. Those we relegated to the wasteland eventually decided they were going to form a radioactive mutant army and come back to storm the restaurant and take it by force. Until we pointed out that, because they would be contaminated by radiation, if they did breach the walls they'd just be turning the last hope for non-mutant humans into more nuclear fallout. And then we told them their lack of foresight is what made us put them outside in the first place.
It was a very telling exercise in human nature, one that took us entirely by surprise. Who knew that people would take it so seriously? And, you know, now that I'm thinking about it, if I'd been a little quicker on the uptake back then that whole business probably could have gotten me laid.
Ah well, live and learn.
When you're gathered around twenty or thirty people - friends, family, co-workers, what have you - get one other person and start playing a hypothetical 'what if' game. Or, as Einstein put it, ein Gedankenexperiment. What you'll do is assume that the world has been utterly destroyed in a nuclear holocaust except the building you're inside. Every door and window has been sealed, there is no way for any of the radiation to get you. You're all safe.
However... there are not enough resources to keep everyone alive. So you and your friend have to make the tough decisions regarding who gets to stay safe inside and who gets shoved to almost certain death (or mutation) outside. And you can't do it in secret, you have to discuss this right out in front of everyone. If people ask why you're the ones making the decision just tell them because you thought of it first.
A friend of mine and I did this years ago, between shifts at the Olive Garden. We had some time to kill and decided to rank everyone in sight according to their fitness to stay inside our non-nuclear safe zone. For a while there we had a Purgatory of an airlock, halfway between salvation and damnation, but we had to abandon that idea when the population inside the airlock was greater than that either in or out. Being that we were in our early 20's we kept a lot of the hot waitresses because we'd need breeding stock to repopulate the Earth when the time came, and we kept a few of the smart guys because they'd be fun company, and then most everybody else we shoved outside. We kept only one guy in the airlock, so he could run outside and repair the antenna when we needed him to.
What for us was a way to kill ten minutes turned into a days-long back and forth, complete with negotiations and pleas and backstabbing mutterings. Our population grew from just those people we could see that afternoon to the entire population of the restaurant, cooks, bus boys, waiters, cashiers, bartenders, managers, regional mangers, absolutely everyone. People really got into it, with those we kept inside very proud and disdainful of those outside, and those outside eager to make their case as to why they should stay safe and become part of the 'in' crowd. Those we relegated to the wasteland eventually decided they were going to form a radioactive mutant army and come back to storm the restaurant and take it by force. Until we pointed out that, because they would be contaminated by radiation, if they did breach the walls they'd just be turning the last hope for non-mutant humans into more nuclear fallout. And then we told them their lack of foresight is what made us put them outside in the first place.
It was a very telling exercise in human nature, one that took us entirely by surprise. Who knew that people would take it so seriously? And, you know, now that I'm thinking about it, if I'd been a little quicker on the uptake back then that whole business probably could have gotten me laid.
Ah well, live and learn.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm concerned that octopuses are up to something.*
It's well-accepted that certain animals are far more intelligent than we human beings give them credit for. Whales, obviously, some kinds of apes, and dogs for certain, all display character and personality and interests that place them out of the same 'dumb animal' class as, say, armadillos or chipmunks. (Or Kardashians. ZING!!)
Some researchers say cephalopods are the smartest things in the ocean, more so than whales or dolphins. Or maybe even us. Which is the kind of notion that keeps me awake at night. I can recognize a kindred spirit in a dog or a gorilla or a beluga whale, we're all mammals and that's a bonding experience. So it doesn't bother me to think that they're thinking, know what I mean? But an octopus... eight arms, a beak, those creepy, evil eyes like some sort of Nazi geneticist just waiting for the chance to tamper with God's intention... it just ain't right. I imagine going deep-sea diving and getting captured by some octopus Gestapo, tied to an examining table while they flash different colors as they carve bits of me away. Ewww.
The only saving grace is that octopuses have no skeleton, so we got 'em there. They minute they leave the sea they're nothing but a floppy mass of gristle. If they wanted to invade dry land they'd have to come up with some sort of exoskeleton to support their weight, like a giant octopus robot with a seawater-filled clear round dome for their head and two giant mechanical legs and six snakelike slithery arms and a raspy electronic voice whispering hideous evil things...
Oh, great, now I have something new to worry about.
* I know the proper plural is 'octopi,' I used to teach Latin. But octopuses sounds funnier.
It's well-accepted that certain animals are far more intelligent than we human beings give them credit for. Whales, obviously, some kinds of apes, and dogs for certain, all display character and personality and interests that place them out of the same 'dumb animal' class as, say, armadillos or chipmunks. (Or Kardashians. ZING!!)
Some researchers say cephalopods are the smartest things in the ocean, more so than whales or dolphins. Or maybe even us. Which is the kind of notion that keeps me awake at night. I can recognize a kindred spirit in a dog or a gorilla or a beluga whale, we're all mammals and that's a bonding experience. So it doesn't bother me to think that they're thinking, know what I mean? But an octopus... eight arms, a beak, those creepy, evil eyes like some sort of Nazi geneticist just waiting for the chance to tamper with God's intention... it just ain't right. I imagine going deep-sea diving and getting captured by some octopus Gestapo, tied to an examining table while they flash different colors as they carve bits of me away. Ewww.
The only saving grace is that octopuses have no skeleton, so we got 'em there. They minute they leave the sea they're nothing but a floppy mass of gristle. If they wanted to invade dry land they'd have to come up with some sort of exoskeleton to support their weight, like a giant octopus robot with a seawater-filled clear round dome for their head and two giant mechanical legs and six snakelike slithery arms and a raspy electronic voice whispering hideous evil things...
Oh, great, now I have something new to worry about.
* I know the proper plural is 'octopi,' I used to teach Latin. But octopuses sounds funnier.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Holiday Cheer On The 134
I like Christmas music more the older I get. Not that I ever didn't like it, but I think I feel the holiday spirit better and deeper now than I used to. Maybe it's part of getting older, maybe it's just my Grinchy heart growing three sizes, who knows? A few years back it wouldn't have been my thing, but I'm really digging the LA station that's now all-Christmas, all the time. When I'm in the truck I'm switching from NPR to Jingle Bells, and I'm only too happy to do it.
It's joy and happiness and gratitude and exuberance and anticipation all at the same time. Listening makes me smile and calms me down.
And sometimes cool things happen.
Like tonight. I was putting in a guest appearance at an improv class I used to take, and since it's unseasonably warm in LA right now I took the hot rod. Top down, natch.
So I'm coming back from Studio City - where the class meets - still with the top down and with Christmas music playing on the radio. As I'm leaving Glendale and coming up the hill on the 134 before Eagle Rock 'O Holy Night' comes on. This part of the highway is out of any city and there are no street lights as the road rises over the hills. Which means, come to find out, it's one of the few parts of LA where you can actually see stars overhead. And since I had the top down on the hot rod I could just look up and take it all in.
Sublime. On the LA freeway, top down, stars twinkling above me. 'Hear the angels' voices' indeed.
Like most such moments it only lasted a short time, long enough for me to travel the four miles or so between the 2 and the 210. And then the lights of Pasadena took over and the stars washed out to the regular black/gray shroud. But I'll carry that experience with me, something to cling to when things turn South.
Merry Christmas, here's hoping this isn't the last cool thing that happens this season.
It's joy and happiness and gratitude and exuberance and anticipation all at the same time. Listening makes me smile and calms me down.
And sometimes cool things happen.
Like tonight. I was putting in a guest appearance at an improv class I used to take, and since it's unseasonably warm in LA right now I took the hot rod. Top down, natch.
So I'm coming back from Studio City - where the class meets - still with the top down and with Christmas music playing on the radio. As I'm leaving Glendale and coming up the hill on the 134 before Eagle Rock 'O Holy Night' comes on. This part of the highway is out of any city and there are no street lights as the road rises over the hills. Which means, come to find out, it's one of the few parts of LA where you can actually see stars overhead. And since I had the top down on the hot rod I could just look up and take it all in.
Sublime. On the LA freeway, top down, stars twinkling above me. 'Hear the angels' voices' indeed.
Like most such moments it only lasted a short time, long enough for me to travel the four miles or so between the 2 and the 210. And then the lights of Pasadena took over and the stars washed out to the regular black/gray shroud. But I'll carry that experience with me, something to cling to when things turn South.
Merry Christmas, here's hoping this isn't the last cool thing that happens this season.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Our Hero Returns
Captain Grant Manley gazed out across the stark Venusian landscape, ready to spring into action in the event one of the degenerate insectoid natives had survived the assault launched from the USS Victorious. The sulfurous volcanic winds blew hot and fast, but Manley kept cool and calm in his skin-tight pressure suit, supplied as it was with patriotic Earth air and kept at a normal, non-degenerate Earth temperature.
"I think that's the last of them," Manley muttered, though he still kept an eye peeled. "Looks like we taught them a lesson they won't forget."
"You do good work, Grant," Estelle Sparks sighed. She ran her hands along his wide shoulders, which bulged and rippled with muscles even through his pressure suit. "And I don't just mean slaughtering aliens."
"Aren't we the aliens here?" Teddy Courage asked. The Captain's trusty cabin boy, Teddy took Manley's depleted Q-ray blaster and replaced it with a fully-charged one.
"Nonsense, my boy," Manley chuckled, gesturing at the ochre plain littered with the remains of chitinous exoskeletons. "Look at them, with their compound eyes and six legs and those disgusting mouth parts. Why, you can blow three legs off one of those grasshoppers and they still keep coming. That counts as an alien in my book."
"Grasshoppers," Estelle mumbled, the term the Earth Council troops used to refer to the indigenous Venusian lifeforms. "Why can't they be more like us?"
"Some day, the good Lord willing, they will be," Manley said, his hand casually draping around Estelle's waist. She sighed.
Teddy moved between Estelle and his Captain, pressing his fingers hard into Manley's shoulders just the way he liked. The way Estelle could never get right.
"But this is their planet," Teddy insisted, "we're the invaders."
"We're only here to win their hearts and minds," Manley reminded Teddy. "And to bring civilization to this backwater cesspool of a planet."
"Didn't they have a thriving civilization before we got here?" Teddy asked. "Aren't we the ones who blew up their cities and killed thousands of their people and ruined their infrastructure?"
Manley turned slowly, his square jaw set, his steel-gray eyes focused with purpose. Teddy quailed under his Captain's masterful gaze and his heart flutered in his chest.
"I'd hate to think you didn't support the Earth Council one-hundred percent, lad," Manley growled. "If you're not completely with us you're against us."
"Isn't informed dissent one of the cornerstones of Earth Council governance?" Estelle remarked idly. "Didn't our founding fathers and mothers disagree on almost everything?"
Both Teddy and Manley stopped and turned to the lithe, buxon, raven-haired science officer, astonished at her words.
"I don't think I like your tone, Estelle," Manley said.
Teddy nestled closer to his Captain's rock-hard physique. "Sir, doesn't that sound dangerously close to treason?"
Manley nodded his head. "I believe it does, lad. Estelle, get back into the ship. You and I are going to have a talk about what it means to be a patriot."
Pale and shaken, Estelle trudged back towards the USS Victorious landing site, her ample hips shaking a counterpoint with each step.
"Such a shame," Manley said when Estelle was out of earshot, "she's a good officer, but a little too smart for her own good. History is what the Earth Council says it is, not what you read in books."
"Besides, she's just a girl," Teddy said as he kneaded the knots out of his Captain's shoulders, "she'll never really understand what it's like for us men, out here, alone, on the desolate frontiers of proper civilization."
Manley sighed and relaxed under his trusty cabin boy's ministrations. "Truer words were never spoken, lad."
"I think that's the last of them," Manley muttered, though he still kept an eye peeled. "Looks like we taught them a lesson they won't forget."
"You do good work, Grant," Estelle Sparks sighed. She ran her hands along his wide shoulders, which bulged and rippled with muscles even through his pressure suit. "And I don't just mean slaughtering aliens."
"Aren't we the aliens here?" Teddy Courage asked. The Captain's trusty cabin boy, Teddy took Manley's depleted Q-ray blaster and replaced it with a fully-charged one.
"Nonsense, my boy," Manley chuckled, gesturing at the ochre plain littered with the remains of chitinous exoskeletons. "Look at them, with their compound eyes and six legs and those disgusting mouth parts. Why, you can blow three legs off one of those grasshoppers and they still keep coming. That counts as an alien in my book."
"Grasshoppers," Estelle mumbled, the term the Earth Council troops used to refer to the indigenous Venusian lifeforms. "Why can't they be more like us?"
"Some day, the good Lord willing, they will be," Manley said, his hand casually draping around Estelle's waist. She sighed.
Teddy moved between Estelle and his Captain, pressing his fingers hard into Manley's shoulders just the way he liked. The way Estelle could never get right.
"But this is their planet," Teddy insisted, "we're the invaders."
"We're only here to win their hearts and minds," Manley reminded Teddy. "And to bring civilization to this backwater cesspool of a planet."
"Didn't they have a thriving civilization before we got here?" Teddy asked. "Aren't we the ones who blew up their cities and killed thousands of their people and ruined their infrastructure?"
Manley turned slowly, his square jaw set, his steel-gray eyes focused with purpose. Teddy quailed under his Captain's masterful gaze and his heart flutered in his chest.
"I'd hate to think you didn't support the Earth Council one-hundred percent, lad," Manley growled. "If you're not completely with us you're against us."
"Isn't informed dissent one of the cornerstones of Earth Council governance?" Estelle remarked idly. "Didn't our founding fathers and mothers disagree on almost everything?"
Both Teddy and Manley stopped and turned to the lithe, buxon, raven-haired science officer, astonished at her words.
"I don't think I like your tone, Estelle," Manley said.
Teddy nestled closer to his Captain's rock-hard physique. "Sir, doesn't that sound dangerously close to treason?"
Manley nodded his head. "I believe it does, lad. Estelle, get back into the ship. You and I are going to have a talk about what it means to be a patriot."
Pale and shaken, Estelle trudged back towards the USS Victorious landing site, her ample hips shaking a counterpoint with each step.
"Such a shame," Manley said when Estelle was out of earshot, "she's a good officer, but a little too smart for her own good. History is what the Earth Council says it is, not what you read in books."
"Besides, she's just a girl," Teddy said as he kneaded the knots out of his Captain's shoulders, "she'll never really understand what it's like for us men, out here, alone, on the desolate frontiers of proper civilization."
Manley sighed and relaxed under his trusty cabin boy's ministrations. "Truer words were never spoken, lad."
Friday, December 10, 2010
Journal Of Unsurprising Research
I was reading in Scientific American* a few months back that researchers had sequenced the Neanderthal genome and then compared it with modern humans'. Their conclusion was that, at some time in the past, before Neanderthals died out completely, humans and Neanderthals interbred.
This is a surprise?
I applaud the effort the researchers went to, it's not easy getting genetic material from 60,000 year old bones, but I could have pointed them to any number of bullies and malcontents from my middle school and high school years to prove the caveman-interbreeding hypothesis. Low-browed and thick-limbed, dim-witted and guttural, these guys were throwbacks to pre-history, when strength and cruelty were needed instead of compassion and insight.
I remember one guy in particular, a year ahead of me in middle school, who was on the football team. Keep in mind that we were, what?, twelve? thirteen? And already this guy was covered in a carpet of body hair so thick that he looked like a chimp on the run. Or a Neanderthal, now that I've read the research. It was astonishing, he even had wiry hair on the second knuckle of his fingers. Put him in wolf fur and give him a spear to jab into a mastodon and I think he would have been right at home.
What I'm saying is I already knew what these researchers have proved. So I got to thinking, what other non-surprises do scientists have in store for us? Fire is hot? UFOs are real? Cats want to murder their owners and eat their eyeballs? These are all well-established propositions.
Scientists should get extra points for coming up with new stuff. Like the universe is held together with twine. Space-twine, sure, but it's still twine. Or proving that your face really will stick like that, just like your mother said.
See? I should be a scientist, there's lots of stuff I could test. They make a pretty good living. There's got to be a lot of millionaire scientists, right?
* yeah, I like reading about science stuff, so what? Don't you oppress me...
This is a surprise?
I applaud the effort the researchers went to, it's not easy getting genetic material from 60,000 year old bones, but I could have pointed them to any number of bullies and malcontents from my middle school and high school years to prove the caveman-interbreeding hypothesis. Low-browed and thick-limbed, dim-witted and guttural, these guys were throwbacks to pre-history, when strength and cruelty were needed instead of compassion and insight.
I remember one guy in particular, a year ahead of me in middle school, who was on the football team. Keep in mind that we were, what?, twelve? thirteen? And already this guy was covered in a carpet of body hair so thick that he looked like a chimp on the run. Or a Neanderthal, now that I've read the research. It was astonishing, he even had wiry hair on the second knuckle of his fingers. Put him in wolf fur and give him a spear to jab into a mastodon and I think he would have been right at home.
What I'm saying is I already knew what these researchers have proved. So I got to thinking, what other non-surprises do scientists have in store for us? Fire is hot? UFOs are real? Cats want to murder their owners and eat their eyeballs? These are all well-established propositions.
Scientists should get extra points for coming up with new stuff. Like the universe is held together with twine. Space-twine, sure, but it's still twine. Or proving that your face really will stick like that, just like your mother said.
See? I should be a scientist, there's lots of stuff I could test. They make a pretty good living. There's got to be a lot of millionaire scientists, right?
* yeah, I like reading about science stuff, so what? Don't you oppress me...
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Goin' Down Swingin'
I got fired Tuesday.
Rather, my contract was canceled but the difference is just semantics. And what did I do to get my contract canceled after just seven days?
I sent an e-mail.
Seriously. Not a rude e-mail, not an angry one, just a 'hello' e-mail introducing myself. I was working at a talent agency - maybe THE talent agency in town - over on the West side in Century City. The commute was terrible, an hour to go twenty miles, and the company atmosphere was intolerable. Really. A horrible place, as one of my friends who used to go to this company frequently for meetings warned me. The only reason I agreed to take this gig was to try to get my writing in front of someone there. Hence the e-mail, which was me introducing myself to a lady in charge of looking for stories. I don't know if she told someone that I tried to contact her or if they found out by monitoring my e-mail. Probably both.
Evidently they frown on that sort of thing, at least from consultants working in the building. Who knew? I suspected something was up when I didn't get the e-mail asking what I wanted to order for our lunch meeting on Wednesday, and then on my way home I got the call that they were canceling my contract. I'm not broken up about it, I had been counting the days until Christmas break and counting the hours until it was time to go home every day. I didn't belong in that poisonous atmosphere in the first place.
I've never been fired before. I was 'let go' because of the economy and corporate consolidation, which was more of a 'we don't have a spot for you now' kind of thing, not a termination for cause. Tuesday's cancellation wasn't really for cause either - I mean, seriously, one e-mail? - but I still got fired. I consider it a badge of honor and a point of pride. Kicked out of a den of vipers? I'll take that hit then stand up again in case they want to do it one more time.
To tell you the truth, I'd rather go down swinging, fighting for what I want, rather than to keep a job at a terrible place just to be employed. If you're not failing you're not trying.
I'm now 'between assignments' again. Drew Carey and The Price Is Right can now rest easy, know that I'll be back with them, at least for a little while.
Rather, my contract was canceled but the difference is just semantics. And what did I do to get my contract canceled after just seven days?
I sent an e-mail.
Seriously. Not a rude e-mail, not an angry one, just a 'hello' e-mail introducing myself. I was working at a talent agency - maybe THE talent agency in town - over on the West side in Century City. The commute was terrible, an hour to go twenty miles, and the company atmosphere was intolerable. Really. A horrible place, as one of my friends who used to go to this company frequently for meetings warned me. The only reason I agreed to take this gig was to try to get my writing in front of someone there. Hence the e-mail, which was me introducing myself to a lady in charge of looking for stories. I don't know if she told someone that I tried to contact her or if they found out by monitoring my e-mail. Probably both.
Evidently they frown on that sort of thing, at least from consultants working in the building. Who knew? I suspected something was up when I didn't get the e-mail asking what I wanted to order for our lunch meeting on Wednesday, and then on my way home I got the call that they were canceling my contract. I'm not broken up about it, I had been counting the days until Christmas break and counting the hours until it was time to go home every day. I didn't belong in that poisonous atmosphere in the first place.
I've never been fired before. I was 'let go' because of the economy and corporate consolidation, which was more of a 'we don't have a spot for you now' kind of thing, not a termination for cause. Tuesday's cancellation wasn't really for cause either - I mean, seriously, one e-mail? - but I still got fired. I consider it a badge of honor and a point of pride. Kicked out of a den of vipers? I'll take that hit then stand up again in case they want to do it one more time.
To tell you the truth, I'd rather go down swinging, fighting for what I want, rather than to keep a job at a terrible place just to be employed. If you're not failing you're not trying.
I'm now 'between assignments' again. Drew Carey and The Price Is Right can now rest easy, know that I'll be back with them, at least for a little while.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
How Much?!!
I was out Christmas shopping this afternoon, you know, poking around, seeing what's what and getting the lay of the land. No, I had absolutely no idea what I was looking for or where to even start looking, but I was out there, mixing it up with everybody else. I got a little hungry, and since I was in the holiday spirit, I decided to stop in at Baskin Robbins, where I have not been in years, literally. I got a single scoop of Quarterback Crunch on a pointy sugar cone, just like old times. I nearly had a heart attack when the guy told me it would be $2.50. But I had a hankerin' and forked over the cash anyway. Grudgingly.
Am I so out of touch that $2.50 for a freakin' ice cream cone sounds like highway robbery to me?
I mean, really... come on. I know you have to pay rent and pay your staff and carry insurance and whatever other crazy-ass add-ons California burdens small businesses with, but seriously... $2.50 for a single scoop sugar cone? I remember when it was like 50 cents, back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and cavemen had just invented fire and the ice cream freezer.
Maybe it's more of my pending old-man-ness showing, the cranky codger coming out in me, but Baskin Robbins must be doing pretty well if they think they can get away with charging that much for a few ounces of mediocre ice cream. They sure aren't going to get my return business, I know that much.
I'm almost afraid to go places I haven't been in a long time, because I have a feeling they'll all end up astonishingly overpriced and ruin my cherished memories. Like Stuckey's, do they even have those any more? With the pecan logs that used to be 25 cents? What's Dairy Queen charging for a Dilley Bar these days, ten bucks? Jeez, I feel like my grandfather, reminiscing about places gone for decades.
Is it 4:30 yet? I'm hungry for dinner.
Am I so out of touch that $2.50 for a freakin' ice cream cone sounds like highway robbery to me?
I mean, really... come on. I know you have to pay rent and pay your staff and carry insurance and whatever other crazy-ass add-ons California burdens small businesses with, but seriously... $2.50 for a single scoop sugar cone? I remember when it was like 50 cents, back when dinosaurs roamed the Earth and cavemen had just invented fire and the ice cream freezer.
Maybe it's more of my pending old-man-ness showing, the cranky codger coming out in me, but Baskin Robbins must be doing pretty well if they think they can get away with charging that much for a few ounces of mediocre ice cream. They sure aren't going to get my return business, I know that much.
I'm almost afraid to go places I haven't been in a long time, because I have a feeling they'll all end up astonishingly overpriced and ruin my cherished memories. Like Stuckey's, do they even have those any more? With the pecan logs that used to be 25 cents? What's Dairy Queen charging for a Dilley Bar these days, ten bucks? Jeez, I feel like my grandfather, reminiscing about places gone for decades.
Is it 4:30 yet? I'm hungry for dinner.
Monday, December 6, 2010
If Life Were Like TV...
If life were like TV:
Every third criminal would be a serial killer.
Big fat loudmouth guys would always have thin hot wives.
Computers and databases would be lightning fast and always give the correct results.
Cell phones would never run out of battery power. Unless it would serve a dramatic purpose or let the cops catch the serial killer.
No one would ever go to the bathroom. Unless it would serve a dramatic purpose or let the cops catch the serial killer.
Blackout alcoholics would be clever and witty instead of mumbly and scary.
Gay men would always advertise themselves by being flamingly flamboyant.
People with Southern accents would always be ignorant and racist.
People with New York accents would always be pushy know-it-alls.
Okay, maybe that one's true.
Right before you left the living room for the kitchen, you'd have to take a dramatic pause to let the music cue you off.
Everything would have a happy ending after thirty minutes.
Every third criminal would be a serial killer.
Big fat loudmouth guys would always have thin hot wives.
Computers and databases would be lightning fast and always give the correct results.
Cell phones would never run out of battery power. Unless it would serve a dramatic purpose or let the cops catch the serial killer.
No one would ever go to the bathroom. Unless it would serve a dramatic purpose or let the cops catch the serial killer.
Blackout alcoholics would be clever and witty instead of mumbly and scary.
Gay men would always advertise themselves by being flamingly flamboyant.
People with Southern accents would always be ignorant and racist.
People with New York accents would always be pushy know-it-alls.
Okay, maybe that one's true.
Right before you left the living room for the kitchen, you'd have to take a dramatic pause to let the music cue you off.
Everything would have a happy ending after thirty minutes.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Losing Touch
I went up to my local Target today, in an unsuccessful attempt to find Christmas presents. There were TONS of people all over the store, which is a lesson for me not to go to Target on a Sunday afternoon. Much more importantly, though, I noticed something alarming, something that shook me to foundations of my identity.
They'd changed the shopping carts.
For as long as I can remember they've had the same carts, metal bases with plastic bodies that also lock up when you try to take them off premises. Which is why homeless people use carts from the 99cent store, they're easier to steal. But Target no longer has the old kind, the familiar kind, the kind I remember.
Now they have all-plastic carts, no more metal bases. The new carts are sleek and gray and red and just... wrong. It's kind of like shopping with the Jetsons, too streamlined and too modern.
I don't know why this change affects me. I mean, really, who cares? They changed the shopping carts, life goes on. But there's something else. They've made this Target the kind that sells groceries too. And I knew nothing about it. They didn't run the approval past me like they should have. Time was I went to this Target all the time, I worked across the street, but it's been months since I've been in, and in that time they've changed the layout of the store, and they now sell groceries, and they've changed the shopping carts.
Enough already. I thought I declared a moratorium on change a while back. Why is no one paying attention?
Here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna close my eyes and count to twenty, which should be more than enough time for everybody to find out what they've changed in the past year and then change it back. Okay?
Here we go. One... Two... Three... Four... Five...
Are you changing things back? Good.
Six... Seven... Eight...
They'd changed the shopping carts.
For as long as I can remember they've had the same carts, metal bases with plastic bodies that also lock up when you try to take them off premises. Which is why homeless people use carts from the 99cent store, they're easier to steal. But Target no longer has the old kind, the familiar kind, the kind I remember.
Now they have all-plastic carts, no more metal bases. The new carts are sleek and gray and red and just... wrong. It's kind of like shopping with the Jetsons, too streamlined and too modern.
I don't know why this change affects me. I mean, really, who cares? They changed the shopping carts, life goes on. But there's something else. They've made this Target the kind that sells groceries too. And I knew nothing about it. They didn't run the approval past me like they should have. Time was I went to this Target all the time, I worked across the street, but it's been months since I've been in, and in that time they've changed the layout of the store, and they now sell groceries, and they've changed the shopping carts.
Enough already. I thought I declared a moratorium on change a while back. Why is no one paying attention?
Here's what's gonna happen. I'm gonna close my eyes and count to twenty, which should be more than enough time for everybody to find out what they've changed in the past year and then change it back. Okay?
Here we go. One... Two... Three... Four... Five...
Are you changing things back? Good.
Six... Seven... Eight...
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Fixing The Elevator
They're going to fix the elevator in my building.
Yes, FINALLY.
It's been almost a year since it last worked. I went back to Texas on December 18th last year, and when I got back on the 30th the elevator didn't go up or down any more.
The landlady put a sign on it that says something like 'down for maintenance' or some similar lie, which the elevator repairman said was good enough to keep the inspectors at bay. It was supposed to get fixed in April, then again in September, but neither happened, and I trudged up the stairs from the garage every day. Kind of grew used to it, to tell you the truth. But I wasn't happy about it.
How she got around ADA* compliance is beyond me, there is absolutely no way into the building that doesn't involve stairs, so if we had any residents in wheelchairs they would have been stuck down in the garage since December of last year. I imagine they'd have set up a tent city or something, a subterranean lair they could lurk in while they waited for the elevator be repaired 'any day now.'
Someone complained - not me, really - and the city or the State came calling. Seems it really isn't okay to leave a 'down for maintenance' sign on an elevator for months while you have absolutely no intention of fixing it. Who knew?
So now it's under repair, and will be for several more weeks. I can't wait. I'm not sure what I'm going to do, actually, when it's working again. I don't even remember what the inside looks like. Maybe it's like a palace, with fountains and marble stairs and wandering peacocks.
I can only dream...
* Americans with Disabilities Act - passed, let us remember in 1991, almost 20 years ago.
Yes, FINALLY.
It's been almost a year since it last worked. I went back to Texas on December 18th last year, and when I got back on the 30th the elevator didn't go up or down any more.
The landlady put a sign on it that says something like 'down for maintenance' or some similar lie, which the elevator repairman said was good enough to keep the inspectors at bay. It was supposed to get fixed in April, then again in September, but neither happened, and I trudged up the stairs from the garage every day. Kind of grew used to it, to tell you the truth. But I wasn't happy about it.
How she got around ADA* compliance is beyond me, there is absolutely no way into the building that doesn't involve stairs, so if we had any residents in wheelchairs they would have been stuck down in the garage since December of last year. I imagine they'd have set up a tent city or something, a subterranean lair they could lurk in while they waited for the elevator be repaired 'any day now.'
Someone complained - not me, really - and the city or the State came calling. Seems it really isn't okay to leave a 'down for maintenance' sign on an elevator for months while you have absolutely no intention of fixing it. Who knew?
So now it's under repair, and will be for several more weeks. I can't wait. I'm not sure what I'm going to do, actually, when it's working again. I don't even remember what the inside looks like. Maybe it's like a palace, with fountains and marble stairs and wandering peacocks.
I can only dream...
* Americans with Disabilities Act - passed, let us remember in 1991, almost 20 years ago.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The Picture Of Goober-ness
I saw a picture of myself today, one taken a year or more ago. I was laughing unreservedly, having a great time, probably oblivious to the camera.
Jeez, what a dork.
Really, I looked like I was drunk, and I don't drink alcohol. It was long enough ago that I don't remember the circumstances around the photo, but it is undeniably me, and I am undeniably dorky.
Modern cameras are marvels of engineering, they can focus on multiple spots, adjust the shutter speed and aperture automatically, flash or not flash as you wish, and even become movie cameras if you want them to.
So why don't they have a dork filter? Just a little switch, maybe another setting on the dial that's already there, to keep the camera from working if someone in the field of view looks like an idiot. If their teeth were bucked out, if they were squinting like they ate a lemon, if their tongue were not only sticking out but discolored... not that I looked anything like that, I assure you. I'm just saying, if the camera were programmed not to take pictures of people like that, it sure would have saved me a lot of embarrassment.
There's gotta be someone from MIT working on this. And if there isn't there will be after they read this.
Jeez, what a dork.
Really, I looked like I was drunk, and I don't drink alcohol. It was long enough ago that I don't remember the circumstances around the photo, but it is undeniably me, and I am undeniably dorky.
Modern cameras are marvels of engineering, they can focus on multiple spots, adjust the shutter speed and aperture automatically, flash or not flash as you wish, and even become movie cameras if you want them to.
So why don't they have a dork filter? Just a little switch, maybe another setting on the dial that's already there, to keep the camera from working if someone in the field of view looks like an idiot. If their teeth were bucked out, if they were squinting like they ate a lemon, if their tongue were not only sticking out but discolored... not that I looked anything like that, I assure you. I'm just saying, if the camera were programmed not to take pictures of people like that, it sure would have saved me a lot of embarrassment.
There's gotta be someone from MIT working on this. And if there isn't there will be after they read this.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
One Year Ago
A year ago today my father died. I was at his side as the nurse turned off the machine supplying him with medicine to keep his blood pressure up. I held his hand as the numbers slowly ticked down and he slowly slipped away. It was excruciating and terrible and sad, but I would not trade that last hour with him for anything. The time I spent with my hand in his waiting for the inevitable end was precious, a gem that only three of us share, me, my sister and my mother.
If you have lost a parent you know exactly how I feel today. If you still have both your parents there's nothing I can say that would explain precisely the feeling of being alone, on your own, without the security blanket of one of the people put on this planet to take care of you. It's scary and liberating and incomprehensible all at the same time. My father was such a huge presence in my life that even now, a year later, there's a huge hole in my life where he used to be.
So here's to my father, Donald Jacob Hartshorn, Jr. and everything he was and everything he taught me to be. I hope I can live up to what he expected of me.
I still miss you, Dad.
If you have lost a parent you know exactly how I feel today. If you still have both your parents there's nothing I can say that would explain precisely the feeling of being alone, on your own, without the security blanket of one of the people put on this planet to take care of you. It's scary and liberating and incomprehensible all at the same time. My father was such a huge presence in my life that even now, a year later, there's a huge hole in my life where he used to be.
So here's to my father, Donald Jacob Hartshorn, Jr. and everything he was and everything he taught me to be. I hope I can live up to what he expected of me.
I still miss you, Dad.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Swirling Chemicals
I've been sick for a while now. A week, give or take. My illness moved from a simple cold to a sinus infection, confirmed by a visit to the doctor. And to combat that I now have a whole new cocktail of chemicals running rampant through my system.
First there is the antibiotic. Amoxicillin. A full 10-day course. This will deplete not only the bad bugs in my system, but it will get rid of the good bugs too. Antibiotics usually mean diarrhea.
So, to combat that I bought some probiotics. Yakult, which, come to find out, is actually made in Mexico - ironic considering I got it to keep from getting the Hershey squirts - and some stuff from the Vitamin Shoppe. Hopefully that will put beneficial flora back in my gut to replace what the antibiotics kill off.
I also got some vitamin C. Which does make my pee an alarming, almost super-heroic shade of yellow, but otherwise I'm not certain does anything but add to the chemicals coursing through my bloodstream.
I have some decongestant still hanging around too. Sudafed. Which, if I were a chemist and totally amoral I could turn into meth.
Then there's the nasal spray. I got it free from the doctor, but it's a nasal steroid, so that's added to the brew inside me. It also really dries out the boogers in my sinuses, so that in the morning I basically blow out the lining of my nose. Which I think is cool but others might have a different idea.
So instead of blood in my veins I now have a witch's cauldron of eye of newt and wing of bat. I'm not so certain it's good for me, to tell you the truth. But at least I can breathe at night.
First there is the antibiotic. Amoxicillin. A full 10-day course. This will deplete not only the bad bugs in my system, but it will get rid of the good bugs too. Antibiotics usually mean diarrhea.
So, to combat that I bought some probiotics. Yakult, which, come to find out, is actually made in Mexico - ironic considering I got it to keep from getting the Hershey squirts - and some stuff from the Vitamin Shoppe. Hopefully that will put beneficial flora back in my gut to replace what the antibiotics kill off.
I also got some vitamin C. Which does make my pee an alarming, almost super-heroic shade of yellow, but otherwise I'm not certain does anything but add to the chemicals coursing through my bloodstream.
I have some decongestant still hanging around too. Sudafed. Which, if I were a chemist and totally amoral I could turn into meth.
Then there's the nasal spray. I got it free from the doctor, but it's a nasal steroid, so that's added to the brew inside me. It also really dries out the boogers in my sinuses, so that in the morning I basically blow out the lining of my nose. Which I think is cool but others might have a different idea.
So instead of blood in my veins I now have a witch's cauldron of eye of newt and wing of bat. I'm not so certain it's good for me, to tell you the truth. But at least I can breathe at night.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Snickers Owes Me
I was just thinking about how many Snickers bars I've eaten over the years. There's no way I could get an accurate count, but it's a lot. An awful lot.
Since the time my mother first let me have chocolate I think I've been eating Snickers. Had 'em in school - elementary through high school - usually as part of some sort of candy sale to support the marching band or Spanish club or what have you. Had 'em through years and years of Halloweens, from the regular-sized bars to the half-sized to the bite sized to the fun sized. Had 'em with almonds and with dark chocolate, and in ice cream bar form. Had 'em in college and after college, as a snack on the plane for a business trip, and as a meal at the hotel after a long day.
I've had more than my share of Snickers bars, is what I'm saying. One look at my waistline could tell you that, though.
After all these candy bars, after all these empty calories, I think Snickers owes me. Not more Snickers bars, they owe me an apology.
Apology for what? For not really being food. If you think about it, candy bars are one of the few products that survived intact from the time there was no FDA back in the 19th Century. It used to be that candy bars were marketed alongside various other snake oil products as some sort of calmative or invigorator or cure-all. The government legislated away most false medicinal claims, but candy bars survived. So did soft drinks.
There really is nothing about a candy bar that is good for you. Just empty calories, and in the last 20 years lots of high fructose corn syrup. High-fat, high-sugar, high-calorie, low nutritional value. You could probably just eat a stick of butter and be better off than eating a candy bar. But I still eat them.
I don't want to come across as a crazed liberal, but if as a society we're going to legislate an end to cigarette smoking, why aren't we doing the same with junk food? We decry Philip Morris for profiting for decades with a product that kills people. M&M Mars does exactly the same thing, and yet we encourage kids to become consumers. Something ain't right here.
So I'm going to sit right here until Snickers apologizes. I think I'm gonna need a snack while I wait, though. Something with chocolate. Maybe some peanuts too. And some caramel. Nougat would be nice. Hmmm...
Since the time my mother first let me have chocolate I think I've been eating Snickers. Had 'em in school - elementary through high school - usually as part of some sort of candy sale to support the marching band or Spanish club or what have you. Had 'em through years and years of Halloweens, from the regular-sized bars to the half-sized to the bite sized to the fun sized. Had 'em with almonds and with dark chocolate, and in ice cream bar form. Had 'em in college and after college, as a snack on the plane for a business trip, and as a meal at the hotel after a long day.
I've had more than my share of Snickers bars, is what I'm saying. One look at my waistline could tell you that, though.
After all these candy bars, after all these empty calories, I think Snickers owes me. Not more Snickers bars, they owe me an apology.
Apology for what? For not really being food. If you think about it, candy bars are one of the few products that survived intact from the time there was no FDA back in the 19th Century. It used to be that candy bars were marketed alongside various other snake oil products as some sort of calmative or invigorator or cure-all. The government legislated away most false medicinal claims, but candy bars survived. So did soft drinks.
There really is nothing about a candy bar that is good for you. Just empty calories, and in the last 20 years lots of high fructose corn syrup. High-fat, high-sugar, high-calorie, low nutritional value. You could probably just eat a stick of butter and be better off than eating a candy bar. But I still eat them.
I don't want to come across as a crazed liberal, but if as a society we're going to legislate an end to cigarette smoking, why aren't we doing the same with junk food? We decry Philip Morris for profiting for decades with a product that kills people. M&M Mars does exactly the same thing, and yet we encourage kids to become consumers. Something ain't right here.
So I'm going to sit right here until Snickers apologizes. I think I'm gonna need a snack while I wait, though. Something with chocolate. Maybe some peanuts too. And some caramel. Nougat would be nice. Hmmm...
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Bliss
Sometimes I wish I was stupider.
Really. There are days I wish my mind would just turn off. Times I wish I had less ambition. Moments when I believe that I would be truly happier if I didn't think so damned much.
If I could just slog to work, then slog back home, eat dinner, turn on the tube and zone out for three hours or so until it was time to go to sleep to start the cycle all over again, I might have less stress. If I had nothing to strive for then I'd never be disappointed.
It seems that all I've been doing lately is fighting, both against myself and outside forces. I'm trying to get published and that's a definite uphill battle, I've been trying to get a decent job close to home - good luck on that - I've been trying to put together a business plan for a new venture my brother-in-law and I are starting, and that's a struggle. I know, the less-trodden path is the more rewarding, etc. etc. etc. But does it have to be such a rocky, frustrating road? Can't it be just a little bit easier?
I know - I'll commit a crime and get put in prison. I'm thinking some non-violent white-collar crime, nothing with blood or where anyone gets injured, that's just not right. There's no ambition in prison but to get out, which will happen eventually. Plus the days are nice and regimented, it's all done for you.
On second thought... if I went into prison the first thing I'd probably do is plan to break out. And since I'd have nothing but time I'd probably accomplish it. But then I'd get sloppy and get put back in the klink for making a stupid mistake like using my real name on a lease or something.
Better to walk the straight and narrow right now. It might be frustrating and full of disappointment, but at least it's honest.
Really. There are days I wish my mind would just turn off. Times I wish I had less ambition. Moments when I believe that I would be truly happier if I didn't think so damned much.
If I could just slog to work, then slog back home, eat dinner, turn on the tube and zone out for three hours or so until it was time to go to sleep to start the cycle all over again, I might have less stress. If I had nothing to strive for then I'd never be disappointed.
It seems that all I've been doing lately is fighting, both against myself and outside forces. I'm trying to get published and that's a definite uphill battle, I've been trying to get a decent job close to home - good luck on that - I've been trying to put together a business plan for a new venture my brother-in-law and I are starting, and that's a struggle. I know, the less-trodden path is the more rewarding, etc. etc. etc. But does it have to be such a rocky, frustrating road? Can't it be just a little bit easier?
I know - I'll commit a crime and get put in prison. I'm thinking some non-violent white-collar crime, nothing with blood or where anyone gets injured, that's just not right. There's no ambition in prison but to get out, which will happen eventually. Plus the days are nice and regimented, it's all done for you.
On second thought... if I went into prison the first thing I'd probably do is plan to break out. And since I'd have nothing but time I'd probably accomplish it. But then I'd get sloppy and get put back in the klink for making a stupid mistake like using my real name on a lease or something.
Better to walk the straight and narrow right now. It might be frustrating and full of disappointment, but at least it's honest.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Delayed Compassion
My grandmother wasn't a very nice person.
I'm talking about my father's mother, who lived a block away from us when I was growing up. I spent my childhood enslaved to her and my grandfather, doing all sorts of manual labor for 25 cents an hour. She was a child of the Depression, one of the 'Feminine Mystique' generation, and generally sullen, resentful, and spiteful. Not to mention openly racist, but that wasn't her so much as the times she grew up in.
After my grandfather died it fell to me to take care of her, which meant I just did the same thing I always did, mowed her lawn and cut limbs and weeded and all sorts of other things. She didn't drive, so she stayed by herself in her big house, waiting for visitors and emerging for graduations and holidays. It was kind of sad, actually, she'd been so mean and objectionable that she spent the last few years of her life mostly alone.
It wasn't until just today that I realized how awful that time of her life must truly have been. Sure, she had the telephone, and she loved her San Antonio Spurs on TV, but she spent 99 percent of her time all by herself. No visitors, family only on special occasions, a visit from a Lutheran minister once every few months to take communion. I knew all this at the time - how could I not - but I was still so close to my decades-long servitude that it didn't matter to me.
Now it makes me want to weep. No one should have to live like that, not even a bitter, hateful old woman who never did anything for anyone else. Time and distance have given me perspective and softened my own hard feelings.
I feel sorry for her now, trapped that way, in a suburban prison largely of her own making. And it makes me realize the prison I'm building around myself, isolated, alone, becoming increasingly disconnected from people. I don't want to go out like that. I want a house filled with friends and family, I want people to drop by at all hours, I want to live my last days with noise and clamor and company, not bitter and alone, waiting for the end to come.
Cross your fingers I'll get my wish.
I'm talking about my father's mother, who lived a block away from us when I was growing up. I spent my childhood enslaved to her and my grandfather, doing all sorts of manual labor for 25 cents an hour. She was a child of the Depression, one of the 'Feminine Mystique' generation, and generally sullen, resentful, and spiteful. Not to mention openly racist, but that wasn't her so much as the times she grew up in.
After my grandfather died it fell to me to take care of her, which meant I just did the same thing I always did, mowed her lawn and cut limbs and weeded and all sorts of other things. She didn't drive, so she stayed by herself in her big house, waiting for visitors and emerging for graduations and holidays. It was kind of sad, actually, she'd been so mean and objectionable that she spent the last few years of her life mostly alone.
It wasn't until just today that I realized how awful that time of her life must truly have been. Sure, she had the telephone, and she loved her San Antonio Spurs on TV, but she spent 99 percent of her time all by herself. No visitors, family only on special occasions, a visit from a Lutheran minister once every few months to take communion. I knew all this at the time - how could I not - but I was still so close to my decades-long servitude that it didn't matter to me.
Now it makes me want to weep. No one should have to live like that, not even a bitter, hateful old woman who never did anything for anyone else. Time and distance have given me perspective and softened my own hard feelings.
I feel sorry for her now, trapped that way, in a suburban prison largely of her own making. And it makes me realize the prison I'm building around myself, isolated, alone, becoming increasingly disconnected from people. I don't want to go out like that. I want a house filled with friends and family, I want people to drop by at all hours, I want to live my last days with noise and clamor and company, not bitter and alone, waiting for the end to come.
Cross your fingers I'll get my wish.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Gimme Fever
I'm sick.
Probably got it from work (ugh...) where some people just don't understand the concept of staying home if you've got something contagious. So I have a fever and chills, and I've been wrapped up in a blanket in my recliner for much of the morning, dozing and waking myself up with my own snoring.
I think I've figured it out. Being sick is not just a virus's method of propagating itself - though it is that - it's really a way for your body to say 'enough' and make you rest.
I've been sleeping poorly the past week or so, maybe longer, and I've been keeping on. Going to work, writing, fencing, working out, as if everything is just fine. But it's not. The sleep was the first clue, when that's interrupted you need to pay attention. But I didn't. And now I'm sick.
I don't feel like going anywhere or doing anything, all I want is to sit and wrap myself in a blanket and watch really bad TV. And I probably should do just that for the next few days.
But you know what? I'm going to get up tomorrow morning and I'm going to go to work. Why? Because if some bastard infected me with his sickness I'm going to make sure everybody else gets it too. Let them spend their Thanksgiving shivering and locked in a bedroom while the rest of the house enjoys a turkey dinner with all the trimmings.
What's that? I'm being vindictive? Damn straight. I didn't even want to be working in the first place...
Probably got it from work (ugh...) where some people just don't understand the concept of staying home if you've got something contagious. So I have a fever and chills, and I've been wrapped up in a blanket in my recliner for much of the morning, dozing and waking myself up with my own snoring.
I think I've figured it out. Being sick is not just a virus's method of propagating itself - though it is that - it's really a way for your body to say 'enough' and make you rest.
I've been sleeping poorly the past week or so, maybe longer, and I've been keeping on. Going to work, writing, fencing, working out, as if everything is just fine. But it's not. The sleep was the first clue, when that's interrupted you need to pay attention. But I didn't. And now I'm sick.
I don't feel like going anywhere or doing anything, all I want is to sit and wrap myself in a blanket and watch really bad TV. And I probably should do just that for the next few days.
But you know what? I'm going to get up tomorrow morning and I'm going to go to work. Why? Because if some bastard infected me with his sickness I'm going to make sure everybody else gets it too. Let them spend their Thanksgiving shivering and locked in a bedroom while the rest of the house enjoys a turkey dinner with all the trimmings.
What's that? I'm being vindictive? Damn straight. I didn't even want to be working in the first place...
Friday, November 19, 2010
What If?
What if every American just refused to go to work one day? I mean all of them (us), every one, including policemen, firemen, pilots, sewer plant workers. Everybody.
What if cars could drive themselves? Would they really do that much better a job than we do?
What if you remembered everything? For all your life. What you ate for breakfast as a three-year-old, every stroke from every time you shaved, how much water was in every glass you ever poured. The look on that middle-school kid's face when you told him his family was poor? Everything.
What if the Chinese had a decent navy? They could put a lot of sailors on the water, and a lot of Marines on foreign soil.
What if lightning keeps the Earth alive? Like a huge defibrillator?
What if someone was secretly photographing you when you picked your nose, and then they posted the pictures on line? And then what if someone did that to them?
What if you could understand what your dog was thinking? Would you be flattered, bored, or horrified?
What if you could understand what your cat was thinking?
We know the answer to this one. You'd be horrified. Cats think of nothing but murder all day.
What if you weren't potty-trained until you were 30?
What if you could see air? What would you see? And would that make you functionally blind? And if you were an astronaut how would you see out of your space helmet, and how freaky would space with no air be to you?
What if all the power in the world stopped working? Even solar and hydroelectric? What would we do?
What if cars could drive themselves? Would they really do that much better a job than we do?
What if you remembered everything? For all your life. What you ate for breakfast as a three-year-old, every stroke from every time you shaved, how much water was in every glass you ever poured. The look on that middle-school kid's face when you told him his family was poor? Everything.
What if the Chinese had a decent navy? They could put a lot of sailors on the water, and a lot of Marines on foreign soil.
What if lightning keeps the Earth alive? Like a huge defibrillator?
What if someone was secretly photographing you when you picked your nose, and then they posted the pictures on line? And then what if someone did that to them?
What if you could understand what your dog was thinking? Would you be flattered, bored, or horrified?
What if you could understand what your cat was thinking?
We know the answer to this one. You'd be horrified. Cats think of nothing but murder all day.
What if you weren't potty-trained until you were 30?
What if you could see air? What would you see? And would that make you functionally blind? And if you were an astronaut how would you see out of your space helmet, and how freaky would space with no air be to you?
What if all the power in the world stopped working? Even solar and hydroelectric? What would we do?
Thursday, November 18, 2010
I Could Be Dreaming
I had a dream last night. One I remembered, I mean, I dream every night but unless I write them down I don't remember them, and I haven't made the effort to write them down for quite some time. This dream did not compare with the 'Madonna eating Mrs. Fields cookies in the flying deLorean' dream from twenty years ago, but it was interesting in its own right.
FADE IN
You never know how dreams start, they just kind of pick up from somewhere, this was no exception. I was wandering through a city that looked vaguely like a cross between Rome and London – both places I've spent time – where the ends of the city blocks were lost in mist.
A clock walks by. An anthropomorphic, round, six-foot-tall alarm clock walks by, but because it's an alarm clock it doesn't have knees so it just kind of waddles and clanks. It looks a little like one of the kids' toy phones with a face from years ago.
I see the 'Tuppence' woman from Mary Poppins – complete with black Victorian clothes and pigeons on her hat - only she's behind a folding table piled high with pirated CDs. I tell her that nobody buys CDs any more and she tells me to 'scram.' Yup, she said 'scram.'
At the corner by the 7-11 (which I guess they have in Dreamland London-Rome) there are four dusty workmen in a battered blue pickup truck, drinking beer and listening to Conjunto music complete with rapid-fire accordion music. None of them are Mexican, though, they all look like Appalachian rednecks.
I'm hungry, and there's a street vendor trying to sell me that Boba stuff, the horrible bubble tea abomination you 'drink' with those huge straws. I don't want any but the guy follows me down the street. So I take him back to the Tuppence lady so she can tell him to 'scram.'
FADE OUT
I'm guessing there's some serious psychology underneath all that, but it's just so weird that I'd rather celebrate that than try to pick everything apart to find meaning. Good thing there weren't any rocket ships, or cigars, or trains going into tunnels, that would make it really uncomfortable...
FADE IN
You never know how dreams start, they just kind of pick up from somewhere, this was no exception. I was wandering through a city that looked vaguely like a cross between Rome and London – both places I've spent time – where the ends of the city blocks were lost in mist.
A clock walks by. An anthropomorphic, round, six-foot-tall alarm clock walks by, but because it's an alarm clock it doesn't have knees so it just kind of waddles and clanks. It looks a little like one of the kids' toy phones with a face from years ago.
I see the 'Tuppence' woman from Mary Poppins – complete with black Victorian clothes and pigeons on her hat - only she's behind a folding table piled high with pirated CDs. I tell her that nobody buys CDs any more and she tells me to 'scram.' Yup, she said 'scram.'
At the corner by the 7-11 (which I guess they have in Dreamland London-Rome) there are four dusty workmen in a battered blue pickup truck, drinking beer and listening to Conjunto music complete with rapid-fire accordion music. None of them are Mexican, though, they all look like Appalachian rednecks.
I'm hungry, and there's a street vendor trying to sell me that Boba stuff, the horrible bubble tea abomination you 'drink' with those huge straws. I don't want any but the guy follows me down the street. So I take him back to the Tuppence lady so she can tell him to 'scram.'
FADE OUT
I'm guessing there's some serious psychology underneath all that, but it's just so weird that I'd rather celebrate that than try to pick everything apart to find meaning. Good thing there weren't any rocket ships, or cigars, or trains going into tunnels, that would make it really uncomfortable...
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
A New Boutique
Ah, sir, welcome to the Change Boutique.
Actually, I think I'm in the wrong…
Nonsense, sir, you wouldn't have been able to find this establishment if it weren't your time.
So why am I here?
That is the question, isn't it? Have you undergone some sort of drastic life change recently?
Not really. Well.. I was one of the millions of people who lost their jobs last year.
That counts.
But I was cool with it. Really. I had money saved up and with an unemployment check coming in I made it work.
Are you still 'between assignments?'
Hey, funny, that's what I called it. No, I found a gig. Contract work.
And?
I'm doing doing the same stuff I was doing nine years ago.
Ah… a step back.
Kind of. But they're paying me pretty well. I just don't want to that work any more.
So, not recently unemployed, then re-employed at something you'd rather not be doing.
It brings in rent money, can't ask for more than that.
Actually, you can. Anything else?
I'm trying to get a franchise started back in my home town.
That's certainly a change.
Wait, are you taking notes?
Of course, sir. Is there anything else, anything big that's happened to you lately?
No. Well, my father died.
That's very big. My condolences. How are you holding up?
Some days are better than others. Some days are way worse.
Feeling your own mortality, then?
Big time. And I'm not married and I don't have any kids.
Do you want those things?
Absolutely.
Wow, just a barrel of conflict here. What else is happening?
I'm trying really hard to sell my writing.
Ah… you want that particular change then, you want to make a living as a writer?
Of course.
And you feel you're being kept from it?
Well… I suppose…
I can say without equivocation, sir, that you belong here in the Change Boutique.
I don't like dealing with this kind of stuff.
Of course you don't. That’s why you need our help.
Who are you?
Just relax, sir. Go with the flow.
I can't. I want to fight this, try to swim out of the rip tide.
Struggling will only tire you out more.
Crap… do you mind if I cry? Maybe just a little?
You go right ahead, sir.
Actually, I think I'm in the wrong…
Nonsense, sir, you wouldn't have been able to find this establishment if it weren't your time.
So why am I here?
That is the question, isn't it? Have you undergone some sort of drastic life change recently?
Not really. Well.. I was one of the millions of people who lost their jobs last year.
That counts.
But I was cool with it. Really. I had money saved up and with an unemployment check coming in I made it work.
Are you still 'between assignments?'
Hey, funny, that's what I called it. No, I found a gig. Contract work.
And?
I'm doing doing the same stuff I was doing nine years ago.
Ah… a step back.
Kind of. But they're paying me pretty well. I just don't want to that work any more.
So, not recently unemployed, then re-employed at something you'd rather not be doing.
It brings in rent money, can't ask for more than that.
Actually, you can. Anything else?
I'm trying to get a franchise started back in my home town.
That's certainly a change.
Wait, are you taking notes?
Of course, sir. Is there anything else, anything big that's happened to you lately?
No. Well, my father died.
That's very big. My condolences. How are you holding up?
Some days are better than others. Some days are way worse.
Feeling your own mortality, then?
Big time. And I'm not married and I don't have any kids.
Do you want those things?
Absolutely.
Wow, just a barrel of conflict here. What else is happening?
I'm trying really hard to sell my writing.
Ah… you want that particular change then, you want to make a living as a writer?
Of course.
And you feel you're being kept from it?
Well… I suppose…
I can say without equivocation, sir, that you belong here in the Change Boutique.
I don't like dealing with this kind of stuff.
Of course you don't. That’s why you need our help.
Who are you?
Just relax, sir. Go with the flow.
I can't. I want to fight this, try to swim out of the rip tide.
Struggling will only tire you out more.
Crap… do you mind if I cry? Maybe just a little?
You go right ahead, sir.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Carried On The Tide
You ever get the feeling that forces beyond your control are not-so-subtly pulling your strings? That maybe the seeming coincidence or synchronicity of events in your life aren't all that coincidental or randomly synchronous? That, for some unfathomable reason that is well above your mortal pay grade, you're being carried almost forcibly toward a certain goal?
Doesn't it kind of piss you off?
That's what's happening to me right now, at least it seems so, and I'm not quite sure how to take it. I've always been someone who hesitates on the threshold of life change, unwilling to take that step through the door until I get a serious push. I know this, and I'm working on it, I swear. But I get the feeling that I'm not getting pushed so much as getting a combat boot to the small of the back.
I'm going along with it, since there's not much else I can do right now. They say life is what happens when you're making other plans, don't they?
But I sure wish I felt more in control.
Doesn't it kind of piss you off?
That's what's happening to me right now, at least it seems so, and I'm not quite sure how to take it. I've always been someone who hesitates on the threshold of life change, unwilling to take that step through the door until I get a serious push. I know this, and I'm working on it, I swear. But I get the feeling that I'm not getting pushed so much as getting a combat boot to the small of the back.
I'm going along with it, since there's not much else I can do right now. They say life is what happens when you're making other plans, don't they?
But I sure wish I felt more in control.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Where My Stooges At?
I had a mild panic attack today, nothing serious, but it did take me a moment to get over. I don't have cable, you see, haven't for over a year now, and I this afternoon I was really jonesing for some Three Stooges. And I couldn't find them.
There are some days you just need to see Stooges, and today was one of those days. And I was foiled. Back when I had cable it was a simple matter of looking up 'Stooge' in the directory, and I guarantee you there was would be an episode airing on one of the 500 channels within a few hours. But now... no Stooges.
Oh, sure, I could have gone to YouTube, but it's not the same. It's just not. Watching Stooges sitting at my desk, on some low-res pirated screen capture... that's not a prime Stooges-viewing experience, that's what you do when you're at work pretending to accomplish something.
I wanted to see Larry, Moe and Curly - not Shemp, not Curly Joe - smack each other with boards or hit each other in the face with lobsters or poke each other's eyes out while I sat on my couch and enjoyed their decades-old antics while my head rested on cushions. But it wasn't meant to be.
So I watched COPS instead. Which is like the Stooges, but in HD. And the stooges usually don't have shirts on and the only antics they have are running from the police and getting tasered. But it's still better than YouTube.
There are some days you just need to see Stooges, and today was one of those days. And I was foiled. Back when I had cable it was a simple matter of looking up 'Stooge' in the directory, and I guarantee you there was would be an episode airing on one of the 500 channels within a few hours. But now... no Stooges.
Oh, sure, I could have gone to YouTube, but it's not the same. It's just not. Watching Stooges sitting at my desk, on some low-res pirated screen capture... that's not a prime Stooges-viewing experience, that's what you do when you're at work pretending to accomplish something.
I wanted to see Larry, Moe and Curly - not Shemp, not Curly Joe - smack each other with boards or hit each other in the face with lobsters or poke each other's eyes out while I sat on my couch and enjoyed their decades-old antics while my head rested on cushions. But it wasn't meant to be.
So I watched COPS instead. Which is like the Stooges, but in HD. And the stooges usually don't have shirts on and the only antics they have are running from the police and getting tasered. But it's still better than YouTube.
Friday, November 12, 2010
What's The Protocol?
I was just in the grocery store, gettin' groceries - duh - just minding my own business and looking to stock up the refrigerator, which was running low on supplies. I was taking my time, ambling about, and I saw a guy who looked like a street person. He was unkempt and dirty, and his face and hands were deeply tanned, like he spent most of his time outside. He had a wild-man beard, the kind where you let everything grow including your neck, but oddly enough his extremely long hair seemed freshly-washed. Or at least not as dirty as the rest of him.
So I thought that maybe my first estimate was a bit unkind, and that he might actually be a mechanic or a roofer or some kind of tradesman that gets dirty regularly but has a home to go to at night. I moved on and watched a few more people, like the Armenian guy with the shaved head wearing an Ed Hardy shirt and sunglasses indoors, and the SoCal soccer mom with bleached blonde hair and 'I swear I'm only 29' desperately hip clothes, and the cartoon-like short man who was as wide as he was tall with a head shaped like a great big gumdrop. Not a bad day for people watching, actually.
After my peregrinations I ended up at the only open register, right behind Homeless Man.* He had a Von's card, though it was beat all to Hell and had an odd, almost melted shape. The checker gave him his total, $5.43, and he dug into his pocket.
He drew back a hand with the filthiest, grodiest wad of $1 bills I have ever seen. And I used to be a waiter, people tipped me in bills they didn't want in their own wallets. He only had $4, and had already presented the cashier with 4 quarters, laid out carefully on that little stand they have. She told him he was short, and he dug back into his pocket for a fistful of change which he counted out laboriously. Being this close to him for so long I had to reverse my earlier estimate. This guy was homeless for sure, he just happened to find somewhere to wash his hair earlier in the day. Or the day before.
His transaction successfully completed, he took his purchases - gum, I think, and something else - and departed. His money sat on the little shelf, just leaping with grime and bacteria and unknown nastiness. I was wondering if the cashier was just going to leave it there, but she grabbed a plastic bag and scooped the bills like she was picking up her dog's poop. Then she got another bag and did the same with the change. She stuffed one bag inside the other and then put the wad under the cash drawer.
It had never occurred to me that not only did some people have 'so gross you don't want to touch it' cash, but that cashiers would have some sort of personal routine for handling that kind of terrible yet perfectly legal tender.
You learn something new every day.
*sounds like a super-hero, doesn't it? Kind of a hapless one, but still. Nobody steal this, I'll make a script out of it.
So I thought that maybe my first estimate was a bit unkind, and that he might actually be a mechanic or a roofer or some kind of tradesman that gets dirty regularly but has a home to go to at night. I moved on and watched a few more people, like the Armenian guy with the shaved head wearing an Ed Hardy shirt and sunglasses indoors, and the SoCal soccer mom with bleached blonde hair and 'I swear I'm only 29' desperately hip clothes, and the cartoon-like short man who was as wide as he was tall with a head shaped like a great big gumdrop. Not a bad day for people watching, actually.
After my peregrinations I ended up at the only open register, right behind Homeless Man.* He had a Von's card, though it was beat all to Hell and had an odd, almost melted shape. The checker gave him his total, $5.43, and he dug into his pocket.
He drew back a hand with the filthiest, grodiest wad of $1 bills I have ever seen. And I used to be a waiter, people tipped me in bills they didn't want in their own wallets. He only had $4, and had already presented the cashier with 4 quarters, laid out carefully on that little stand they have. She told him he was short, and he dug back into his pocket for a fistful of change which he counted out laboriously. Being this close to him for so long I had to reverse my earlier estimate. This guy was homeless for sure, he just happened to find somewhere to wash his hair earlier in the day. Or the day before.
His transaction successfully completed, he took his purchases - gum, I think, and something else - and departed. His money sat on the little shelf, just leaping with grime and bacteria and unknown nastiness. I was wondering if the cashier was just going to leave it there, but she grabbed a plastic bag and scooped the bills like she was picking up her dog's poop. Then she got another bag and did the same with the change. She stuffed one bag inside the other and then put the wad under the cash drawer.
It had never occurred to me that not only did some people have 'so gross you don't want to touch it' cash, but that cashiers would have some sort of personal routine for handling that kind of terrible yet perfectly legal tender.
You learn something new every day.
*sounds like a super-hero, doesn't it? Kind of a hapless one, but still. Nobody steal this, I'll make a script out of it.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
A Or B?
I've been thinking about choices lately, one or the other, this or that, yes or no, etc. etc. I don't mean the nature of choosing or the act of choosing, I mean the choice itself. How do human beings make what might seem to be impossible choices? So today I want you to think about the following choices, but I want you to visualize the situation in your imagination. Don't intellectualize it, go with your gut.
Which is funnier:
a clown falling down or an old lady falling down?
Which tastes better:
a five-star meal from a celebrity chef or PB&J made by your mother, with the crusts cut off?
Which is more cuddly:
a puppy belly or a fluffy cat?
What gives you more satisfaction:
completing project for work or raking the leaves at home?
Which super-power would you rather have:
flight or invisibility?
Which fast food is best for football games at home:
pizza or chicken wings?
Which gives you more pleasure:
a hot bubble bath or seeing the jerk who cut you off in traffic pulled over by the cops?
Which is funnier:
a clown falling down or an old lady falling down?
Which tastes better:
a five-star meal from a celebrity chef or PB&J made by your mother, with the crusts cut off?
Which is more cuddly:
a puppy belly or a fluffy cat?
What gives you more satisfaction:
completing project for work or raking the leaves at home?
Which super-power would you rather have:
flight or invisibility?
Which fast food is best for football games at home:
pizza or chicken wings?
Which gives you more pleasure:
a hot bubble bath or seeing the jerk who cut you off in traffic pulled over by the cops?
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Alone
I didn't used to mind being alone. I preferred it, to tell you the truth. Just being by myself didn't mean I was lonely, and no roommates meant my place was mine, I could walk around in my underwear to my heart's content, do dishes or not, leave laundry until it was an absolute emergency. No big deal.
I don't like it now.
I find myself coming home to an empty place, no wife, no kids, no pets, just a few houseplants, and I know I'm missing out. I'm alone and I'm lonely. Even as recently as six months ago I didn't know that.
What changed? I wish I knew. I'm getting older, as we all are, and maybe I'm feeling the march of time, maybe my chance to have a wife and kids is slipping away. But I'm so out of dating practice I don't know how to go about it any more; I don't know how to find someone I want who would want someone like me. It's enough to make me despair, really.
But I'm not gonna. Things will get better, but they're not gonna get better all by themselves. I have to do something, I have to make this happen. I know what I want and I just have to go out there and grab it.
Sure wish I knew what to do...
I don't like it now.
I find myself coming home to an empty place, no wife, no kids, no pets, just a few houseplants, and I know I'm missing out. I'm alone and I'm lonely. Even as recently as six months ago I didn't know that.
What changed? I wish I knew. I'm getting older, as we all are, and maybe I'm feeling the march of time, maybe my chance to have a wife and kids is slipping away. But I'm so out of dating practice I don't know how to go about it any more; I don't know how to find someone I want who would want someone like me. It's enough to make me despair, really.
But I'm not gonna. Things will get better, but they're not gonna get better all by themselves. I have to do something, I have to make this happen. I know what I want and I just have to go out there and grab it.
Sure wish I knew what to do...
Sunday, November 7, 2010
If A Tree Falls On El Molino...
A tree fell over in my neighborhood today.
We're not having any violent weather, no rain, no fire, no wind, no nothing. Nobody hit it with a car or took a chainsaw to it until well after it had toppled. One minute it was standing tall and the next it just... fell over.
I happened to walk right past that tree on my way home from the gym not an hour before its demise. I've passed by this tree on foot several times a week for years now, with never a second thought as to its sturdiness or fortitude. It's a tree, for God's sake, it's a landmark, an ecosystem unto itself. As a matter of fact, a little dog was taking a leak on that exact tree as I walked by.
Must have been one serious whiz.
But as I watched the city workers carve it into little chunks small enough to fit into the wood chipper, I got to thinking. There is no constant in the world but change, after all, and when a neighborhood tree just pitches into the street you'd better take notice. Is this a metaphor I need to pay attention to? Is this some sort of message that the pillars of my identity are built on an unsturdy base? Am I that tree, purportedly strong yet fragile enough to collapse under my own weight? (no fat jokes, please) Is everything I am and everything I thought I would become - the branching of my own life from acorn to oak - rotten inside? Do I need to delve into myself and re-invent who and what I am before my proud canopy lies ignominiously in a metaphorical street?
Or is it just a freakin' tree?
I'm voting for number two. But I might start taking personal stock. Just in case.
We're not having any violent weather, no rain, no fire, no wind, no nothing. Nobody hit it with a car or took a chainsaw to it until well after it had toppled. One minute it was standing tall and the next it just... fell over.
I happened to walk right past that tree on my way home from the gym not an hour before its demise. I've passed by this tree on foot several times a week for years now, with never a second thought as to its sturdiness or fortitude. It's a tree, for God's sake, it's a landmark, an ecosystem unto itself. As a matter of fact, a little dog was taking a leak on that exact tree as I walked by.
Must have been one serious whiz.
But as I watched the city workers carve it into little chunks small enough to fit into the wood chipper, I got to thinking. There is no constant in the world but change, after all, and when a neighborhood tree just pitches into the street you'd better take notice. Is this a metaphor I need to pay attention to? Is this some sort of message that the pillars of my identity are built on an unsturdy base? Am I that tree, purportedly strong yet fragile enough to collapse under my own weight? (no fat jokes, please) Is everything I am and everything I thought I would become - the branching of my own life from acorn to oak - rotten inside? Do I need to delve into myself and re-invent who and what I am before my proud canopy lies ignominiously in a metaphorical street?
Or is it just a freakin' tree?
I'm voting for number two. But I might start taking personal stock. Just in case.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Who Approved This?
They closed a highway in Los Angeles this morning. Not because of a fire or an earthquake or mudslides or rockfall - all of which have happened before - but to film a commercial.
Yup, you heard that right. The city agreed to close an entire Eastbound stretch of the 105, the main artery leading out of LAX, to let some production company film a car commercial. Not only inconveniencing tens of thousands of people trying to leave LAX only to find they can't, but also making Saturday a nightmare for the people who live around LAX and have to deal with all the traffic that should have been on the highway.
Am I the only one who thinks this is astonishingly wrong?
Living around LA you get used to seeing film trucks, especially in Pasadena, where I live, which is a favorite location shoot since it's only about 10-15 miles from most studios. The first year you live here you get excited when you see the equipment trucks and the catering vans, and you try to spot anybody famous. Which, of course, you can't. Then the bloom wears off the rose and you see the film crews and trucks and tattooed fat guys in shorts for what they are, an interruption in your day that you can't avoid. Seeing the trucks stops being an 'ooh... look' moment and becomes an 'aw... crap' moment. You stop looking for famous people and start looking for the 'no parking' signs so you can tell how long the circus is going to be in town this time.
Film productions do close streets from time to time, and every six months or so they'll close the Colorado Street bridge on a Sunday for a commercial. But an entire highway? And not only that, but the highway that is the ONLY way to get out of LAX without taking surface streets? Who got paid off to agree to that?
Oh, wait, it's Los Angeles. EVERYBODY got paid off to agree to that.
Yup, you heard that right. The city agreed to close an entire Eastbound stretch of the 105, the main artery leading out of LAX, to let some production company film a car commercial. Not only inconveniencing tens of thousands of people trying to leave LAX only to find they can't, but also making Saturday a nightmare for the people who live around LAX and have to deal with all the traffic that should have been on the highway.
Am I the only one who thinks this is astonishingly wrong?
Living around LA you get used to seeing film trucks, especially in Pasadena, where I live, which is a favorite location shoot since it's only about 10-15 miles from most studios. The first year you live here you get excited when you see the equipment trucks and the catering vans, and you try to spot anybody famous. Which, of course, you can't. Then the bloom wears off the rose and you see the film crews and trucks and tattooed fat guys in shorts for what they are, an interruption in your day that you can't avoid. Seeing the trucks stops being an 'ooh... look' moment and becomes an 'aw... crap' moment. You stop looking for famous people and start looking for the 'no parking' signs so you can tell how long the circus is going to be in town this time.
Film productions do close streets from time to time, and every six months or so they'll close the Colorado Street bridge on a Sunday for a commercial. But an entire highway? And not only that, but the highway that is the ONLY way to get out of LAX without taking surface streets? Who got paid off to agree to that?
Oh, wait, it's Los Angeles. EVERYBODY got paid off to agree to that.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Grocery Store Jerk
As he heard his nose break and felt it twisting into a new shape on his face, Chad thought 'I probably should have gone to another grocery store.'
The older Asian woman he assumed he could intimidate with his height and muscles hadn't been cowed in the least. She told him he was behaving like a three-year-old and when he took exception to her words she punched him square in the face. In hindsight, as the blood really started to flow, he realized he'd misjudged her.
He also misjudged the pot-bellied, balding-yet-with-a-pony-tail hippy throwback, whose tattooed leg was even now launching a combat-booted foot into Chad's groin. When the blinding light and searing pain tore into his brain Chad made a mental note to remember what it felt like when a testicle ruptured, just in case the ER docs asked him.
A meek mother of two toddlers got in on the action, slamming her fifteen-pound diaper bag into Chad's solar plexus so hard that for a moment he actually was paralyzed. He vaguely remembered calling her 'stupid bitch' when she'd been trying to wrangle her older child away from the produce.
Chad's wobbly legs failed and he pitched forward onto his knees. His tears and blood combined in a pool on the floor, and copious amounts of vomit joined the mix as Chad heaved and spat, emptying his stomach contents in one colossal urping bellow.
Before he could get to his feet a Rascal hit him from behind, sending him sprawling into his own vile fluids. Chad rolled over onto his back, catching the murderous glint in the eye of the 500-pound man he'd called 'tubby' not five minutes ago, over by the gluten-free dessert case. Evidently when the morbidly obese got mad they stayed mad.
More people descended on Chad, eager to exact their revenge, and he tried frantically to catch the eye of the lone security guard. The one he'd called a 'rent a cop' and told to go back to DeVry and find a real job. The guard found something interesting across the store.
As more fists and feet and bariatric assistance devices pummeled him and his consciousness slowly slipped away, Chad started to regret being such a colossal douchebag. Then he passed out and thought nothing more about it.
The older Asian woman he assumed he could intimidate with his height and muscles hadn't been cowed in the least. She told him he was behaving like a three-year-old and when he took exception to her words she punched him square in the face. In hindsight, as the blood really started to flow, he realized he'd misjudged her.
He also misjudged the pot-bellied, balding-yet-with-a-pony-tail hippy throwback, whose tattooed leg was even now launching a combat-booted foot into Chad's groin. When the blinding light and searing pain tore into his brain Chad made a mental note to remember what it felt like when a testicle ruptured, just in case the ER docs asked him.
A meek mother of two toddlers got in on the action, slamming her fifteen-pound diaper bag into Chad's solar plexus so hard that for a moment he actually was paralyzed. He vaguely remembered calling her 'stupid bitch' when she'd been trying to wrangle her older child away from the produce.
Chad's wobbly legs failed and he pitched forward onto his knees. His tears and blood combined in a pool on the floor, and copious amounts of vomit joined the mix as Chad heaved and spat, emptying his stomach contents in one colossal urping bellow.
Before he could get to his feet a Rascal hit him from behind, sending him sprawling into his own vile fluids. Chad rolled over onto his back, catching the murderous glint in the eye of the 500-pound man he'd called 'tubby' not five minutes ago, over by the gluten-free dessert case. Evidently when the morbidly obese got mad they stayed mad.
More people descended on Chad, eager to exact their revenge, and he tried frantically to catch the eye of the lone security guard. The one he'd called a 'rent a cop' and told to go back to DeVry and find a real job. The guard found something interesting across the store.
As more fists and feet and bariatric assistance devices pummeled him and his consciousness slowly slipped away, Chad started to regret being such a colossal douchebag. Then he passed out and thought nothing more about it.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Not The Oldest Any More
I remember the first time the guys in the comic book shop called me 'Sir.' I couldn't have been thirty, and yet to them I was already well past my prime, an old dude, the kind of guy who buys the expensive back issues, the ones printed before even their fathers were born. It was true, especially the back issue part, if a comic was out on the newsstand in the past 30+ years and I don't have it, it's because I didn't want it in the first place. For the longest time I was relegated to that lofty status of 'serious collector,' competing with the middle schoolers for the latest issue of Archie Comics. But today I've cast that status aside. Why? you may ask.
Because today I am no longer the oldest person in the comic book shop.
My comic shop here in Pasadena is a great store, and its got a very eclectic clientele. It's a stone's throw from PCC - Pasadena City College - so there are tons of just-graduated high school kids, and then are slightly older people, guys in their 20s with a little disposable income. And there are chicks too, not just the ones dragged inside by their boyfriends. And men and women about my age, who really grew up with the advent of comics as a semi-serious medium, and then there are the old dudes. I mean older than me old dudes.
A few of them write for television sitcoms, the guys in the store have told me as much, and at least one is a physician, and several are money managers. So I'm reasonably confident I haven't been the oldest in the comic shop for quite some time. But today I saw the guy that confirmed my suspicions (hopes?). He was short, thick, and with shiny white hair and a shiny white beard to match. Cut short so it's easy to manage.
He was behind me in line, and I didn't see him until I had paid and was about to leave, but when I saw him I almost heaved a sigh of relief. Seriously, I almost shook his hand because he had taken over my status as Oldest Man in the Comic Shop. And he's taken it over by long shot, so I'm not gonna regain that title any time soon. What a relief.
Now if I can just get someone to take my title of Most Indecisive Person in the Doughnut Store...
Because today I am no longer the oldest person in the comic book shop.
My comic shop here in Pasadena is a great store, and its got a very eclectic clientele. It's a stone's throw from PCC - Pasadena City College - so there are tons of just-graduated high school kids, and then are slightly older people, guys in their 20s with a little disposable income. And there are chicks too, not just the ones dragged inside by their boyfriends. And men and women about my age, who really grew up with the advent of comics as a semi-serious medium, and then there are the old dudes. I mean older than me old dudes.
A few of them write for television sitcoms, the guys in the store have told me as much, and at least one is a physician, and several are money managers. So I'm reasonably confident I haven't been the oldest in the comic shop for quite some time. But today I saw the guy that confirmed my suspicions (hopes?). He was short, thick, and with shiny white hair and a shiny white beard to match. Cut short so it's easy to manage.
He was behind me in line, and I didn't see him until I had paid and was about to leave, but when I saw him I almost heaved a sigh of relief. Seriously, I almost shook his hand because he had taken over my status as Oldest Man in the Comic Shop. And he's taken it over by long shot, so I'm not gonna regain that title any time soon. What a relief.
Now if I can just get someone to take my title of Most Indecisive Person in the Doughnut Store...
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Where's Miss Cleo?
Every so often I like to go to the bookstore and buy a magazine I never otherwise would. Like 'O' for instance, or 'High Times,' neither of which is on my regular reading list. I particularly liked 'Make' and if I owned a home I'd probably buy it regularly. My point is, I like to expand my horizons and encounter things I normally wouldn't.
I think I want to visit a psychic.
This is not because I believe that psychics have special powers, rather the opposite, it's because I specifically don't believe they do that I want to go.
I know several people who swear by their psychics, and several more who have been more than once and come away entranced with the depth and specificity of the 'psychic's' knowledge. But there are well-documented techniques - using cold reading, like what that fraud John Edward does - to get people to believe you know more about them than you actually do.
I want to go and just see what happens. I'd have to pick my psychic carefully, go on someone's recommendation perhaps, and then just let them talk. No feedback, no nods, no responding to general questions, just listen. A real psychic would say what he or she 'hears' about me, from the spirits or her own intuition or whatever, a real psychic wouldn't need my yes or no.
Of course, this does open the door to potential problems. I'd go because I'm pretty sure the person giving me the reading would be either so general as to be useless, or so far off the mark that they might as well be talking about somebody in Istanbul. But what if the psychic really is? What if they know things about me a stranger couldn't possibly know, specific things, like, say, where the heist took place and what I did with all the money. Then I'd be up a metaphorical creek, and I'd be forced to re-examine my preconceptions about the world and the way it works.
I'm tempted to abandon the effort. But... then I'd always have this nagging question. I'm doing it. I'm gonna find a psychic. I'll let you know how it goes.
I think I want to visit a psychic.
This is not because I believe that psychics have special powers, rather the opposite, it's because I specifically don't believe they do that I want to go.
I know several people who swear by their psychics, and several more who have been more than once and come away entranced with the depth and specificity of the 'psychic's' knowledge. But there are well-documented techniques - using cold reading, like what that fraud John Edward does - to get people to believe you know more about them than you actually do.
I want to go and just see what happens. I'd have to pick my psychic carefully, go on someone's recommendation perhaps, and then just let them talk. No feedback, no nods, no responding to general questions, just listen. A real psychic would say what he or she 'hears' about me, from the spirits or her own intuition or whatever, a real psychic wouldn't need my yes or no.
Of course, this does open the door to potential problems. I'd go because I'm pretty sure the person giving me the reading would be either so general as to be useless, or so far off the mark that they might as well be talking about somebody in Istanbul. But what if the psychic really is? What if they know things about me a stranger couldn't possibly know, specific things, like, say, where the heist took place and what I did with all the money. Then I'd be up a metaphorical creek, and I'd be forced to re-examine my preconceptions about the world and the way it works.
I'm tempted to abandon the effort. But... then I'd always have this nagging question. I'm doing it. I'm gonna find a psychic. I'll let you know how it goes.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Not As Good As 'Made In China?'
I went to the store today. It's been a rare occurrence in the past eighteen months or so, what with being 'between assignments' and all. But I need new workout shorts, since the two pair I have are wearing out. One has a hole right in the middle of the butt crack portion, so I can't really wear them outside (though I have, sorry Mom), and the other pair - my 'good' pair - are wearing out and getting threadbare on the fronts of the thighs. It's past time for new shorts, is what I'm saying.
I went to the sporting goods store early, after my workout so I'd be primed for the purchase. And as I was sorting through the racks, and wondering how many people played basketball for there to be so many basketball shorts choices, I started noticing where the garments were actually made.
Vietnam, Venezuela, Mexico, Sri Lanka. Swaziland. Really. Swaziland, the little landlocked dot in the top right of South Africa. They make garments for export now. Who knew?
After I saw the Swaziland label, I started looking through other clothes I wasn't interested in buying, trying to find a 'Made in China' label. Didn't come across a single one. Which means that China is now too middle-class to do the kind of back-breaking cheap-labor work that made them an economic powerhouse.
Which got me to thinking. What does a middle-class Chinese shopper do when they find a 'Made in Swaziland' label on their brand-new Mao jacket? Do they turn up their noses and paw through the racks until they find a 'Made in China' label?
I mean, it's inevitable, right? Just like Americans are on a kick to find stuff that's 'Made in the USA,' the Chinese middle class has to be doing much the same thing, only with their own jingoism in the front. And that's kind of scary if you think about it too long.
So what happens in another twenty or thirty years? Will shoppers in Swaziland be in the sporting goods store shopping for shorts, only to be brought up short by labels that read 'Made in Micronesia?'
I went to the sporting goods store early, after my workout so I'd be primed for the purchase. And as I was sorting through the racks, and wondering how many people played basketball for there to be so many basketball shorts choices, I started noticing where the garments were actually made.
Vietnam, Venezuela, Mexico, Sri Lanka. Swaziland. Really. Swaziland, the little landlocked dot in the top right of South Africa. They make garments for export now. Who knew?
After I saw the Swaziland label, I started looking through other clothes I wasn't interested in buying, trying to find a 'Made in China' label. Didn't come across a single one. Which means that China is now too middle-class to do the kind of back-breaking cheap-labor work that made them an economic powerhouse.
Which got me to thinking. What does a middle-class Chinese shopper do when they find a 'Made in Swaziland' label on their brand-new Mao jacket? Do they turn up their noses and paw through the racks until they find a 'Made in China' label?
I mean, it's inevitable, right? Just like Americans are on a kick to find stuff that's 'Made in the USA,' the Chinese middle class has to be doing much the same thing, only with their own jingoism in the front. And that's kind of scary if you think about it too long.
So what happens in another twenty or thirty years? Will shoppers in Swaziland be in the sporting goods store shopping for shorts, only to be brought up short by labels that read 'Made in Micronesia?'
Friday, October 29, 2010
Indefinably Slimy
I know this guy, you may know someone like him. He's pleasant enough, friendly enough in a superficial way, even kind of a man's man because he's fit and tough and smart enough to secure a job that gives him a very decent income. But every time I shake hands with him I want to go wash up. I thought I was alone in this until a week or so ago, when I happened to be talking to someone else about this guy, and they said pretty much exactly the same thing, they felt like they needed to hose off after being in his presence.
I asked around, and it seems no one really cares for this guy, they all think the same thing, that he's more than a bit arrogant, condescending, and superior. Even though he's done nothing at all to merit the hostility directed towards him. I mean, seriously, he's always been a perfect gentleman, not an unkind word, not a dirty look, not one thing you could point to as a reason not to like him. And yet no one does.
I got to wondering what it could possibly be, why would this person be so universally disliked with no apparent reason? I'm sure you seen animals have aversions to specific people, dogs growl and back away from some, cats hiss and run off. This is like that, only with people. I thought about it from time to time - when I encountered this guy - but never could put my finger on it. There was some indefinable sliminess about him, like a black cloud hanging over his head that infected every interaction he had.
Then I saw him again and talked to him for a little while, and during that conversation it hit me. I knew what it was that put people off. He's the kind of guy who puts people into two categories: those who are useful to him and those that aren't. He's in 'the industry' and making a pretty penny at it, so I guess his useful radar works pretty well. As far as he was concerned I was not someone who could advance his career, and neither was anyone who shared my opinion of him.
So what we were reacting to was his casual dismissal of us as inconsequential. Even though it wasn't overt, it was present enough for us to recognize. He was polite and cordial to us not because he was interested in talking to us or learning more about us, but because to be seen as impolite might get back to those people who could advance his career. Got it. Finally.
But now here's the question. He's doing well in his chosen career, and being a colossal douchebag has more than paid his rent. Does that mean he's just lucky, or does that mean douchebaggery in general gets you ahead? Maybe it only gets you ahead with other jackass bastards? But if the people in charge are all jackass bastard douchebags, wouldn't they be alert to more of the same? You can't con a con man, after all, they know all the tricks.
So I was pondering how I might go about becoming a colossal douchebag myself, because being that way certainly seemed lucrative. But I realized I just do not have it in me. I can't treat people that way, whenever I talk to someone I have to dig and probe and find out more about them. Because people are interesting, and the less interesting you imagine a person might be, the more interesting you find out they are. I've had people tell me things - true things, verifiable things - that I could never put in my fiction because readers wouldn't buy it.
I guess I'm doomed to a life of middle-class wage slavery, all because I can't treat people like things. Seems like a fair trade-off.
I asked around, and it seems no one really cares for this guy, they all think the same thing, that he's more than a bit arrogant, condescending, and superior. Even though he's done nothing at all to merit the hostility directed towards him. I mean, seriously, he's always been a perfect gentleman, not an unkind word, not a dirty look, not one thing you could point to as a reason not to like him. And yet no one does.
I got to wondering what it could possibly be, why would this person be so universally disliked with no apparent reason? I'm sure you seen animals have aversions to specific people, dogs growl and back away from some, cats hiss and run off. This is like that, only with people. I thought about it from time to time - when I encountered this guy - but never could put my finger on it. There was some indefinable sliminess about him, like a black cloud hanging over his head that infected every interaction he had.
Then I saw him again and talked to him for a little while, and during that conversation it hit me. I knew what it was that put people off. He's the kind of guy who puts people into two categories: those who are useful to him and those that aren't. He's in 'the industry' and making a pretty penny at it, so I guess his useful radar works pretty well. As far as he was concerned I was not someone who could advance his career, and neither was anyone who shared my opinion of him.
So what we were reacting to was his casual dismissal of us as inconsequential. Even though it wasn't overt, it was present enough for us to recognize. He was polite and cordial to us not because he was interested in talking to us or learning more about us, but because to be seen as impolite might get back to those people who could advance his career. Got it. Finally.
But now here's the question. He's doing well in his chosen career, and being a colossal douchebag has more than paid his rent. Does that mean he's just lucky, or does that mean douchebaggery in general gets you ahead? Maybe it only gets you ahead with other jackass bastards? But if the people in charge are all jackass bastard douchebags, wouldn't they be alert to more of the same? You can't con a con man, after all, they know all the tricks.
So I was pondering how I might go about becoming a colossal douchebag myself, because being that way certainly seemed lucrative. But I realized I just do not have it in me. I can't treat people that way, whenever I talk to someone I have to dig and probe and find out more about them. Because people are interesting, and the less interesting you imagine a person might be, the more interesting you find out they are. I've had people tell me things - true things, verifiable things - that I could never put in my fiction because readers wouldn't buy it.
I guess I'm doomed to a life of middle-class wage slavery, all because I can't treat people like things. Seems like a fair trade-off.
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