I've been trying to think of a new career direction, considering my almost complete lack of interest in working for another corporation. While I may have to take another office gig, I need to find a new passion. I was working on a few edits for one of my books today when it hit me: I need to learn how to play the banjo. And why would I need to have that skill? you might ask.
I'm gonna start a jug band.
Yup. Right here in SoCal. I'm gonna find me some barely-literate fellows, guys who have trouble reading street signs but who have innate rhythm and know the words to hymns by heart. We'll have a big fat guy - no, not me - and a thin, weaselly guy, and one with a wild mountain-man beard. And then me. None of us will wear shirts unless it's cold outside or we're playing a wedding or something. No shoes either, 'cause I want to keep it real. The big fat guy will play the washboard, the weaselly guy will play the one-string washtub bass, the mountain man will play the moonshine jug with 'xxx' on it, and I'll play the banjo. As the only one of our quartet with his own teeth, I'll also be the lead singer and de facto chick magnet.
Now that iTunes has provided a platform for emerging artists I know we'll break big, if for no other reason than to provide an alternative to Lady Gaga. Although I wouldn't put it past her to steal our shtick and start her own jug band... I should nip that competition in the bud and record a duet with her right away. And I gotta start growing my mullet out right now.
Yeah... this is really looking up. I can't see the flaw in this plan at all.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
You May Have Already Won...
Guess what? I just won $150,000. No, seriously, it's for real. I got a letter from England and they said my name was drawn from different sweepstakes and lottery databases around the world. Evidently they've tried to contact me for years now, and it's down to the wire, only three more weeks left before I forfeit this forever. And all I have to do is call a number in England... hold on a second. This sounds fishy. I'm beginning to suspect this letter from 'Standard Links Alliance' might be a scam. Or scam-ola...
You know, now that I think about it, I've never entered a British lottery. I don't even know if they have one. I know they have a lottery in Australia because I did buy lotto tickets there, but all I won was a kangaroo with a pouch full of beer. I'm kidding, the beer came in its own crate.
A while back I wrote about a Nigerian scam e-mail I received, one that claimed to be from our own FBI. I could tell immediately that was a scam because it wasn't from some prince, but from a US Federal police force operating on behalf of a foreign lottery and I was supposed to have won almost a million dollars. Only the truly desperate would believe that kind of pitch.
But these Standard Links Alliance guys are good. Really good. The letter was indeed mailed from England, and it's written on A-4 paper (what they use in Europe instead of 8.5 x 11), and the phone number they tell you to call is in London, England just like they claim. Aside from the complete nonsense of the letter itself, which never quite explains where they got my name or how I came by this sum, it's almost totally believable. Even the dollar amount itself, $150,000, seems within the realm of possibility. Not too large to be ridiculous like the Nigerian e-mail, and not so small that most people would ignore it. $150,000 is that Goldilocks spot for generating interest in free money. If, of course, you don't ask yourself why a British bank is issuing checks in American currency.
I'm half tempted to give these guys a call - from a work phone, of course - just to screw with them. But, nah, this will just go in the trash with the other garbage.
Still... you gotta give them an 'A' for execution on this one.
You know, now that I think about it, I've never entered a British lottery. I don't even know if they have one. I know they have a lottery in Australia because I did buy lotto tickets there, but all I won was a kangaroo with a pouch full of beer. I'm kidding, the beer came in its own crate.
A while back I wrote about a Nigerian scam e-mail I received, one that claimed to be from our own FBI. I could tell immediately that was a scam because it wasn't from some prince, but from a US Federal police force operating on behalf of a foreign lottery and I was supposed to have won almost a million dollars. Only the truly desperate would believe that kind of pitch.
But these Standard Links Alliance guys are good. Really good. The letter was indeed mailed from England, and it's written on A-4 paper (what they use in Europe instead of 8.5 x 11), and the phone number they tell you to call is in London, England just like they claim. Aside from the complete nonsense of the letter itself, which never quite explains where they got my name or how I came by this sum, it's almost totally believable. Even the dollar amount itself, $150,000, seems within the realm of possibility. Not too large to be ridiculous like the Nigerian e-mail, and not so small that most people would ignore it. $150,000 is that Goldilocks spot for generating interest in free money. If, of course, you don't ask yourself why a British bank is issuing checks in American currency.
I'm half tempted to give these guys a call - from a work phone, of course - just to screw with them. But, nah, this will just go in the trash with the other garbage.
Still... you gotta give them an 'A' for execution on this one.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Truly Uncivilized
They don't have breakfast tacos here in SoCal.
In a place as cosmopolitan as Los Angeles, or as suburban as Orange County, you'd think you could find a decent flour tortilla and a scrambled egg to fill it. But you'd be wrong. They use mostly corn tortillas, and what flour tortillas that do exist are travesties that would get the sellers run out of South Texas on a rail. Possibly tarred and feathered too.
The lack of flour tortillas is a direct cause of the lack of breakfast tacos, and it's kind of pissing me off. See, in Texas the breakfast taco is a thing of beauty, a small, 6-inch flour tortilla, packed with a combination of scrambled egg and something else. Potatoes, bacon, cheese, maybe all three, maybe barbacoa or carne guisada. Or my personal favorite, eggs and chorizo, which is a Mexican sausage. If you're wondering what goes into chorizo just stop right there; you're better off just enjoying it and not asking too many questions.
The best breakfast ever invented in the history of mankind is one chorizo and egg taco, one potato, bacon, and egg taco, both with a bit of homemade salsa, a dash of salt and pepper, and a small Fanta Red to wash it all down. It'll start your day off right. And, damn it all to Hell and back, I can't even come close to that here.
They have breakfast burritos in SoCal, but if I wanted a three-egg omelet wrapped in an edible baby blanket I'd make my own. You'd think that in a place like LA, where you can find - literally - almost anything available anywhere else in the world I'd be able to get that little slice of South Texas heaven that is the breakfast taco. But the blind idiot gods presiding over this cultural wasteland have dictated that I will not find that satisfaction.
Maybe I should buy a taco truck and start making my own. Bring a little culture to this neglected backwater of a town.
COMMUTE - there - 30 minutes, very light pre-holiday traffic back - 30 minutes, I left early
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 45 days - halfway there!!
In a place as cosmopolitan as Los Angeles, or as suburban as Orange County, you'd think you could find a decent flour tortilla and a scrambled egg to fill it. But you'd be wrong. They use mostly corn tortillas, and what flour tortillas that do exist are travesties that would get the sellers run out of South Texas on a rail. Possibly tarred and feathered too.
The lack of flour tortillas is a direct cause of the lack of breakfast tacos, and it's kind of pissing me off. See, in Texas the breakfast taco is a thing of beauty, a small, 6-inch flour tortilla, packed with a combination of scrambled egg and something else. Potatoes, bacon, cheese, maybe all three, maybe barbacoa or carne guisada. Or my personal favorite, eggs and chorizo, which is a Mexican sausage. If you're wondering what goes into chorizo just stop right there; you're better off just enjoying it and not asking too many questions.
The best breakfast ever invented in the history of mankind is one chorizo and egg taco, one potato, bacon, and egg taco, both with a bit of homemade salsa, a dash of salt and pepper, and a small Fanta Red to wash it all down. It'll start your day off right. And, damn it all to Hell and back, I can't even come close to that here.
They have breakfast burritos in SoCal, but if I wanted a three-egg omelet wrapped in an edible baby blanket I'd make my own. You'd think that in a place like LA, where you can find - literally - almost anything available anywhere else in the world I'd be able to get that little slice of South Texas heaven that is the breakfast taco. But the blind idiot gods presiding over this cultural wasteland have dictated that I will not find that satisfaction.
Maybe I should buy a taco truck and start making my own. Bring a little culture to this neglected backwater of a town.
COMMUTE - there - 30 minutes, very light pre-holiday traffic back - 30 minutes, I left early
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 45 days - halfway there!!
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Falling Behind
Here's an unintended consequence of being gainfully employed, at least for a little while.
I'm falling behind on my Science Friday podcasts.
See, for most of my 'between assignments' tenure I'd download the Science Friday podcasts on Saturday and then I'd spend the next week catching up on the happenings when I was working out. Now that I'm on the job I haven't been to the gym as often - I'm averaging once a week instead of five or six times a week - and that's just not enough time to listen to them all. I'm going through withdrawal.
You may not have been able to tell, but I'm kind of a science nerd. I've had a subscription to Scientific American since I was a sophomore in high school. Really. Other men have decades-long subscriptions to Sports Illustrated, maybe Playboy, but not this guy. So when I say it pains me that I haven't heard Ira Flatow's voice in far too long I'm not exaggerating.
If you've never heard of Ira Flatow or Science Friday then you're leading a deprived life indeed. Give it a listen, tune in to your local NPR station. And if you've never heard of NPR... well, then... there are some things I just can't take responsibility for. Stop watching 'Dancing with the Stars' and read a book once in a while.
COMMUTE - there - 40 minutes back - 42 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 46 days
I'm falling behind on my Science Friday podcasts.
See, for most of my 'between assignments' tenure I'd download the Science Friday podcasts on Saturday and then I'd spend the next week catching up on the happenings when I was working out. Now that I'm on the job I haven't been to the gym as often - I'm averaging once a week instead of five or six times a week - and that's just not enough time to listen to them all. I'm going through withdrawal.
You may not have been able to tell, but I'm kind of a science nerd. I've had a subscription to Scientific American since I was a sophomore in high school. Really. Other men have decades-long subscriptions to Sports Illustrated, maybe Playboy, but not this guy. So when I say it pains me that I haven't heard Ira Flatow's voice in far too long I'm not exaggerating.
If you've never heard of Ira Flatow or Science Friday then you're leading a deprived life indeed. Give it a listen, tune in to your local NPR station. And if you've never heard of NPR... well, then... there are some things I just can't take responsibility for. Stop watching 'Dancing with the Stars' and read a book once in a while.
COMMUTE - there - 40 minutes back - 42 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 46 days
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Things I Wish Were True
Remember when you were a kid and everything was possible? You made Superman's cape out of a blanket tied around your neck and you were convinced that if you jumped off the roof just right you could fly. Or when you got a new pair of sneakers you knew you could run twice as fast as the day before. And it was true. The world was nothing but possibilities and all you had to do was want something bad enough to make it happen.
As an adult - purportedly - I forget how it was back when I was shorter and smaller. I forget that imagination and perseverance make everything happen. Even impossible things become only highly improbable when you look at them the right way. So here's a list of things I wish were true, because I believe some day they all will be.
Every New Yorker takes a moment each day to look up and realize how cool it is to be living where they do.
LA drivers either speed up when they're supposed to or slow the hell down when it's appropriate, not the other way around.
For one year everyone gets exactly what they want for their birthday.
I make my living as a novel writer.
Chocolate cake is used as currency. Delicious, edible currency.
The pain of losing a parent goes away.
People and whales have a conversation about everything that's been going on for the past few hundred years and they forgive us.
Spats come back in style, at least for billionaires wearing waistcoats.
People stop and think for ten seconds about the consequences of what they're about to do.
The lazy and sly stop preying on the gullible and trusting.
Love is easy.
I figure out what that light switch in the other bedroom actually does.
People stop and think for ten seconds about the consequences of what they're about to say.
Those without get what they need, those with too much give what extra they have freely.
Someone figures out a limerick that rhymes 'Nantucket' with something that isn't dirty.
That's it for now. I'm sure I'll think of more later.
COMMUTE - there - 40 minutes back - 37 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 47 days
As an adult - purportedly - I forget how it was back when I was shorter and smaller. I forget that imagination and perseverance make everything happen. Even impossible things become only highly improbable when you look at them the right way. So here's a list of things I wish were true, because I believe some day they all will be.
Every New Yorker takes a moment each day to look up and realize how cool it is to be living where they do.
LA drivers either speed up when they're supposed to or slow the hell down when it's appropriate, not the other way around.
For one year everyone gets exactly what they want for their birthday.
I make my living as a novel writer.
Chocolate cake is used as currency. Delicious, edible currency.
The pain of losing a parent goes away.
People and whales have a conversation about everything that's been going on for the past few hundred years and they forgive us.
Spats come back in style, at least for billionaires wearing waistcoats.
People stop and think for ten seconds about the consequences of what they're about to do.
The lazy and sly stop preying on the gullible and trusting.
Love is easy.
I figure out what that light switch in the other bedroom actually does.
People stop and think for ten seconds about the consequences of what they're about to say.
Those without get what they need, those with too much give what extra they have freely.
Someone figures out a limerick that rhymes 'Nantucket' with something that isn't dirty.
That's it for now. I'm sure I'll think of more later.
COMMUTE - there - 40 minutes back - 37 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 47 days
Monday, May 24, 2010
Pimp-tastic
There are days I hate LA. And mean LA itself, not the greater LA metro area, which I'm also not all that fond of. I'm talking about LA North of the 10 and South of the Hollywood Hills. The place they keep everything the world thinks LA is. The place where I'm working now. That's the part I hate.
But some days, you just gotta love it.
Like today. I left the building for lunch, more accurately I left the building with a co-worker who wanted a sandwich from a particular place and I went along for the ride because I wanted to get away from the office. He got the sandwich, I got a bottle of iced tea, and we turned back towards work.
And that's when I saw it. A pimpmobile. A for-real, honest-to-Pete pimpmobile complete with fully-attired pimp behind the wheel. It was green for the money with gold trim for the honey, and just waiting at the light with everyone else. Freaky stylin'.
I have to admit, I was happy the rest of the afternoon after seeing that.
LA taketh away, but LA giveth too. You just try rolling past a green-and-gold pimpmobile wherever you live. Bet you can't.
COMMUTE - there - 37 minutes back - 30 minutes to go 10 miles, LA sucks
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 49 days
But some days, you just gotta love it.
Like today. I left the building for lunch, more accurately I left the building with a co-worker who wanted a sandwich from a particular place and I went along for the ride because I wanted to get away from the office. He got the sandwich, I got a bottle of iced tea, and we turned back towards work.
And that's when I saw it. A pimpmobile. A for-real, honest-to-Pete pimpmobile complete with fully-attired pimp behind the wheel. It was green for the money with gold trim for the honey, and just waiting at the light with everyone else. Freaky stylin'.
I have to admit, I was happy the rest of the afternoon after seeing that.
LA taketh away, but LA giveth too. You just try rolling past a green-and-gold pimpmobile wherever you live. Bet you can't.
COMMUTE - there - 37 minutes back - 30 minutes to go 10 miles, LA sucks
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 49 days
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Leonardo Walks Into A Bar...
Hey, buddy, that's a pretty cool drawing you got there.
Yeah... just a thing I've been working on. You got anything bigger than a bar napkin?
Sorry, that's about it. What'll you have?
Got any mead?
Ah... no.
Chaculato? Sack? A little violet water?
We got none of that. How about a beer?
Well, if that's all you have...
Those are pretty eclectic tastes. I like that accent, where you from?
Italy.
Huh. I thought Italians were more demonstrative. Happier. You seem pretty down.
I am. But I don't want to burden you with my ills.
You wouldn't believe some of the stuff people tell me.
You sure? Okay, but remember this was your idea. I'm feeling a little down about the state of modern science.
What are you talking about? Science is everywhere. Did you know they have an electric razor you can use in the shower?
That's exactly what I'm talking about. Who gives a crap about that? So what?
It is kind of neat.
But the guy who invented that could be working on a cure for cancer. Or a way to extend Einstein's theories. Hell, a way to refute his theories. Anything but figuring out how to make an electric razor work in the shower.
Don't get me wrong, but what concern is that of yours?
Hello? Father of modern science here. Leonardo.
Hey. I'm Harvey.
So it doesn't bother you, Harvey, the trivial uses that people put science to these days?
Nah. The little things just make life worth living.
Fine, say I agree with you on that, small things are good. What about the abuses of science? What about Google eavesdropping on wi-fi traffic, or taking pictures of people on the street without those people knowing about it or agreeing to it? Or violating copyright on thousands of books by digitizing them without the authors' consent?
Jeez, why are you picking on the nerds at Google?
Okay, forget that whole evil empire, they carry with them the seeds of their own destruction. People aren't going to put up with their crap for much longer. What about this whole global warming thing?
Yeah, see, now that's a problem.
Is it? Really? How do you know?
Well, that's what they say on the TV all the time...
Doesn't it bother you that this concept has gone from a vague notion to unassailable dogma in a matter of a few years? Doesn't it bother you that anyone who might question the science behind the research becomes demonized and vilified?
But if everybody says it's true, those guys shouldn't say it's not.
That's not the way science works. Scientists are supposed to put forward a theory, then other scientists discuss it, pick it apart, and put it back together to make a better theory. And then the whole mess happens again. Over and over and over, it's never done, it's never something set in concrete. Science isn't a talking point, it's not a bullet on a Power Point slide.
But a lot of people say global warming is true.
Science isn't a popularity contest either. Something isn't true just because it's on the cover of Time magazine. Especially not science.
Sounds like you got a bug up your ass about this one.
Yeah, well... it just pisses me off. All this work I did creating the modern concept of science, and a few douchebags with a good PR engine throw it all to hell.
Ain't it always the way?
Bastards. I'd like to invent a siege engine that would thin out their ranks a little.
A what engine?
Yeah... just a thing I've been working on. You got anything bigger than a bar napkin?
Sorry, that's about it. What'll you have?
Got any mead?
Ah... no.
Chaculato? Sack? A little violet water?
We got none of that. How about a beer?
Well, if that's all you have...
Those are pretty eclectic tastes. I like that accent, where you from?
Italy.
Huh. I thought Italians were more demonstrative. Happier. You seem pretty down.
I am. But I don't want to burden you with my ills.
You wouldn't believe some of the stuff people tell me.
You sure? Okay, but remember this was your idea. I'm feeling a little down about the state of modern science.
What are you talking about? Science is everywhere. Did you know they have an electric razor you can use in the shower?
That's exactly what I'm talking about. Who gives a crap about that? So what?
It is kind of neat.
But the guy who invented that could be working on a cure for cancer. Or a way to extend Einstein's theories. Hell, a way to refute his theories. Anything but figuring out how to make an electric razor work in the shower.
Don't get me wrong, but what concern is that of yours?
Hello? Father of modern science here. Leonardo.
Hey. I'm Harvey.
So it doesn't bother you, Harvey, the trivial uses that people put science to these days?
Nah. The little things just make life worth living.
Fine, say I agree with you on that, small things are good. What about the abuses of science? What about Google eavesdropping on wi-fi traffic, or taking pictures of people on the street without those people knowing about it or agreeing to it? Or violating copyright on thousands of books by digitizing them without the authors' consent?
Jeez, why are you picking on the nerds at Google?
Okay, forget that whole evil empire, they carry with them the seeds of their own destruction. People aren't going to put up with their crap for much longer. What about this whole global warming thing?
Yeah, see, now that's a problem.
Is it? Really? How do you know?
Well, that's what they say on the TV all the time...
Doesn't it bother you that this concept has gone from a vague notion to unassailable dogma in a matter of a few years? Doesn't it bother you that anyone who might question the science behind the research becomes demonized and vilified?
But if everybody says it's true, those guys shouldn't say it's not.
That's not the way science works. Scientists are supposed to put forward a theory, then other scientists discuss it, pick it apart, and put it back together to make a better theory. And then the whole mess happens again. Over and over and over, it's never done, it's never something set in concrete. Science isn't a talking point, it's not a bullet on a Power Point slide.
But a lot of people say global warming is true.
Science isn't a popularity contest either. Something isn't true just because it's on the cover of Time magazine. Especially not science.
Sounds like you got a bug up your ass about this one.
Yeah, well... it just pisses me off. All this work I did creating the modern concept of science, and a few douchebags with a good PR engine throw it all to hell.
Ain't it always the way?
Bastards. I'd like to invent a siege engine that would thin out their ranks a little.
A what engine?
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Talkin' Bout A Clambake
It's been a while since I've seen an Elvis movie. And by that I mean sat down and watched one, start to finish. Sure I've clicked through the channels and run across one now and then, but it's been so long since I've become absorbed in one. You know, let it wash over me and just appreciated it for what it was.
So today I watched 'Clambake.'
I gotta say, it's not bad, not bad at all. It is an Elvis movie, so he does sing about regular stuff. Like having a clambake, or painting a boat, or being a millionaire trading places with a pauper water ski instructor so he can find true love with Shelley Fabares. You know, what everybody sings about in their own lives.
Made in 1967, Clambake was the start of Elvis's resurgence, the media storm that resulted in the black-leather Elvis Comeback Special of 1968. He wasn't as young as he was when he made 'Jailhouse Rock' and he wasn't as bloated and jumpsuited as he was towards the end, in the mid-70's. This was Elvis as most people remember him, in his early 30's and vital.
Since it was made in '67 there is a lot of smoking in 'Clambake,' and themed jazz dinner clubs, and 'dancing' that looks as odd as it must certainly have felt. And the message is about young people trying to find themselves and make their own way in the world. Very much of its time.
But it was fun. I didn't feel robbed of two hours as I usually do when I watch a more recent movie. And I felt good afterward, like my cares had been released, at least for a time.
So if you're feeling down don't reach for booze, or food, or cheap sex with strangers. Or cheap sex with someone who owns a themed jazz dinner club, just find an Elvis movie and watch. It'll cure what ails you.
So today I watched 'Clambake.'
I gotta say, it's not bad, not bad at all. It is an Elvis movie, so he does sing about regular stuff. Like having a clambake, or painting a boat, or being a millionaire trading places with a pauper water ski instructor so he can find true love with Shelley Fabares. You know, what everybody sings about in their own lives.
Made in 1967, Clambake was the start of Elvis's resurgence, the media storm that resulted in the black-leather Elvis Comeback Special of 1968. He wasn't as young as he was when he made 'Jailhouse Rock' and he wasn't as bloated and jumpsuited as he was towards the end, in the mid-70's. This was Elvis as most people remember him, in his early 30's and vital.
Since it was made in '67 there is a lot of smoking in 'Clambake,' and themed jazz dinner clubs, and 'dancing' that looks as odd as it must certainly have felt. And the message is about young people trying to find themselves and make their own way in the world. Very much of its time.
But it was fun. I didn't feel robbed of two hours as I usually do when I watch a more recent movie. And I felt good afterward, like my cares had been released, at least for a time.
So if you're feeling down don't reach for booze, or food, or cheap sex with strangers. Or cheap sex with someone who owns a themed jazz dinner club, just find an Elvis movie and watch. It'll cure what ails you.
Friday, May 21, 2010
This Is A Job?
Right now I'm working down on the Miracle Mile, Wilshire Boulevard, in the Variety Building. This is one of those places where they don't really have enough parking spaces for everyone in the building, so what they do is park two deep. You get there early enough in the morning and you pull into an extra-long parking space, leaving room for someone to pull in behind you.
This prompts the question: 'if someone parks behind me, how the hell do I get out?' Rather than waiting for someone to come down and move their car, the building employs several people whose job it is to take keys from the second-rank parkers and move those cars when the first-rank parkers want to get out. They come on at 9 AM and leave at 6 PM.
It was only today that I thought about how terrible that job must be. The guy on 'B' level, where I usually park, seems cheerful enough, but his job - for 9 hours a day - is to sit in a dank, exhaust-befumed parking garage and move cars around. That can't be pleasant, and it can't be fun. Sure, he's not stuck in a cube like the people in the 20+ stories above, and he doesn't bring his work home with him, but still.
There's always a way to earn a buck, and some ways are better than others, but it seems to me that parking-garage car-mover has to be on the lower end of the list. Construction work is harder, certainly, as would being a garbageman or a window cleaner, but at least those guys get outside, and their work provides them a sense of accomplishment. Hell, even a fast-food job seems like it would be more rewarding.
Maybe I'll get my 'B'-level guy something. A snack might work. Or a thank-you card.
COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes back - 36 minutes, got out early.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 50 days
This prompts the question: 'if someone parks behind me, how the hell do I get out?' Rather than waiting for someone to come down and move their car, the building employs several people whose job it is to take keys from the second-rank parkers and move those cars when the first-rank parkers want to get out. They come on at 9 AM and leave at 6 PM.
It was only today that I thought about how terrible that job must be. The guy on 'B' level, where I usually park, seems cheerful enough, but his job - for 9 hours a day - is to sit in a dank, exhaust-befumed parking garage and move cars around. That can't be pleasant, and it can't be fun. Sure, he's not stuck in a cube like the people in the 20+ stories above, and he doesn't bring his work home with him, but still.
There's always a way to earn a buck, and some ways are better than others, but it seems to me that parking-garage car-mover has to be on the lower end of the list. Construction work is harder, certainly, as would being a garbageman or a window cleaner, but at least those guys get outside, and their work provides them a sense of accomplishment. Hell, even a fast-food job seems like it would be more rewarding.
Maybe I'll get my 'B'-level guy something. A snack might work. Or a thank-you card.
COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes back - 36 minutes, got out early.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 50 days
Thursday, May 20, 2010
What Do They Know?
Synchronicity, it's not just a song by the Police. Kids, the Police used to be a band, and they were popular and good, and you can hear their music now when you get on an elevator.
Synchronicity: "Coincidence of events that seem to be meaningfully related, conceived in Jungian theory as an explanatory principle on the same order as causality."
I've been getting a lot of junk mail on my Hotmail account recently. A lot. An awful lot. And for some reason a fairly good portion of that junk mail is for Viagra.
At first I just sent those messages to the trash bin. But they kept coming. And after a few days of this barrage of 'male enhancement' e-mails I started to wonder what was going on. What did they know that I didn't? Was there some sort of problem? Was it that problem?
I'm all man, make no mistake about it. Strong and vital and nothing but serious business when it comes to... you know... Little Elvis. But the sheer number of Viagra solicitations makes me wonder if there's something somebody knows that I don't.
Nah... couldn't be. Right?
COMMUTE - there - 37 minutes back - 44 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 51 days
Synchronicity: "Coincidence of events that seem to be meaningfully related, conceived in Jungian theory as an explanatory principle on the same order as causality."
I've been getting a lot of junk mail on my Hotmail account recently. A lot. An awful lot. And for some reason a fairly good portion of that junk mail is for Viagra.
At first I just sent those messages to the trash bin. But they kept coming. And after a few days of this barrage of 'male enhancement' e-mails I started to wonder what was going on. What did they know that I didn't? Was there some sort of problem? Was it that problem?
I'm all man, make no mistake about it. Strong and vital and nothing but serious business when it comes to... you know... Little Elvis. But the sheer number of Viagra solicitations makes me wonder if there's something somebody knows that I don't.
Nah... couldn't be. Right?
COMMUTE - there - 37 minutes back - 44 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 51 days
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Old Man Don...
I have, from time to time, groused about my impending old man-ness. Sure, it's thirty years too soon at the very least, and I don't have a lawn to yell at kids to keep off of, or a porkpie hat, or a jumpsuit in colors not found in nature, but those are really just details that will take care of themselves. I'm turning into an old man inside, where it counts.
Let me 'splain how I know this. It has everything to do with my taste buds.
I've been laying off the sugar for a while now, trying to be good and stay away from candy, cake, pie, cookies, all the delicious little snacks that make life worth living. And I've been keeping to that pretty well. So today I walked down to the Post Office near La Brea - where the clerks are beginning to recognize me - to mail a few query letters in support of my ambitions as a writer, which I have mentioned before . Walking back I decided to go into the local Ralph's for a bit of lunch.
Long story short (or barely longer), I didn't get any lunch, but I did buy a soda and a candy bar. That's right, I fell off the sugar wagon; I am worthless and weak. I got back to the office and I ate my sandwich, sipped my soda, and saved the candy bar for later. Mid-afternoon came and I dug into the Snickers Bar.
It made my teeth hurt. Really. I did finish it, my parents didn't raise a quitter, but I had to struggle through the last bites. It was really, really, really sweet. Too much.
Time was I could have torn through three or four of those things. I'm sure I did, back in the salad days of my youth. But now... old man-ness is descending on me like a black shroud on a corpse, and I can't eat candy like I used to.
Unless it's those Werther's hard 'caramels' or ribbon candy. Who doesn't love ribbon candy?
COMMUTE - there - 40 minutes back - 42 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 52 days
Let me 'splain how I know this. It has everything to do with my taste buds.
I've been laying off the sugar for a while now, trying to be good and stay away from candy, cake, pie, cookies, all the delicious little snacks that make life worth living. And I've been keeping to that pretty well. So today I walked down to the Post Office near La Brea - where the clerks are beginning to recognize me - to mail a few query letters in support of my ambitions as a writer, which I have mentioned before . Walking back I decided to go into the local Ralph's for a bit of lunch.
Long story short (or barely longer), I didn't get any lunch, but I did buy a soda and a candy bar. That's right, I fell off the sugar wagon; I am worthless and weak. I got back to the office and I ate my sandwich, sipped my soda, and saved the candy bar for later. Mid-afternoon came and I dug into the Snickers Bar.
It made my teeth hurt. Really. I did finish it, my parents didn't raise a quitter, but I had to struggle through the last bites. It was really, really, really sweet. Too much.
Time was I could have torn through three or four of those things. I'm sure I did, back in the salad days of my youth. But now... old man-ness is descending on me like a black shroud on a corpse, and I can't eat candy like I used to.
Unless it's those Werther's hard 'caramels' or ribbon candy. Who doesn't love ribbon candy?
COMMUTE - there - 40 minutes back - 42 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 52 days
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Tales From My Past - Hulk Smash
Back in the heady days of 2007, when the nation was just beginning to understand that the prosperity of the previous five years was a lie based on a false assumption driven by misguided optimism, at Countrywide the people in charge realized there was no hiding how bad the situation was from the rank and file.
So, like any corporation trying to seem like it was doing something, we had a meeting.
It was an all-hands HR meeting, and I got there late. The room had filled up from the back, and the only seat left - literally - was up front right next to our Chief Leadership Officer. The guy was a tool, a complete jackass from the word go, and I had to take the bullet nobody else would. I said 'hi' as I sat down, though of course he didn't respond. I don't want to put down the dipshit's real name, but it sounded like Bichael Binston.
The meeting started and it was the head of HR demonstrating her lack of compassion at the same time she was betraying her ignorance of finance and the mortgage business the company was founded on. A whole lot of nothing. She asked if there were any questions and Mr. Winston - oh, sorry, Binston - actually raised his hand even though he and the head of HR were practically touching knees.
"What does the next fiscal quarter portend?"
Say what? Did he actually use the word 'portend' in a sentence? I wasn't certain I had heard properly, but my natural hatred for this poser kicked in right then. I felt my hand clenching into a fist.
The head of HR gave her non-answer, and then Michael - sorry, Bichael - nodded sagely, as if he understood the nonsense she was spewing.
"That augurs well."
Ooooooh... I actually felt my blood boil. Augur and portend? Within a minute of each other? And sitting right next to me? You have got to be out of your mind...
I had to stop myself from hitting him. It was one of those moments where someone you hate just pushes your buttons so thoroughly that there's no other response but the physical. I had to sit on my hands.
Later, when the monkey-spank was well and done, some of my colleagues asked me how I managed to sit next to that walking turd without hulking out. I almost didn't.
COMMUTE - there - 75 minutes - seriously, it was insane today back - 55 minutes, like I said, insane in the membrane
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 53 days
So, like any corporation trying to seem like it was doing something, we had a meeting.
It was an all-hands HR meeting, and I got there late. The room had filled up from the back, and the only seat left - literally - was up front right next to our Chief Leadership Officer. The guy was a tool, a complete jackass from the word go, and I had to take the bullet nobody else would. I said 'hi' as I sat down, though of course he didn't respond. I don't want to put down the dipshit's real name, but it sounded like Bichael Binston.
The meeting started and it was the head of HR demonstrating her lack of compassion at the same time she was betraying her ignorance of finance and the mortgage business the company was founded on. A whole lot of nothing. She asked if there were any questions and Mr. Winston - oh, sorry, Binston - actually raised his hand even though he and the head of HR were practically touching knees.
"What does the next fiscal quarter portend?"
Say what? Did he actually use the word 'portend' in a sentence? I wasn't certain I had heard properly, but my natural hatred for this poser kicked in right then. I felt my hand clenching into a fist.
The head of HR gave her non-answer, and then Michael - sorry, Bichael - nodded sagely, as if he understood the nonsense she was spewing.
"That augurs well."
Ooooooh... I actually felt my blood boil. Augur and portend? Within a minute of each other? And sitting right next to me? You have got to be out of your mind...
I had to stop myself from hitting him. It was one of those moments where someone you hate just pushes your buttons so thoroughly that there's no other response but the physical. I had to sit on my hands.
Later, when the monkey-spank was well and done, some of my colleagues asked me how I managed to sit next to that walking turd without hulking out. I almost didn't.
COMMUTE - there - 75 minutes - seriously, it was insane today back - 55 minutes, like I said, insane in the membrane
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 53 days
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Creepy Little Guy
There's been a little man haunting my dreams lately.
Seriously, the past week or so I've been seeing the same little guy in my dreams with alarming regularity. His face is thin, he has a bald head with 5 o'clock shadow on his face and scalp, big ears, and a toothy... well, not exactly a toothy grin so much as a he's showing his teeth like he's at the dentist. He's wearing a butterscotch-colored suit with leather shoulder patches that seems too large for him. His legs are about 2 feet long but his torso and arms are regular-sized. He's not a sinister figure, but he's not exactly comical either.
The first night I saw him he was a background figure, just a guy in a crowd scene but he was odd enough that I remember him and not the dream. The next night he was a little more prominent, and then night after that he was almost a featured extra. With no lines. That's when I realized that I'd seen him the previous two nights. Then the fourth night came and went and he wasn't there. But he was back the fifth night like an under-five player the producers have taken a liking to.
I don't know why he keeps coming back. It doesn't matter what kind of dream I'm having, he shows up. And I don't even remember the context of the dreams, but I do remember him. I'm getting concerned.
I haven't been eating badly, no hot sauce before bedtime so I don't think it's indigestion. I don't have a guilty conscience about anything so it's not that. For the life of me I can't figure out why I would keep seeing the almost-creepy little guy in my dreams. It could be that I expect to see him now, and so I do.
So far he hasn't said anything, and I'm not sure if I want him to or don't. He might make some sort of crazy pronouncement, like telling me to found my own nation or something. Which would fit in with a prior post of mine but would, honestly, creep me out like nobody's business. We'll see if he makes an appearance tonight.
Why couldn't my dreams be haunted by a supermodel?
Seriously, the past week or so I've been seeing the same little guy in my dreams with alarming regularity. His face is thin, he has a bald head with 5 o'clock shadow on his face and scalp, big ears, and a toothy... well, not exactly a toothy grin so much as a he's showing his teeth like he's at the dentist. He's wearing a butterscotch-colored suit with leather shoulder patches that seems too large for him. His legs are about 2 feet long but his torso and arms are regular-sized. He's not a sinister figure, but he's not exactly comical either.
The first night I saw him he was a background figure, just a guy in a crowd scene but he was odd enough that I remember him and not the dream. The next night he was a little more prominent, and then night after that he was almost a featured extra. With no lines. That's when I realized that I'd seen him the previous two nights. Then the fourth night came and went and he wasn't there. But he was back the fifth night like an under-five player the producers have taken a liking to.
I don't know why he keeps coming back. It doesn't matter what kind of dream I'm having, he shows up. And I don't even remember the context of the dreams, but I do remember him. I'm getting concerned.
I haven't been eating badly, no hot sauce before bedtime so I don't think it's indigestion. I don't have a guilty conscience about anything so it's not that. For the life of me I can't figure out why I would keep seeing the almost-creepy little guy in my dreams. It could be that I expect to see him now, and so I do.
So far he hasn't said anything, and I'm not sure if I want him to or don't. He might make some sort of crazy pronouncement, like telling me to found my own nation or something. Which would fit in with a prior post of mine but would, honestly, creep me out like nobody's business. We'll see if he makes an appearance tonight.
Why couldn't my dreams be haunted by a supermodel?
A Year's Worth
This post will be the 366th. That means I've had a year's worth of posts so far.
Amazing. It's been over a year since I started this blog, more like 13 months, but I average less than 7 posts a week, so it's taken me a while to catch up.
Thank you for your support, and I'll keep writing if you keep reading.
Amazing. It's been over a year since I started this blog, more like 13 months, but I average less than 7 posts a week, so it's taken me a while to catch up.
Thank you for your support, and I'll keep writing if you keep reading.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Convertible Smells
I actually had to drive to work today - I left my gym bag there Thursday - but since I was on a search-and-recover mission I took the hot rod instead of the truck. I had the top down and the heater cranked up, and I decided to see how long the commute would take on a lazy Saturday morning (details below). But with the top down I discovered a whole new science experiment.
Man, LA stinks.
And I don't just mean metaphorically, I mean actually. Without the hermetic isolation of rolled-up windows and blowing AC you can really experience the startling funk of Los Angeles. Coming down the 110 I got the familiar wafts of earth and plants, since there is a lot of open land around there. Open for LA, anyway. Not much to smell because it's a highway.
Coming into downtown I got a metallic/concrete sniff, then some exhaust, of course. There was also, oddly enough, onions. Must have been from a taco truck or something.
Going down Wilshire I really got into the Los Angeles-style of odors. Garbage, more exhaust, lots of urine, something rotten, cooking grease, beer, gasoline, wet dirt, and some sickly-sweet odor that followed me for a while but that I just couldn't place. Kind of like anti-freeze but that wasn't it.
Coming back I went down 3rd, and there the odors were eclectic. Cotton candy, more exhaust, grass, melted plastic, new electronics, sewer gas, BO (really, passing a bus stop, it must have been truly epic), old lady perfume, pineapples, gunpowder and spray paint.
In my experience the one way to really experience the spirit of a neighborhood is to walk it. But a close second would be to roll through in a convertible. It'll make you realize why you don't live there in the first place.
COMMUTE - not really a commute, since I wasn't working, but here's the best-case scenario when there is very little traffic:
there - 33 minutes back - 31 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 56 days
Man, LA stinks.
And I don't just mean metaphorically, I mean actually. Without the hermetic isolation of rolled-up windows and blowing AC you can really experience the startling funk of Los Angeles. Coming down the 110 I got the familiar wafts of earth and plants, since there is a lot of open land around there. Open for LA, anyway. Not much to smell because it's a highway.
Coming into downtown I got a metallic/concrete sniff, then some exhaust, of course. There was also, oddly enough, onions. Must have been from a taco truck or something.
Going down Wilshire I really got into the Los Angeles-style of odors. Garbage, more exhaust, lots of urine, something rotten, cooking grease, beer, gasoline, wet dirt, and some sickly-sweet odor that followed me for a while but that I just couldn't place. Kind of like anti-freeze but that wasn't it.
Coming back I went down 3rd, and there the odors were eclectic. Cotton candy, more exhaust, grass, melted plastic, new electronics, sewer gas, BO (really, passing a bus stop, it must have been truly epic), old lady perfume, pineapples, gunpowder and spray paint.
In my experience the one way to really experience the spirit of a neighborhood is to walk it. But a close second would be to roll through in a convertible. It'll make you realize why you don't live there in the first place.
COMMUTE - not really a commute, since I wasn't working, but here's the best-case scenario when there is very little traffic:
there - 33 minutes back - 31 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 56 days
Friday, May 14, 2010
Jumpin' Anacondas!
I'm not at my contract gig today, it's a doctor visit/ car servicing day. They're not at the same place, in case you were wondering.
However, only yesterday I was commenting on how things are going be changing with the world and the economy more than people realize. Well, my prediction is already coming true.
I was gearing up to take my truck in for its 100,000 mile servicing - yet another post from a while back - to the dealer where I have been taking my truck since I moved out here to SoCal eight years ago. I got online to check for coupons, and when I clicked the dealer's link I saw a message from Chevrolet 'The Chevy dealer you selected is no longer in business.' Say what?
Nah... can't be, I thought. I was just down on that part of Colorado Blvd. a month ago and the place was still open. Must be some sort of mistake, I've been going there for eight years. The service writers knew my name, the shuttle driver remembered me. That place couldn't be closed. No way. One of GM's IT guys must have been asleep at the switch and screwed up the web site. Yeah, that had to be it. Battling with my disbelief, I got in the truck and rolled East.
Sure enough, the place is vacant. Empty. A tumbleweed factory. Blank. Uninhabited. Deserted. Abandoned. Locked up and swept up. Cleared the f**k out.
Like I said, I know for a fact this business was open four weeks ago, all the banners, cars and activity I saw weren't illusions. This wasn't even one of the Chevy dealers who lost their franchise a year or so back. This was a going concern, at least it seemed to be. Although... I had been getting coupons in the mail for $12 oil changes, which has to be below cost considering you have to pay for mechanics, equipment, and supplies. It's always a sign of desperation when a business starts giving away the stuff it's trying to sell.
The media and the government are trying to tell us that things are turning around, that recovery is just around the corner. I find that hard to believe when a major employer like a car dealership with at least 100 employees, maybe more, closes up shop overnight.
To bring closure on this anecdote, I just continued a little further East, to the GMC dealer where I bought the hot rod, and I'm getting my truck taken care of there. It's all going to be okay...
COMMUTE: blissfully, none, no driving nowhere today
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 57 days
However, only yesterday I was commenting on how things are going be changing with the world and the economy more than people realize. Well, my prediction is already coming true.
I was gearing up to take my truck in for its 100,000 mile servicing - yet another post from a while back - to the dealer where I have been taking my truck since I moved out here to SoCal eight years ago. I got online to check for coupons, and when I clicked the dealer's link I saw a message from Chevrolet 'The Chevy dealer you selected is no longer in business.' Say what?
Nah... can't be, I thought. I was just down on that part of Colorado Blvd. a month ago and the place was still open. Must be some sort of mistake, I've been going there for eight years. The service writers knew my name, the shuttle driver remembered me. That place couldn't be closed. No way. One of GM's IT guys must have been asleep at the switch and screwed up the web site. Yeah, that had to be it. Battling with my disbelief, I got in the truck and rolled East.
Sure enough, the place is vacant. Empty. A tumbleweed factory. Blank. Uninhabited. Deserted. Abandoned. Locked up and swept up. Cleared the f**k out.
Like I said, I know for a fact this business was open four weeks ago, all the banners, cars and activity I saw weren't illusions. This wasn't even one of the Chevy dealers who lost their franchise a year or so back. This was a going concern, at least it seemed to be. Although... I had been getting coupons in the mail for $12 oil changes, which has to be below cost considering you have to pay for mechanics, equipment, and supplies. It's always a sign of desperation when a business starts giving away the stuff it's trying to sell.
The media and the government are trying to tell us that things are turning around, that recovery is just around the corner. I find that hard to believe when a major employer like a car dealership with at least 100 employees, maybe more, closes up shop overnight.
To bring closure on this anecdote, I just continued a little further East, to the GMC dealer where I bought the hot rod, and I'm getting my truck taken care of there. It's all going to be okay...
COMMUTE: blissfully, none, no driving nowhere today
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 57 days
Thursday, May 13, 2010
It's All Changing
As time goes on I'm beginning to realize that this economic downturn is going to change things all over. And I don't mean just for me, being 'between assignments.' Things are changing on a fundamental level, especially with regards to finance, which should always be a means to an end - a way to enable a real economy based on goods and services - and not the money-making end in itself. The 'bon temps' that used to 'roulez' for banks, brokerage houses, insurance companies, mortgage lenders and the like are soon to be 'fin,' even if the institutions themselves don't know it yet. Or the government for that matter. There's an ill wind a-blowin'.
The crazy-ass Teaparty kooks are definitely the lunatic fringe, but that fringe just tends to be more radical and vocal about things that bother society as a whole. Rampant fiscal and fiduciary irresponsibility is going to lead to a new rise in populism, just like what happened over 100 years ago with political corruption, multiple depressions, robber barons and the like. The result of the business excesses of the 1890s was the election of that trust-busting Bull Moose, Teddy Roosevelt.
And you thought you didn't have to pay attention in History class, didn't you? Well, you blew it off, and see what's happened? History has repeated itself. Again. Same trip down the same road, only it's 100 years later and we all have cell phones. There were pretty serious changes to business back then because of the idiocy of the corporate giants, and the same thing's bound to happen now. Mark my words.
COMMUTE: there - 47 minutes, I left late back - 41 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 58 days
The crazy-ass Teaparty kooks are definitely the lunatic fringe, but that fringe just tends to be more radical and vocal about things that bother society as a whole. Rampant fiscal and fiduciary irresponsibility is going to lead to a new rise in populism, just like what happened over 100 years ago with political corruption, multiple depressions, robber barons and the like. The result of the business excesses of the 1890s was the election of that trust-busting Bull Moose, Teddy Roosevelt.
And you thought you didn't have to pay attention in History class, didn't you? Well, you blew it off, and see what's happened? History has repeated itself. Again. Same trip down the same road, only it's 100 years later and we all have cell phones. There were pretty serious changes to business back then because of the idiocy of the corporate giants, and the same thing's bound to happen now. Mark my words.
COMMUTE: there - 47 minutes, I left late back - 41 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 58 days
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Way It Should Be
I'm home from work right now, I have to go in late because the EDD (California unemployment office) is calling 'between 10 AM and 12 PM' and I have to be home to take the call. Kind of like the cable guy except I don't have to let any suspicious characters into my apartment.
I gotta say, I've missed getting up when I feel like it and working on stuff that interests me. I got into a good rhythm with my writing over the past months of being 'between assignments' and it's nice to get back to it, even if it's only for a morning.
Right now I'm working on a proposal for a children's ABC book that would benefit animal charities by donating 51% of the authors' after-tax profits. In the hour and a half or so that I've been working on it today I've gotten more done than in the previous five or six days of after-hours struggle. Not working just works out better.
I was talking this over with a friend who is also 'between assignments' and we came to the conclusion that about 30 hours of work a week is good. Go in about 10 or 11 and get done about 4-ish. You really only have 4 or 5 good hours of work in you anyway, why waste the other 4 hours pretending to work while you surf the 'Net? Get in, do your thing, get the hell out, that's what I say. The old 8-hour (now 9- or 10-hour) work day is designed for factory production, three shifts of 8 hours each, for a round-the-clock factory cycle. People don't operate that way, we need to re-think this whole 'be absent from your homes and families for 10 hours a day' thing, it's a bunch of crap.
COMMUTE: there - haven't left yet back - haven't left yet.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 59 days
I gotta say, I've missed getting up when I feel like it and working on stuff that interests me. I got into a good rhythm with my writing over the past months of being 'between assignments' and it's nice to get back to it, even if it's only for a morning.
Right now I'm working on a proposal for a children's ABC book that would benefit animal charities by donating 51% of the authors' after-tax profits. In the hour and a half or so that I've been working on it today I've gotten more done than in the previous five or six days of after-hours struggle. Not working just works out better.
I was talking this over with a friend who is also 'between assignments' and we came to the conclusion that about 30 hours of work a week is good. Go in about 10 or 11 and get done about 4-ish. You really only have 4 or 5 good hours of work in you anyway, why waste the other 4 hours pretending to work while you surf the 'Net? Get in, do your thing, get the hell out, that's what I say. The old 8-hour (now 9- or 10-hour) work day is designed for factory production, three shifts of 8 hours each, for a round-the-clock factory cycle. People don't operate that way, we need to re-think this whole 'be absent from your homes and families for 10 hours a day' thing, it's a bunch of crap.
COMMUTE: there - haven't left yet back - haven't left yet.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 59 days
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
How Do You Know?
I was watching Hamlet this past weekend, the Kenneth Branagh version, which is in Technicolor and totally rocks, and I specifically noted the line Hamlet says to Horatio, when they're chasing Hamlet's father's ghost in Act 1 - 'there are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosphy.' Truer words were never written.
For instance, I can tell when a woman I know is pregnant. Happens all the time - the part where I can tell, not the part where women I know get pregnant. Nobody believes that I can do this, so the last time it happened I wrote down the day and time when I took at look at one of my former employees and thought 'she sure looks pregnant.' She didn't have a big belly, she may not even have known herself that she was expecting, something about her just... changed. I could look at her and tell she was different. Fast forward about four months and she announces that she is, indeed, with child. Out of my wallet I whipped out the yellow post-it I'd written the day and time on, just to prove that I knew. Somehow, I knew.
You ever have that sensation like something is crawling up your neck or across your ear and then five minutes later someone calls you? Obviously something is telling you that someone is thinking about you, or talking about you (or both), but there's no way you could say for sure what that something is. You just know.
Or how about when you're waiting for your name or ticket to be drawn at a raffle, and you know, you just know that your name is the one they're going to pick next. Happened to me last December when I was at my city District meeting and they were pulling names out of the hat for Rose Bowl tickets. Somehow, some way, I knew that when they were reaching for the fourth pair of tickets that they would call my name. And they did. Don't know how I knew, but I did.
So there's something working here. Scientists say that until you have hard and fast proof nothing of the sort exists, but experientially - anecdotally - you know it's true. At least it happens to me a lot, I don't know about the rest of you.
I just wish I could make money at it. But they don't pay you the big bucks because you can tell the doorbell's going to ring.
COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes back - 36 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 60 days
For instance, I can tell when a woman I know is pregnant. Happens all the time - the part where I can tell, not the part where women I know get pregnant. Nobody believes that I can do this, so the last time it happened I wrote down the day and time when I took at look at one of my former employees and thought 'she sure looks pregnant.' She didn't have a big belly, she may not even have known herself that she was expecting, something about her just... changed. I could look at her and tell she was different. Fast forward about four months and she announces that she is, indeed, with child. Out of my wallet I whipped out the yellow post-it I'd written the day and time on, just to prove that I knew. Somehow, I knew.
You ever have that sensation like something is crawling up your neck or across your ear and then five minutes later someone calls you? Obviously something is telling you that someone is thinking about you, or talking about you (or both), but there's no way you could say for sure what that something is. You just know.
Or how about when you're waiting for your name or ticket to be drawn at a raffle, and you know, you just know that your name is the one they're going to pick next. Happened to me last December when I was at my city District meeting and they were pulling names out of the hat for Rose Bowl tickets. Somehow, some way, I knew that when they were reaching for the fourth pair of tickets that they would call my name. And they did. Don't know how I knew, but I did.
So there's something working here. Scientists say that until you have hard and fast proof nothing of the sort exists, but experientially - anecdotally - you know it's true. At least it happens to me a lot, I don't know about the rest of you.
I just wish I could make money at it. But they don't pay you the big bucks because you can tell the doorbell's going to ring.
COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes back - 36 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 60 days
Monday, May 10, 2010
Are You Talkin' To Me?
You know what you don't see enough of any more?
Pinky rings.
Maybe I'm just not hanging around the right crowd, but it's been a long time since I've seen a pinky ring displayed un-ironically. I think Joe Pesci ruined the pinky ring for everyone, made it a cliche and a joke instead of a statement.
Used to be, a pinky ring said 'I'm so tough that I can decorate my least-useful digits.' But now all a pinky ring says is 'I'm going as Goodfellas for Halloween.' Either that or you're trying to be Leisure Suit Larry (now there's a blast from the past).
It's time to take the pinky ring back. Men should be able to flash a little bling on their little fingers and feel like people are admiring them instead of ridiculing them.
You guys go first, I'm allergic to goombah gold.
COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes back - 40 minutes to go 11 miles
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 61 days
Pinky rings.
Maybe I'm just not hanging around the right crowd, but it's been a long time since I've seen a pinky ring displayed un-ironically. I think Joe Pesci ruined the pinky ring for everyone, made it a cliche and a joke instead of a statement.
Used to be, a pinky ring said 'I'm so tough that I can decorate my least-useful digits.' But now all a pinky ring says is 'I'm going as Goodfellas for Halloween.' Either that or you're trying to be Leisure Suit Larry (now there's a blast from the past).
It's time to take the pinky ring back. Men should be able to flash a little bling on their little fingers and feel like people are admiring them instead of ridiculing them.
You guys go first, I'm allergic to goombah gold.
COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes back - 40 minutes to go 11 miles
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 61 days
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Shudder To Think
I had to kill a roach this morning. It was the first one I've seen in my apartment ever, the building owner must be neglecting the pest control bill like she's neglecting the elevator - which is STILL not fixed, by the way, it's been six months. So I got the bug spray, which I usually employ on spiders, and nuked the cockroach, totally soaked it in what is essentially bug nerve poison.
I followed it for a while to make sure I didn't lose it, and it eventually expired in the front hall, on its back, legs curled up, the classic roach death pose. I left it there while I got busy revising a book and printing out a manuscript for submission to an agent (remember this post?). When I got around to picking up the roach corpse it had been a few hours since I killed it. So not only was it dead, it was, as we say in Texas, good 'n dead.
But when I got the paper towel and picked it up, I still shivered, a good long shudder that shook me from head to toe.
Somebody needs to figure this reaction out. I know for a fact that this roach is now an ex-roach, it's moved along the karmic path to whatever its next incarnation is, and I was the agent of that demise. But I still raced to the trash can to throw it away, just in case it decided to scurry out and run up my arm.
Why? What's so visceral about bugs that a grown man can get squeamish and girly when he has to dispose of a tiny little body?
That's it, I gotta toughen up. Maybe I'll crawl into a sleeping bag full of rattlesnakes or something, that's man stuff right there.
I followed it for a while to make sure I didn't lose it, and it eventually expired in the front hall, on its back, legs curled up, the classic roach death pose. I left it there while I got busy revising a book and printing out a manuscript for submission to an agent (remember this post?). When I got around to picking up the roach corpse it had been a few hours since I killed it. So not only was it dead, it was, as we say in Texas, good 'n dead.
But when I got the paper towel and picked it up, I still shivered, a good long shudder that shook me from head to toe.
Somebody needs to figure this reaction out. I know for a fact that this roach is now an ex-roach, it's moved along the karmic path to whatever its next incarnation is, and I was the agent of that demise. But I still raced to the trash can to throw it away, just in case it decided to scurry out and run up my arm.
Why? What's so visceral about bugs that a grown man can get squeamish and girly when he has to dispose of a tiny little body?
That's it, I gotta toughen up. Maybe I'll crawl into a sleeping bag full of rattlesnakes or something, that's man stuff right there.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
Disposable tissues worry me. I'm talking about the kind you use to blow your nose when you're under the weather, a familiar brand name starts with a 'Kleen' and ends with an 'ex.' I'm concerned that these tissues might actually spread viruses.
I mean, think about it, who do you see using these tissues the most? Sick people. So, using Occam's razor in our reasoning, it only makes sense that these tissues cause the illnesses. Right? Just like the theory of spontaneous generation, like piles of grain creating mice. And knowing what we do about the conscience-less way major corporations operate I wouldn't put it past Kimberly Clark to infect their product with germs in order to increase consumption. I mean, if I were a corporate weasel that's probably a decision I'd make.
This isn't the kind of thing you can keep a secret, once people suspected something scientists would do their tests, and eventually the truth would have to come out. And then the government agencies that are supposed to regulate this kind of thing would get in a day late and a dollar short and they'd shut down the entire disposable tissue industry, not only the brand names but your generics, your Kirklands, all of them. No more disposable paper tissues. So then what would we as a society do? We'd have to go back to the old-timey solutions.
I'd have to carry around a hankie like my grandfather did. A silk or cotton square, stuffed into my pocket and staying there all day. I'd take it out to wipe at my nose or the corner of my mouth, and then jam it back into my coveralls, carrying my mucus around for hours. Keeping warm with my body heat. Staying mostly liquid. Festering. Man... talk about a foot-square bit of traveling infection. And back in the day everyone had them, men in their pockets, women in their purses. It's a wonder that my grandfather lived long enough to give my father a chance to come about.
I'd really hate it if I had to carry one of those terrible things, so I'm hoping my concerns are unfounded. Maybe that's a money-making opportunity, some sort of permanent hankie soaked in antibiotic, so you could sneeze all you wanted and it might actually help make you better. Nobody steal that one, it's mine.
I mean, think about it, who do you see using these tissues the most? Sick people. So, using Occam's razor in our reasoning, it only makes sense that these tissues cause the illnesses. Right? Just like the theory of spontaneous generation, like piles of grain creating mice. And knowing what we do about the conscience-less way major corporations operate I wouldn't put it past Kimberly Clark to infect their product with germs in order to increase consumption. I mean, if I were a corporate weasel that's probably a decision I'd make.
This isn't the kind of thing you can keep a secret, once people suspected something scientists would do their tests, and eventually the truth would have to come out. And then the government agencies that are supposed to regulate this kind of thing would get in a day late and a dollar short and they'd shut down the entire disposable tissue industry, not only the brand names but your generics, your Kirklands, all of them. No more disposable paper tissues. So then what would we as a society do? We'd have to go back to the old-timey solutions.
I'd have to carry around a hankie like my grandfather did. A silk or cotton square, stuffed into my pocket and staying there all day. I'd take it out to wipe at my nose or the corner of my mouth, and then jam it back into my coveralls, carrying my mucus around for hours. Keeping warm with my body heat. Staying mostly liquid. Festering. Man... talk about a foot-square bit of traveling infection. And back in the day everyone had them, men in their pockets, women in their purses. It's a wonder that my grandfather lived long enough to give my father a chance to come about.
I'd really hate it if I had to carry one of those terrible things, so I'm hoping my concerns are unfounded. Maybe that's a money-making opportunity, some sort of permanent hankie soaked in antibiotic, so you could sneeze all you wanted and it might actually help make you better. Nobody steal that one, it's mine.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Balding Men And Ponytails
I was driving home this afternoon and I happened upon a fairly regular sight in that part of LA: a middle-aged guy driving an expensive convertible with the top down, his chrome dome shining in the sun, his graying ponytail waving in the breeze.
It's a common enough sight that I almost didn't notice. But then I got to wondering... does he really think that ponytail looks good? I mean seriously? He rolls out of bed in the morning, brushes his teeth (let's hope), takes a good look at himself in the mirror and thinks 'yeah, this extra-long ponytail sure distracts from my baby's-ass bald head.'
Umberto Eco - who has a web page - would argue that every decision we make, from the car we drive to the clothes we wear to the hairstyle we sport is our effort to communicate with others. We're always trying to get something across. So what's a man old enough to know better trying to say when he keeps what's left of his hair too long and gathers it at his neck with a rubber band? Is he trying to say he's a cliche? Because that's the message I'm receiving.
Then, as I drove further, I thought about what I might look like with a pony tail. I'm not going bald, and if my father and grandfather are any indication I probably won't, but that shouldn't stop me from growing my hair long as Rapunzel and tying it back. I need a haircut now, what's to stop me from just letting it go for a couple of years and seeing where that takes me?
I'm ready for the adventure. I'm going to start growing my hair... now.
COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes back - 33 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 64 days
It's a common enough sight that I almost didn't notice. But then I got to wondering... does he really think that ponytail looks good? I mean seriously? He rolls out of bed in the morning, brushes his teeth (let's hope), takes a good look at himself in the mirror and thinks 'yeah, this extra-long ponytail sure distracts from my baby's-ass bald head.'
Umberto Eco - who has a web page - would argue that every decision we make, from the car we drive to the clothes we wear to the hairstyle we sport is our effort to communicate with others. We're always trying to get something across. So what's a man old enough to know better trying to say when he keeps what's left of his hair too long and gathers it at his neck with a rubber band? Is he trying to say he's a cliche? Because that's the message I'm receiving.
Then, as I drove further, I thought about what I might look like with a pony tail. I'm not going bald, and if my father and grandfather are any indication I probably won't, but that shouldn't stop me from growing my hair long as Rapunzel and tying it back. I need a haircut now, what's to stop me from just letting it go for a couple of years and seeing where that takes me?
I'm ready for the adventure. I'm going to start growing my hair... now.
COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes back - 33 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 64 days
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Puttin' It Out There
A few weeks back I declared that I was tired of being 'between assignments' and that I wanted to start working again. Well, Mama always said to be careful what you wish for. I landed a contracting gig, had an interview for a regular job and then a second one today, and I found three other good jobs I applied for in case that one doesn't pan out.
Trouble is, all this working to make rent money is severely cutting into my writing time. The fact that I finished several books while holding down a full time job is now nothing short of miraculous to me. I have to find that discipline again, I don't have the whole day free to schedule however I wish any longer. I finished a book in January, and another one in March, but with my schedule the way it is now, I don't know when I would finish another. November? December? Who knows?
I figured that what I needed to do was confess my desires in a public forum, much like I did my desire to start working again, and see if the Universe arranges for things to happen again. So here it goes:
I'm tired of working for someone else. I want to be a published author. I have fiction that is as good as anything on the shelves right now and I just need to get my foot in the door. I also have great non-fiction proposals that will make excellent books - an alphabet book for early readers with half the profits going to animal shelters, for example - that just need to get seen by the right people to make them happen.
There you are. It's out there, floating through the aether. I've tossed my bottle into the ocean, let's see what shore it washes up on.
COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes back - does not compute, I had an interview
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 65 days
Trouble is, all this working to make rent money is severely cutting into my writing time. The fact that I finished several books while holding down a full time job is now nothing short of miraculous to me. I have to find that discipline again, I don't have the whole day free to schedule however I wish any longer. I finished a book in January, and another one in March, but with my schedule the way it is now, I don't know when I would finish another. November? December? Who knows?
I figured that what I needed to do was confess my desires in a public forum, much like I did my desire to start working again, and see if the Universe arranges for things to happen again. So here it goes:
I'm tired of working for someone else. I want to be a published author. I have fiction that is as good as anything on the shelves right now and I just need to get my foot in the door. I also have great non-fiction proposals that will make excellent books - an alphabet book for early readers with half the profits going to animal shelters, for example - that just need to get seen by the right people to make them happen.
There you are. It's out there, floating through the aether. I've tossed my bottle into the ocean, let's see what shore it washes up on.
COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes back - does not compute, I had an interview
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 65 days
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
At The Pearly Gates
The huge bouncer glanced up from his clipboard and nodded at me. I shuffled forward, next in line.
"Yeah.. uh.. my name's Don..."
"I know who you are," the bouncer said, glowering at me. He still flipped through pages on his clipboard, sheet after sheet after sheet, it seemed like a ream of paper even though it looked like there was only one page.
"So you're Saint Peter?" I asked.
The bouncer nodded.
"But... I thought... I mean... you're black."
St. Peter stopped flipping pages, and stared over his reading glasses at me. "Is that a problem?"
"Oh, no, no. God, no!" I said. "It's just.. I thought you were Middle Eastern."
"You mean Jewish?" Saint Peter asked. "Is that a problem?"
I ran my finger along the velvet rope and looked past him to the white, luminous gates. Still closed.
"You gotta understand," I said. "This is not at all what I thought it would be. Waiting in line forever, the limos, the kleig lights, the velvet rope. Who knew the gates to Heaven looked like one of those douchebaggy Hollywood clubs down on Sunset?"
Saint Peter pushed his glasses up on his nose. "So your eternal reward looks... what did you say? douchebaggy?"
"I'm just digging myself deeper and deeper here, aren't I?" I said with a nervous laugh. "I was expecting..."
"Clouds? Harps? A wise old white man with a white beard, a big tome, a quill pen with a really long plume?" Saint Peter grew more agitated with each word. "Let me ask you something, smart guy, do you eat the same thing every day?"
He stared at me, his eyes reflecting infinity, and I knew he expected an answer.
"N... no," I said. "I like to mix it up. Mexican, Chinese, good old home cooking."
"So what makes you think I want to see cherubs and dazzling golden light all the time?" Saint Peter said. "I've been here near on two thousand years, maybe I'm tired of harp music, maybe I think I'll puke if I see another puffy cloud. Maybe I want to be a black guy every once in a while."
I held my hands up, surrendering. "Okay, okay, sorry. I'll keep a more open mind."
Saint Peter cleared his throat and regained his composure. "I happen to like Hollywood. Reminds me of Rome under Nero. Before the fire, of course."
"So..." I said, pointing at the clipboard, "I don't want to be a pest, but..."
He flipped a few more pages on his eternal clipboard, scanning them intently. "Well, I don't see anything too egregious. You were mostly good, and the bad stuff you did wasn't all that bad, compared to some people I see. Looks like you're... oh..."
Ready to step across the velvet rope I paused. His 'oh' didn't sound like a pleased 'oh,' but more like a troubled 'oh.'
"Is there some sort of problem?" I asked.
"Kind of," Saint Peter said. "It says here you kept a blog?"
"Yeah.. uh.. my name's Don..."
"I know who you are," the bouncer said, glowering at me. He still flipped through pages on his clipboard, sheet after sheet after sheet, it seemed like a ream of paper even though it looked like there was only one page.
"So you're Saint Peter?" I asked.
The bouncer nodded.
"But... I thought... I mean... you're black."
St. Peter stopped flipping pages, and stared over his reading glasses at me. "Is that a problem?"
"Oh, no, no. God, no!" I said. "It's just.. I thought you were Middle Eastern."
"You mean Jewish?" Saint Peter asked. "Is that a problem?"
I ran my finger along the velvet rope and looked past him to the white, luminous gates. Still closed.
"You gotta understand," I said. "This is not at all what I thought it would be. Waiting in line forever, the limos, the kleig lights, the velvet rope. Who knew the gates to Heaven looked like one of those douchebaggy Hollywood clubs down on Sunset?"
Saint Peter pushed his glasses up on his nose. "So your eternal reward looks... what did you say? douchebaggy?"
"I'm just digging myself deeper and deeper here, aren't I?" I said with a nervous laugh. "I was expecting..."
"Clouds? Harps? A wise old white man with a white beard, a big tome, a quill pen with a really long plume?" Saint Peter grew more agitated with each word. "Let me ask you something, smart guy, do you eat the same thing every day?"
He stared at me, his eyes reflecting infinity, and I knew he expected an answer.
"N... no," I said. "I like to mix it up. Mexican, Chinese, good old home cooking."
"So what makes you think I want to see cherubs and dazzling golden light all the time?" Saint Peter said. "I've been here near on two thousand years, maybe I'm tired of harp music, maybe I think I'll puke if I see another puffy cloud. Maybe I want to be a black guy every once in a while."
I held my hands up, surrendering. "Okay, okay, sorry. I'll keep a more open mind."
Saint Peter cleared his throat and regained his composure. "I happen to like Hollywood. Reminds me of Rome under Nero. Before the fire, of course."
"So..." I said, pointing at the clipboard, "I don't want to be a pest, but..."
He flipped a few more pages on his eternal clipboard, scanning them intently. "Well, I don't see anything too egregious. You were mostly good, and the bad stuff you did wasn't all that bad, compared to some people I see. Looks like you're... oh..."
Ready to step across the velvet rope I paused. His 'oh' didn't sound like a pleased 'oh,' but more like a troubled 'oh.'
"Is there some sort of problem?" I asked.
"Kind of," Saint Peter said. "It says here you kept a blog?"
Monday, May 3, 2010
The White Girl At Chipotle
You know, with all the craziness happening in Arizona, the last thing public discourse needs is another 'white folks vs. (fill in your ethnicity here)' talk. But, on the other hand, I do have to call 'em like I see 'em.
Since I've been a working man I haven't really had time to cook on weekdays. It's been sandwiches, chips, and Lara Bars for the most part. Which is also pretty much what I have for lunch. Day after day after day.
So after my fencing lesson today I decided I needed something different. Driving down Del Mar I headed for South Lake Avenue and its line of fast food restaurants. Chipotle beckoned me. And there I went. Inside I ordered my chicken burrito and got all my fixin's as the workers passed the tortilla down the line with efficiency and dispatch.
Then my burrito got to the one white chick, the last in the production line. She tried her best, really she did, but I'm not exaggerating when I say I could roll a burrito better than she could, and I've never worked in a place where that was my job. The other ladies behind the line - Hispanic all - waited patiently for the white chick to finish wadding up my meal and wrapping it awkwardly in foil.
I'm not trying to say that Hispanic women are better than white chicks at wrapping burritos... well, I guess I am saying that, but I don't mean it in a bad way. More to the point, what I'm saying is that I'd rather have someone good at their job making my oh-so-caloric meal, instead of someone just learning their job.
Bless her heart, the poor thing couldn't even scoop guacamole into a plastic cup. A job's a job, but some people just aren't cut out for food service. She probably should have stuck with Kohl's or some other white chick hangout.
COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes back - 40 minutes to my fencing lesson
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 68 days
Since I've been a working man I haven't really had time to cook on weekdays. It's been sandwiches, chips, and Lara Bars for the most part. Which is also pretty much what I have for lunch. Day after day after day.
So after my fencing lesson today I decided I needed something different. Driving down Del Mar I headed for South Lake Avenue and its line of fast food restaurants. Chipotle beckoned me. And there I went. Inside I ordered my chicken burrito and got all my fixin's as the workers passed the tortilla down the line with efficiency and dispatch.
Then my burrito got to the one white chick, the last in the production line. She tried her best, really she did, but I'm not exaggerating when I say I could roll a burrito better than she could, and I've never worked in a place where that was my job. The other ladies behind the line - Hispanic all - waited patiently for the white chick to finish wadding up my meal and wrapping it awkwardly in foil.
I'm not trying to say that Hispanic women are better than white chicks at wrapping burritos... well, I guess I am saying that, but I don't mean it in a bad way. More to the point, what I'm saying is that I'd rather have someone good at their job making my oh-so-caloric meal, instead of someone just learning their job.
Bless her heart, the poor thing couldn't even scoop guacamole into a plastic cup. A job's a job, but some people just aren't cut out for food service. She probably should have stuck with Kohl's or some other white chick hangout.
COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes back - 40 minutes to my fencing lesson
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 68 days
Saturday, May 1, 2010
The Mailmen Aren't The Same
Working on the Miracle Mile is a treat, really. Aside from fighting the buses for space in narrow lanes, and the overabundance of taco trucks, and oddly high-security office buildings, and far less colorful homeless people than I'm used to, the mailmen aren't the same.
For one, their trucks are different, bigger than they are here in Pasadena, where they have the little junior-minivan kind of mail trucks. And the mailmen scrupulously lock their trucks in the Miracle Mile. In Pasadena they just close the back and make sure the keys aren't in the ignition. Down on the Miracle Mile the mailmen don't make eye contact, and - maybe I'm reading a little too much into it here - they're a little more unkempt, a little more slouchy. I noticed untucked shirts, unlaced shoes, five o'clock shadow that had gone past midnight. Almost like they're trying to match the neighborhood.
And when I was buying lotto tickets in the liquor store the other day, the mailman lingered just a little bit too long, eyeing the product lustily. I'm not saying he was drinking on the job, but I'm not saying he wasn't either. He just seemed to like the bourbon section a bit much. I prefer my mail carriers as sober as possible, cuts down on the copies of Cosmo I have to return to their rightful owners.
For one, their trucks are different, bigger than they are here in Pasadena, where they have the little junior-minivan kind of mail trucks. And the mailmen scrupulously lock their trucks in the Miracle Mile. In Pasadena they just close the back and make sure the keys aren't in the ignition. Down on the Miracle Mile the mailmen don't make eye contact, and - maybe I'm reading a little too much into it here - they're a little more unkempt, a little more slouchy. I noticed untucked shirts, unlaced shoes, five o'clock shadow that had gone past midnight. Almost like they're trying to match the neighborhood.
And when I was buying lotto tickets in the liquor store the other day, the mailman lingered just a little bit too long, eyeing the product lustily. I'm not saying he was drinking on the job, but I'm not saying he wasn't either. He just seemed to like the bourbon section a bit much. I prefer my mail carriers as sober as possible, cuts down on the copies of Cosmo I have to return to their rightful owners.
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