You ever have the feeling that you're spinning your wheels, that you could be doing better work somewhere else, doing something else? Yeah, me too. It involves looking for a job. I've been putting out resumes, following up, calling, e-mailing, doing what you're supposed to do. And I've been getting some results.
Since April I've interviewed for three different positions. And I've been turned down three different times. The most recent rejection was yesterday.
This is a new experience for me. I don't want to come across as a jackass, but up until now I've gotten every job I've ever interviewed for. Even the job sweeping a Coca-Cola warehouse back when I was in college.
It's hard not to be disappointed, it is a failure after all, at least on some level. And yet I can't help thinking that there's a method to this madness. Perhaps it's just the human tendency to try to find meaning in randomness, but maybe this is the Universe telling me that corporate America is no longer my refuge, that I need to get out on my own and forge my own destiny instead of begging for a job.
And if that's the way it is, I'm fine with it. I just wish the message weren't so cryptic.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
Near Nudity In The Afternoon
I have never seen so many shirtless guys in my life as I saw this afternoon. Even counting the very best episodes of COPS. I don't know what the deal was today, but it seemed men who really shouldn't be parading around bare-chested were only too willing to put it all out there, sharing their complete lack of shame or inhibition.
It started right out of the parking garage on Wilshire with an EXTREMELY bronzed older man roller blading down the sidewalk in front of LACMA. Usually that sort of thing is confined to Venice Beach, maybe he got lost. The flesh-fest continued in Hancock Park, then into Koreatown, and into that part of Silverlake that isn't infested with Yuppies. Even downtown had shirtless guys, who for some reason all seemed to be riding bicycles. My tour got interrupted by the 110 - no shirtless guys on the highway - but then when I got to Pasadena it started all over again with two different guys mowing their lawns. Their own lawns, which just doesn't happen in SoCal. The ultimate spectacle, though, had to be the chubby kid in the Speedo running around outside the aptly-named Vagabond Inn. Today was a smorgasbord of inappropriate displays of man-boobs, love handles, and grody chest hair. And one gnarly Speedo.
It's not even particularly hot, not even for LA. Must be something in the water.
But this does raise an interesting question, one that has perplexed philosophers for millennia. To wit: Without the perceiver, does the perceived exist? Would all those fat guys without their shirts on have even been there if I wasn't also there? Had I not been passing by in the truck, would the street have been empty? Or even better, have those fat, shirtless guys always been there, and I just happened to notice them this afternoon? Did the fact that I happened to see one at the beginning of my commute color my perception enough that I became hyper-vigilant, attuned to the slightest glimpse of a hairy nipple? If one does not see the fat shirtless guy, can that fat shirtless guy be said to exist at all?
That's philosophy right there. You can tell by all the question marks.
It started right out of the parking garage on Wilshire with an EXTREMELY bronzed older man roller blading down the sidewalk in front of LACMA. Usually that sort of thing is confined to Venice Beach, maybe he got lost. The flesh-fest continued in Hancock Park, then into Koreatown, and into that part of Silverlake that isn't infested with Yuppies. Even downtown had shirtless guys, who for some reason all seemed to be riding bicycles. My tour got interrupted by the 110 - no shirtless guys on the highway - but then when I got to Pasadena it started all over again with two different guys mowing their lawns. Their own lawns, which just doesn't happen in SoCal. The ultimate spectacle, though, had to be the chubby kid in the Speedo running around outside the aptly-named Vagabond Inn. Today was a smorgasbord of inappropriate displays of man-boobs, love handles, and grody chest hair. And one gnarly Speedo.
It's not even particularly hot, not even for LA. Must be something in the water.
But this does raise an interesting question, one that has perplexed philosophers for millennia. To wit: Without the perceiver, does the perceived exist? Would all those fat guys without their shirts on have even been there if I wasn't also there? Had I not been passing by in the truck, would the street have been empty? Or even better, have those fat, shirtless guys always been there, and I just happened to notice them this afternoon? Did the fact that I happened to see one at the beginning of my commute color my perception enough that I became hyper-vigilant, attuned to the slightest glimpse of a hairy nipple? If one does not see the fat shirtless guy, can that fat shirtless guy be said to exist at all?
That's philosophy right there. You can tell by all the question marks.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Pinstripes
I saw a group of guys in suits today - what is the collective noun for a bunch of guys in suits? a pretense? a pinstripe? a double-breast? I don't know. There were five or six of them, I couldn't get an exact count because they all looked the same.
I heard a bit of their conversation, which I couldn't make heads or tails of because none of them were finishing sentences and they were all using nonsense corporate-speak works like 'paradigm' and 'monetize.' I'm sure they're all nice guys and I'm sure their families love them. But as I watched them do their thing, I had only one thought:
If I ever turn into that just put a pistol to my head, pull the trigger and put me out of my misery.
Seriously. I don't know what business they were in but that doesn't matter in the least. They were tools, knobs, corporate weasels, I'm sure you have your own term for this kind anonymously bland, identical sort of douchebag. I wonder what they think when they look in the mirror at night. Did they think they were fighting the good fight, doing a good job, making a difference? Or did they see what I saw, a grasping climber hanging out with people who look and sound exactly like him?
Maybe I'm being too hard on them. Maybe they have to dress like they're training to be bouncers at a strip club (or at least what I hear bouncers at a strip club dress like). Maybe they have to talk like people who don't understand the words that are coming out of their mouths. Maybe they actually like the people they're turning into...
Nah.
I heard a bit of their conversation, which I couldn't make heads or tails of because none of them were finishing sentences and they were all using nonsense corporate-speak works like 'paradigm' and 'monetize.' I'm sure they're all nice guys and I'm sure their families love them. But as I watched them do their thing, I had only one thought:
If I ever turn into that just put a pistol to my head, pull the trigger and put me out of my misery.
Seriously. I don't know what business they were in but that doesn't matter in the least. They were tools, knobs, corporate weasels, I'm sure you have your own term for this kind anonymously bland, identical sort of douchebag. I wonder what they think when they look in the mirror at night. Did they think they were fighting the good fight, doing a good job, making a difference? Or did they see what I saw, a grasping climber hanging out with people who look and sound exactly like him?
Maybe I'm being too hard on them. Maybe they have to dress like they're training to be bouncers at a strip club (or at least what I hear bouncers at a strip club dress like). Maybe they have to talk like people who don't understand the words that are coming out of their mouths. Maybe they actually like the people they're turning into...
Nah.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Mothers Of Invention
I've been trying to figure out how to make a million dollars. Crazy as it sounds, all you really need to live comfortably is about $1,000,000, from that you can live off the interest alone, if you assume a modest interest rate and you don't go crazy buying fur-lined sinks or electric dog polishers. You could live even better if you had $2 million or $3 million, but I don't want to get greedy.
So, aside from winning the lottery or selling a novel or a kids' book, there has to be some way to make a million bucks. I considered – briefly – a career in bank robbing, but I don't look good in a ski mask or in prison orange. Assuming I got away with it, I couldn't just go deposit a million bucks in an American bank, there would be questions. I'd have to go on the run to some third-world country I probably wouldn't like very much. Criminal enterprises are right out, gotta keep it on the up-and-up.
I thought about a bake sale, if I could make and sell 1 million cookies for $1 profit each, I'd be on my way. My oven is kind of small, though. And I think I'd get bored after about 500,000 cookies and lose interest.
I thought about door-to-door soliciting, but encyclopedias are online these days, and most places don't want you snooping around bothering people who aren't going to buy your stuff anyway. And I don't like shotguns pointed at me by angry homeowners. I thought some more.
When I was an undergrad I lived a block away from the plasma donation building where all the Drag Worms would get money for their bottles of breakfast. They'd go in mostly sober and come out 45 minutes later with $9 in their grubby fists. I could hook myself up to an IV, I suppose, but I don't think I have enough blood in my body to add up to a million dollars. I was fast running out of ideas
Then it hit me. What do people these days need more than anything else? Tattoo removal. Something that seemed like a good idea when you were a drunk 20-something becomes a bit of a regret in your 30s and downright embarrassing in your 40s. And tattoo removal can be very, very expensive indeed, so I wouldn't have to do too many of them to make my dough.
But over time the market for tattoo removal runs out. Some people actually like their ink, after all, and wouldn't get rid of it for anything; eventually you'd run out of people who need your removal services. And then I had my eureka moment. You gotta get 'em coming and going. So here's the plan: I open a chain of tattoo parlors, and then right next door open a chain of tattoo removal parlors. And then next to that open a chain of liquor stores, so you can get some Irish courage no matter if you're inking up or inking down.
See? That's what a liberal arts education gets you right there. Clear thinking.
So, aside from winning the lottery or selling a novel or a kids' book, there has to be some way to make a million bucks. I considered – briefly – a career in bank robbing, but I don't look good in a ski mask or in prison orange. Assuming I got away with it, I couldn't just go deposit a million bucks in an American bank, there would be questions. I'd have to go on the run to some third-world country I probably wouldn't like very much. Criminal enterprises are right out, gotta keep it on the up-and-up.
I thought about a bake sale, if I could make and sell 1 million cookies for $1 profit each, I'd be on my way. My oven is kind of small, though. And I think I'd get bored after about 500,000 cookies and lose interest.
I thought about door-to-door soliciting, but encyclopedias are online these days, and most places don't want you snooping around bothering people who aren't going to buy your stuff anyway. And I don't like shotguns pointed at me by angry homeowners. I thought some more.
When I was an undergrad I lived a block away from the plasma donation building where all the Drag Worms would get money for their bottles of breakfast. They'd go in mostly sober and come out 45 minutes later with $9 in their grubby fists. I could hook myself up to an IV, I suppose, but I don't think I have enough blood in my body to add up to a million dollars. I was fast running out of ideas
Then it hit me. What do people these days need more than anything else? Tattoo removal. Something that seemed like a good idea when you were a drunk 20-something becomes a bit of a regret in your 30s and downright embarrassing in your 40s. And tattoo removal can be very, very expensive indeed, so I wouldn't have to do too many of them to make my dough.
But over time the market for tattoo removal runs out. Some people actually like their ink, after all, and wouldn't get rid of it for anything; eventually you'd run out of people who need your removal services. And then I had my eureka moment. You gotta get 'em coming and going. So here's the plan: I open a chain of tattoo parlors, and then right next door open a chain of tattoo removal parlors. And then next to that open a chain of liquor stores, so you can get some Irish courage no matter if you're inking up or inking down.
See? That's what a liberal arts education gets you right there. Clear thinking.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm concerned every time I have to use an airplane's bathroom. I don't mean the bathroom in the airport terminal, I mean the one that's actually on the plane itself, either the one in front or the one in back. Or the bathrooms in the middle if you're flying one of those great big jets to another country.
These bathrooms don't worry me because of the smell – though that is troubling – or the fact that so many passengers use them and you really, really don't know where these people have been. It's not the embarrassing, huge whoosh they make when you flush them. It's not even that I'm afraid that when I flush I might get sucked into the blue-water reservoir.
I am concerned, however, that when I flush I might actually get stuck.
How embarrassing would that be? I picture myself bent in two like a snapped toothpick, my feet pointed at the ceiling, my arms pressed tight against them, my lower half wedged firmly in the bowl. Remember that my pants would be around my ankles, which, once I get stuck in the toilet, would be above my head.
I'd have to call out for help, but I wouldn't want to do it in a panicked way, because that would just be pathetic. I'd have to say something like 'Uh… excuse me? I seem to have run into a bit of a snag here…' or give it a little laugh, rap my shoe against the door and say 'You're not going to believe what just happened…'
One of the flight attendants would have to investigate and once they see the situation I've gotten myself into they'd have to call the pilot over for a consult. The both of them would stand there, hands to their chins, a puzzled look on their faces as they say 'Never seen that happen before…' I just don't need the grief.
That's why I hold it until we land and then run for the real bathroom in the terminal.
These bathrooms don't worry me because of the smell – though that is troubling – or the fact that so many passengers use them and you really, really don't know where these people have been. It's not the embarrassing, huge whoosh they make when you flush them. It's not even that I'm afraid that when I flush I might get sucked into the blue-water reservoir.
I am concerned, however, that when I flush I might actually get stuck.
How embarrassing would that be? I picture myself bent in two like a snapped toothpick, my feet pointed at the ceiling, my arms pressed tight against them, my lower half wedged firmly in the bowl. Remember that my pants would be around my ankles, which, once I get stuck in the toilet, would be above my head.
I'd have to call out for help, but I wouldn't want to do it in a panicked way, because that would just be pathetic. I'd have to say something like 'Uh… excuse me? I seem to have run into a bit of a snag here…' or give it a little laugh, rap my shoe against the door and say 'You're not going to believe what just happened…'
One of the flight attendants would have to investigate and once they see the situation I've gotten myself into they'd have to call the pilot over for a consult. The both of them would stand there, hands to their chins, a puzzled look on their faces as they say 'Never seen that happen before…' I just don't need the grief.
That's why I hold it until we land and then run for the real bathroom in the terminal.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Bread And Circuses
Something's been bothering me lately. Okay, a LOT of things bother me, but one thing in particular has caught my attention. It's the way that modern careerism and corporate group-think is affecting our Republic.
Let me 'splain. Any democratic form of government requires its citizens to participate. Actively. That means people should go to city council meetings, they should go to zoning board meetings and school board meetings. They need to know what's going on in their neighborhoods, their cities, their states, and in the nation. And they should vote.
But let me ask you this: when was the last time you did any of that? If you answered 'just last week, Don,' I can almost guarantee that you do not hold a full-time job. You're retired, or a part-time worker, or a stay-at-home Mom or Dad. Or unemployed.
Working a 9-to-5 job has over the last decade become working an 8-to-5 or an 8-to-6 or longer. And then there's the commute, people are willing - for some reason - to drive an hour or more to work somewhere they really would rather not be in the first place. We're spending over half our day Monday through Friday working, getting to work, or coming back from work. After that we have to make time for our families, and then all the stuff that needs doing anyway like the laundry or cooking or cleaning.
After all the busy work that we do just to get by, are any of us inclined to trek to City Hall to listen to a zoning committee? After a very long day of corporate monkey-spank do we really want to hear about library funding or sewer improvements?
Being good corporate drones is making us bad citizens. We're neglecting the things that make this country the incredible place it is, in favor of yet another TPS report or PowerPoint presentation.
I don't know if this is by accident or by design. A corporation is just a legal fiction, after all, a piece of paper on file somewhere in Delaware. But corporations are run by human beings, some very poor human beings usually, and I wouldn't put it past them to have planned this all along. Get people hooked on corporate welfare, get them running the treadmill of the paycheck economy, and then slowly subvert the system from within, knowing that people are too tired and distracted to pay attention. All that is necessary for evil to succeed is that good men stand by and do nothing, after all. And what better 'nothing' to do than fail to participate in a participatory democracy?
Maybe it's my impending old-man-ness showing, but this has to stop. We have to stand up and take charge of our work day. Just say no to another day working late, just tell them the report won't be ready on Friday because you have to go help keep America great. Let's see those weasels argue with that.
Let me 'splain. Any democratic form of government requires its citizens to participate. Actively. That means people should go to city council meetings, they should go to zoning board meetings and school board meetings. They need to know what's going on in their neighborhoods, their cities, their states, and in the nation. And they should vote.
But let me ask you this: when was the last time you did any of that? If you answered 'just last week, Don,' I can almost guarantee that you do not hold a full-time job. You're retired, or a part-time worker, or a stay-at-home Mom or Dad. Or unemployed.
Working a 9-to-5 job has over the last decade become working an 8-to-5 or an 8-to-6 or longer. And then there's the commute, people are willing - for some reason - to drive an hour or more to work somewhere they really would rather not be in the first place. We're spending over half our day Monday through Friday working, getting to work, or coming back from work. After that we have to make time for our families, and then all the stuff that needs doing anyway like the laundry or cooking or cleaning.
After all the busy work that we do just to get by, are any of us inclined to trek to City Hall to listen to a zoning committee? After a very long day of corporate monkey-spank do we really want to hear about library funding or sewer improvements?
Being good corporate drones is making us bad citizens. We're neglecting the things that make this country the incredible place it is, in favor of yet another TPS report or PowerPoint presentation.
I don't know if this is by accident or by design. A corporation is just a legal fiction, after all, a piece of paper on file somewhere in Delaware. But corporations are run by human beings, some very poor human beings usually, and I wouldn't put it past them to have planned this all along. Get people hooked on corporate welfare, get them running the treadmill of the paycheck economy, and then slowly subvert the system from within, knowing that people are too tired and distracted to pay attention. All that is necessary for evil to succeed is that good men stand by and do nothing, after all. And what better 'nothing' to do than fail to participate in a participatory democracy?
Maybe it's my impending old-man-ness showing, but this has to stop. We have to stand up and take charge of our work day. Just say no to another day working late, just tell them the report won't be ready on Friday because you have to go help keep America great. Let's see those weasels argue with that.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
I'm Trying, Really
I've been sitting at my desk for the past 57 minutes, fully intending to post something witty or poignant. Possibly both. But it's just not coming.
Writer's block is not a concept I subscribe to, it's like saying a quarterback has 'throwing the ball block.' Writing is what writers do, and if you're having a hard time of it you figure out what's wrong and work through it.
But right now, this morning, forces are conspiring against me. Downstairs, since 8 AM, workers have been hammering, sawing, screwing things in and generally making a racket to wake the dead. Or me. I think they're replacing the AC mechanism(s) down in #9, because they're indulging their noise-making about five feet from where I sit and around the corner. Where my own AC stuff is. I tell you, I'm like Sherlock Holmes here.
Just when I think they're done they find something new to beat on, or something new to saw, or something new to screw into something else. Crazy-making.
And there's a couple on the first floor with a baby, the cutest little girl you've ever seen, probably two years old I'm guessing. Big surprise, she doesn't like the hammering, sawing, and screwing any more than I do. But since she's two she gets a free pass to complain in the only way she knows how. By crying.
Hammer hammer hammer saw. Cry cry cry. Hammer hammer hammer saw. Cry cry cry. Hammer saw hammer saw screw screw screw. Cryyyyyyyyyy...
But wait, there's more... since the gates downstairs are open for the workers determined to keep me from concentrating, door-to-door salesmen now have no barries to keep the off the property, so now I have uninvited guests. About fifteen minutes ago someone knocked on my door. I assumed it was the manager or one of the workers downstairs telling me they needed to get into my place for some reason. Oh no. A kid, pimply-faced, nervous and dirty looked at me with wide-eyed surprise as he realized I didn't have a shirt on.
'Hi, my name is (fill in forgettable name here, I think it was Jared), and I'm selling subscriptions to pay my way through school...'
Kee-rist. I just can't get a break.
I politely refused and decided not to threaten him with a visit from the cops. Even though our police force loves rousting these slave-labor subscription selling operations, this kid has enough problems just being part of it, he doesn't need me to add to his misery.
It's quiet now.
Too quiet...
Writer's block is not a concept I subscribe to, it's like saying a quarterback has 'throwing the ball block.' Writing is what writers do, and if you're having a hard time of it you figure out what's wrong and work through it.
But right now, this morning, forces are conspiring against me. Downstairs, since 8 AM, workers have been hammering, sawing, screwing things in and generally making a racket to wake the dead. Or me. I think they're replacing the AC mechanism(s) down in #9, because they're indulging their noise-making about five feet from where I sit and around the corner. Where my own AC stuff is. I tell you, I'm like Sherlock Holmes here.
Just when I think they're done they find something new to beat on, or something new to saw, or something new to screw into something else. Crazy-making.
And there's a couple on the first floor with a baby, the cutest little girl you've ever seen, probably two years old I'm guessing. Big surprise, she doesn't like the hammering, sawing, and screwing any more than I do. But since she's two she gets a free pass to complain in the only way she knows how. By crying.
Hammer hammer hammer saw. Cry cry cry. Hammer hammer hammer saw. Cry cry cry. Hammer saw hammer saw screw screw screw. Cryyyyyyyyyy...
But wait, there's more... since the gates downstairs are open for the workers determined to keep me from concentrating, door-to-door salesmen now have no barries to keep the off the property, so now I have uninvited guests. About fifteen minutes ago someone knocked on my door. I assumed it was the manager or one of the workers downstairs telling me they needed to get into my place for some reason. Oh no. A kid, pimply-faced, nervous and dirty looked at me with wide-eyed surprise as he realized I didn't have a shirt on.
'Hi, my name is (fill in forgettable name here, I think it was Jared), and I'm selling subscriptions to pay my way through school...'
Kee-rist. I just can't get a break.
I politely refused and decided not to threaten him with a visit from the cops. Even though our police force loves rousting these slave-labor subscription selling operations, this kid has enough problems just being part of it, he doesn't need me to add to his misery.
It's quiet now.
Too quiet...
Friday, July 23, 2010
Thou Shalt Not Covet
Think back to when you were ten years old, try to remember your Christmas list. Mine probably had GI Joes on it, maybe an Evel Knievel bendy doll with a wind-up crash car you could sail off the curb, an SST car, probably Hot Wheels, maybe a game or two. But I remember I really wanted Micronauts, especially the Baron Karza figure, a pound or two of black plastic bad guy who could totally pound the rest of the Micronauts, even Acroyear. I really wanted the Baron. Bad. And his horse too, whose name I can't remember. You could make a centaur out of the Baron and his horse, for God's sake! And they had rocket launchers! What kid wouldn't want that? I know I wanted it. Bad. Really bad.
I didn't get the Baron. Aside from a life lesson in learning how to deal with disappointment, that Christmas day was also the last time I really, really, really wanted something in that childlike, desperate way. Maybe it was the disappointment of not getting the one thing I hoped I would get – but I got underwear, of course – or maybe it was just part of growing up. I never really ached for a material possession like that again.
Until now.
See, back in 2008 Nike provided the shoes for the US Fencing team. The shoes were kick-ass and the US Olympic Fencing team kicked ass. Coincidence? I think not.
Nike was supposed to release the Ballestra fencing shoe that year to the general public but it didn't happen. I even wrote to them, asking when the shoe was coming out but the customer service stooge had no idea what I was talking about.
Fast forward two summers. It's 2010 and I see an announcement that the Nike Air Ballestra is finally coming out, on the shelves in July. Be still my heart. I got on the Leon Paul web site and watched the video, which included the shoe's designer. Yes, I watched a video about a shoe. And it was good.
It was like a light went on over my head and someone punched me in the chest. BAM! My Damascus moment. The instant I saw them I wanted those shoes. Bad. Really bad. Ten-year-old-at-Christmas bad.
Now I know what coveting is, because I am coveting. Coveting like a motherf*cker, and I'm beginning to understand why it's prohibited in the Ten Commandments. The fact that the shoes are $175 makes it a little easier to ignore that little voice in my head that squeaks 'buy the damn shoes.' But I'm not made of stone.
You will be mine, Nike Air Ballestra. Oh, yes. Sooner or later you will be mine.
I didn't get the Baron. Aside from a life lesson in learning how to deal with disappointment, that Christmas day was also the last time I really, really, really wanted something in that childlike, desperate way. Maybe it was the disappointment of not getting the one thing I hoped I would get – but I got underwear, of course – or maybe it was just part of growing up. I never really ached for a material possession like that again.
Until now.
See, back in 2008 Nike provided the shoes for the US Fencing team. The shoes were kick-ass and the US Olympic Fencing team kicked ass. Coincidence? I think not.
Nike was supposed to release the Ballestra fencing shoe that year to the general public but it didn't happen. I even wrote to them, asking when the shoe was coming out but the customer service stooge had no idea what I was talking about.
Fast forward two summers. It's 2010 and I see an announcement that the Nike Air Ballestra is finally coming out, on the shelves in July. Be still my heart. I got on the Leon Paul web site and watched the video, which included the shoe's designer. Yes, I watched a video about a shoe. And it was good.
It was like a light went on over my head and someone punched me in the chest. BAM! My Damascus moment. The instant I saw them I wanted those shoes. Bad. Really bad. Ten-year-old-at-Christmas bad.
Now I know what coveting is, because I am coveting. Coveting like a motherf*cker, and I'm beginning to understand why it's prohibited in the Ten Commandments. The fact that the shoes are $175 makes it a little easier to ignore that little voice in my head that squeaks 'buy the damn shoes.' But I'm not made of stone.
You will be mine, Nike Air Ballestra. Oh, yes. Sooner or later you will be mine.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Celebrity Sightings
Since I live in Pasadena, which is close enough to Los Angeles that you could spit on it - and I have - people from elsewhere ask which celebrities I've seen. I usually tell them that I could trip over a celebrity and not know who they were, but the truth is I have seen some celebrities over the years. Usually people had to point them out to me.
Monday, though, I saw a celebrity I did recognize immediately. So I did the thing they hate, which is I took a step back and craned my neck to get a better look and make sure that was who I thought it was. And it was. Victoria Jackson. In Von's. Buying vegetables and bread.
See, mostly I don't care about celebrities, but I actually like Victoria Jackson's work. So I was thinking that I should go up to her and tell her that, which was odd because I've never felt the urge to do that before. As I was trying to figure out a slick way to make it happen, I realized I was being a creepy stalker and she probably just wanted to go through the self-check aisle and get back to whatever it was she was doing before she realized she needed groceries. Probably making dinner, which even celebrities have to do. And then she was gone.
Because I know you're going to ask, yes, she was short. And, yes, she looks like she does on TV. Nice skin.
Here are a few other celebrities I've recognized, and where I saw them.
Outside Bungalow News, which is now closed:
Richard Moll
In the Target electronics department:
Dr. Drew Pinsky
At the Chateau Marmont
Demi Moore
Ashton Kutcher
At the Hollywood and Highland complex:
Ryan Seacrest
In the CNN building elevator:
Larry King
At Sabor, a cafe on Colorado Blvd. by the Dr. Drew Target:
Staci Greason
On Highland, right by his Mozza restaurants
Mario Batalli
Monday, though, I saw a celebrity I did recognize immediately. So I did the thing they hate, which is I took a step back and craned my neck to get a better look and make sure that was who I thought it was. And it was. Victoria Jackson. In Von's. Buying vegetables and bread.
See, mostly I don't care about celebrities, but I actually like Victoria Jackson's work. So I was thinking that I should go up to her and tell her that, which was odd because I've never felt the urge to do that before. As I was trying to figure out a slick way to make it happen, I realized I was being a creepy stalker and she probably just wanted to go through the self-check aisle and get back to whatever it was she was doing before she realized she needed groceries. Probably making dinner, which even celebrities have to do. And then she was gone.
Because I know you're going to ask, yes, she was short. And, yes, she looks like she does on TV. Nice skin.
Here are a few other celebrities I've recognized, and where I saw them.
Outside Bungalow News, which is now closed:
Richard Moll
In the Target electronics department:
Dr. Drew Pinsky
At the Chateau Marmont
Demi Moore
Ashton Kutcher
At the Hollywood and Highland complex:
Ryan Seacrest
In the CNN building elevator:
Larry King
At Sabor, a cafe on Colorado Blvd. by the Dr. Drew Target:
Staci Greason
On Highland, right by his Mozza restaurants
Mario Batalli
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Travel Games
I was flying from Texas to California yesterday, and as luck would have it I saw someone I knew in the airport. This happens to me more often than you would think it might, it happened just this past December, as a matter of fact. It's only really freaky when it happens in a foreign country, where you would have no right to expect to meet someone from, say, your high school.
Anyway, I saw a lady I knew when I worked at Countrywide. She had A23 boarding number, I had A22. Which was eerily similar to the events of December, when the friend I met by chance in DFW not only was on the same plane as I was, but had the seat right next to me. The lady from Countrywide worked in HR like I did, her office was on the other side of the big room from mine. Come to find out, she's from San Antonio too, I never knew this before. I ran into her at McCarran airport - that's Vegas for you non-travel savvy folks - but she'd been on my same flight from San Antonio. Weird.
We got to talking and I realized there's a game people play when you meet someone you don't really know all that well, but you feel obligated to make conversation because you recognize them from work. You talk about people you both know and where they are now. Mark? Don't know, still looking I imagine. Jeff? Started a business. Other Jeff? Working a consulting gig. Nathan? Working his family's pharmacy. Eve? Working for Scott - remember him? - but recently laid off and looking for work too.
Big pause.
What do you say when you realize you've run out of meaningless pleasantries? When you've exhausted the list of people you both might know but you still feel obligated to keep the conversational ball rolling? You talk about your shared hometown. Did you know they have music at Wonderland Mall, which hasn't been Wonderland for years but neither of us could remember it was called Crossroads Mall until much later in the conversation. You talk about what high schools you went to, and where my father went but didn't graduate from, and things that didn't used to be there and where farms once dotted a landscape now filled with ugly McMansions.
Big pause.
Then the boarding announcement sounded and we shuffled on board for our 3 ounce plastic cup of soda and two packets of peanuts.
It was an awkward dance, though pleasant enough. I found out she lives in South Pasadena, as do Other Jeff and Sandra. Never knew that before either. Small world.
Anyway, I saw a lady I knew when I worked at Countrywide. She had A23 boarding number, I had A22. Which was eerily similar to the events of December, when the friend I met by chance in DFW not only was on the same plane as I was, but had the seat right next to me. The lady from Countrywide worked in HR like I did, her office was on the other side of the big room from mine. Come to find out, she's from San Antonio too, I never knew this before. I ran into her at McCarran airport - that's Vegas for you non-travel savvy folks - but she'd been on my same flight from San Antonio. Weird.
We got to talking and I realized there's a game people play when you meet someone you don't really know all that well, but you feel obligated to make conversation because you recognize them from work. You talk about people you both know and where they are now. Mark? Don't know, still looking I imagine. Jeff? Started a business. Other Jeff? Working a consulting gig. Nathan? Working his family's pharmacy. Eve? Working for Scott - remember him? - but recently laid off and looking for work too.
Big pause.
What do you say when you realize you've run out of meaningless pleasantries? When you've exhausted the list of people you both might know but you still feel obligated to keep the conversational ball rolling? You talk about your shared hometown. Did you know they have music at Wonderland Mall, which hasn't been Wonderland for years but neither of us could remember it was called Crossroads Mall until much later in the conversation. You talk about what high schools you went to, and where my father went but didn't graduate from, and things that didn't used to be there and where farms once dotted a landscape now filled with ugly McMansions.
Big pause.
Then the boarding announcement sounded and we shuffled on board for our 3 ounce plastic cup of soda and two packets of peanuts.
It was an awkward dance, though pleasant enough. I found out she lives in South Pasadena, as do Other Jeff and Sandra. Never knew that before either. Small world.
Monday, July 19, 2010
I'm Sorry, Girls
I returned to Pasadena today after spending four days in Texas. Before I got on the plane I had one last lunch with my mother, my sister, and my two nieces. They both have summer jobs and as they were saying good-bye, one last raspberry on the cheek before I wouldn't see them for another few months, they asked when they would see me again. And then both of them reminded me of what I'd told them years ago when I moved out to Pasadena.
Evidently I told my older niece that I would be back before she graduated high school. She's now going to be a sophomore in college. And my younger niece remembers me telling her I would be away for five years. It's been eight.
What a punch to the gut.
I don't doubt them for a minute, especially since they both remember me saying the same thing. I made promises to two little girls who are now young women, promises I don't even remember making. I broke those promises and that breaks my heart.
I'm sorry, girls. Truly sorry, more than I can put into words. I don't know how I'm going to make up for eight years of absence, but I'm going to try.
Evidently I told my older niece that I would be back before she graduated high school. She's now going to be a sophomore in college. And my younger niece remembers me telling her I would be away for five years. It's been eight.
What a punch to the gut.
I don't doubt them for a minute, especially since they both remember me saying the same thing. I made promises to two little girls who are now young women, promises I don't even remember making. I broke those promises and that breaks my heart.
I'm sorry, girls. Truly sorry, more than I can put into words. I don't know how I'm going to make up for eight years of absence, but I'm going to try.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Hey There, Tiny
I drive a truck. It's a 1999 Tahoe, it's big and blue (and tan), it fills a lane, and in California it says 'Texas' with a capital 'T.'
Here in Texas, though, it's just one more truck out of the crowd, and it's not even a particularly big specimen. A Tahoe is just a Suburban on a shorter frame, after all.
I was out today, shopping with my family, and we had one of those occasions when you park in the lot and there's no one nearby, and then when you come out of the store you're surrounded by huge trucks, monstrosities with push-bar front bumpers and gigantic tool boxes in the bed, and tires taller than a third-grader. Back when I used to drive a '72 Chevelle this happened all the time, especially in Sherman, TX where I went to school and rednecks outnumbered regular folks twice over. It's just what you deal with when you make your home in the Lone Star State.
I've never once had that happen to me in California. Not even when I drive my car, because there just aren't enough trucks on the road to make it possible. My truck is always one of the largest in any lot, if not the largest by far, compared to all the hybrids and rice-burners and sensible econo-boxes that seem to multiply like rabbits under the SoCal sun. So it was kind of disconcerting today when my sister's crossover got lost behind F-250's and Silverados and Tundras, some of them diesel and still idling, surrounding her vehicle like so many metallic bison circled to protect the little one in the center.
I did't like it. To be honest, I've grown used to being the guy with the truck in the land of car-owners. The one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind, so to speak. I didn't appreciate having one of my defining characteristics reduced to mere background clutter.
God help me, I'm looking forward to going back to SoCal, where my truck is unique, and people pay it the respect it's due.
Oh, the humanity...
Here in Texas, though, it's just one more truck out of the crowd, and it's not even a particularly big specimen. A Tahoe is just a Suburban on a shorter frame, after all.
I was out today, shopping with my family, and we had one of those occasions when you park in the lot and there's no one nearby, and then when you come out of the store you're surrounded by huge trucks, monstrosities with push-bar front bumpers and gigantic tool boxes in the bed, and tires taller than a third-grader. Back when I used to drive a '72 Chevelle this happened all the time, especially in Sherman, TX where I went to school and rednecks outnumbered regular folks twice over. It's just what you deal with when you make your home in the Lone Star State.
I've never once had that happen to me in California. Not even when I drive my car, because there just aren't enough trucks on the road to make it possible. My truck is always one of the largest in any lot, if not the largest by far, compared to all the hybrids and rice-burners and sensible econo-boxes that seem to multiply like rabbits under the SoCal sun. So it was kind of disconcerting today when my sister's crossover got lost behind F-250's and Silverados and Tundras, some of them diesel and still idling, surrounding her vehicle like so many metallic bison circled to protect the little one in the center.
I did't like it. To be honest, I've grown used to being the guy with the truck in the land of car-owners. The one-eyed man in the kingdom of the blind, so to speak. I didn't appreciate having one of my defining characteristics reduced to mere background clutter.
God help me, I'm looking forward to going back to SoCal, where my truck is unique, and people pay it the respect it's due.
Oh, the humanity...
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Back In Texas
I'm back in Texas - July is a big birthday month in my family - and I have a few travel notes.
On the plane from Burbank to Phoenix, a tall, balding, sort-of doofus of a guy sat in front of me. Because he was balding and because he was tall I could see that he had a huge scar that ran right down the center of his skull. It wasn't just a lumpy head which some people (like me) do have, this was an old scar, at least four inches long, puckered in the center and exposed by his male pattern baldness. There was a story behind that scar, you don't get something like that and not have a detailed, possibly hilarious explanation for it. But I didn't ask. I couldn't figure out how to bring it up. 'Excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice... did someone hit you in the head with an axe when you were younger?'
A Buddhist monk in the Phoenix men's room. He wore a yellow t-shirt, matching yellow cap, and the red skirt/robe thingy those guys have. It never occurred to me that Buddhist monks would use the restroom, I just figured it was some sort of mystic discipline that kept them from needing to go in the first place. I was also idly curious as to whether he would hike up the skirt or unzip and pull it down like a pair of pants. Alas, again I was too timid to inquire. Or to try to catch a peek.
A friendly Canadian family, friendly enough that everyone around them knew they were Canadian. Mom and Dad had beer, the three kids had milk. Quite possibly the oddest beverage combination I've seen, and I was a waiter for years.
On the plane from Burbank to Phoenix, a tall, balding, sort-of doofus of a guy sat in front of me. Because he was balding and because he was tall I could see that he had a huge scar that ran right down the center of his skull. It wasn't just a lumpy head which some people (like me) do have, this was an old scar, at least four inches long, puckered in the center and exposed by his male pattern baldness. There was a story behind that scar, you don't get something like that and not have a detailed, possibly hilarious explanation for it. But I didn't ask. I couldn't figure out how to bring it up. 'Excuse me, but I couldn't help but notice... did someone hit you in the head with an axe when you were younger?'
A Buddhist monk in the Phoenix men's room. He wore a yellow t-shirt, matching yellow cap, and the red skirt/robe thingy those guys have. It never occurred to me that Buddhist monks would use the restroom, I just figured it was some sort of mystic discipline that kept them from needing to go in the first place. I was also idly curious as to whether he would hike up the skirt or unzip and pull it down like a pair of pants. Alas, again I was too timid to inquire. Or to try to catch a peek.
A friendly Canadian family, friendly enough that everyone around them knew they were Canadian. Mom and Dad had beer, the three kids had milk. Quite possibly the oddest beverage combination I've seen, and I was a waiter for years.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Hot...
You ever see that Twilight Zone episode where the Earth was moving closer to the Sun?
Yeah, that's LA today.
Even better, the air conditioning in my apartment doesn't work. Not just my place, the entire building. It's the elevator all over again. My desk is hot. My desk chair is hot. My walls are hot. My carpet is hot. The toilet seat is hot, for God's sake.
I'm from Texas, and I know hot. I used to make a living doing manual labor, and I was a lifeguard. I've been outside in the worst of a Texas summer and I'm alive today to talk about it. I know how to sweat, is what I'm saying. But I've lived here for eight years and I've grown acclimated. 99 degrees F is hot anywhere, but in LA it seems hotter. Probably all the concrete. And all the sweaty people.
I was going to try to think of a way to make money off this, but I just don't have the energy. Thunderstorms are brewing out in the IE and the natives are getting restless. Angelenos freak at just the mention of rain, let alone at actual drops. A thunderstorm is enough to spawn heart attacks.
I have an oven thermometer I use to get an accurate air temperature reading. I haven't had the courage to use it. Right now, at my desk, it's 88 degrees.
Hot...
Yeah, that's LA today.
Even better, the air conditioning in my apartment doesn't work. Not just my place, the entire building. It's the elevator all over again. My desk is hot. My desk chair is hot. My walls are hot. My carpet is hot. The toilet seat is hot, for God's sake.
I'm from Texas, and I know hot. I used to make a living doing manual labor, and I was a lifeguard. I've been outside in the worst of a Texas summer and I'm alive today to talk about it. I know how to sweat, is what I'm saying. But I've lived here for eight years and I've grown acclimated. 99 degrees F is hot anywhere, but in LA it seems hotter. Probably all the concrete. And all the sweaty people.
I was going to try to think of a way to make money off this, but I just don't have the energy. Thunderstorms are brewing out in the IE and the natives are getting restless. Angelenos freak at just the mention of rain, let alone at actual drops. A thunderstorm is enough to spawn heart attacks.
I have an oven thermometer I use to get an accurate air temperature reading. I haven't had the courage to use it. Right now, at my desk, it's 88 degrees.
Hot...
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Gone The Way Of The Buggy Whip?
I walked down to the Post Office again today, mailing more queries for our children's book , and even though there are many vacant or half-vacant buildings along the way my path does take me right past the Screen Actor's Guild offices. As I mentioned before, for some reason actors smoke in a greater proportion than the rest of the population. Except maybe North Carolina. And since many SAG employees are also actors, many of the people working in the SAG offices smoke. That's the transitive property you learned in Algebra I, if A=C and B=C, then A=C. And you thought you'd never use that in real life…
I passed the SAG offices at 12:30 PM, smack in the middle of lunch by anyone's reckoning. I caught a face full of some chick's exhaled Marlboro, and then got a snootful of another person's noxious vapors before I realized what was going on. Stationed every four or five feet along the entire length of the building were people driving another nail before their lunch hour ended. I counted eight people and I'd already passed two or three with more around the corner. They all stared at the sidewalk, or at the plants in the planter, ashamed of their dependence and yet powerless to resist its pull. People who want to light up are relegated to the fringes – literally – forced to indulge their addiction in alcoves and behind dumpsters, out in the heat of summer and the cold of winter.
So why don't more of them quit?
Easy for me to say, I'm don't have a two-pack a day habit. One of my friends has been 'quitting' for years now, using every method that comes along, and he's just not up to the task. But my mother quit, decades ago, and my father quit not too long after she did. And this was before nicotine gum or recovery programs or anything. Back then if you wanted to quit you were on your own, and you'd have people bumming your Green Stamps off of you so they could get a windbreaker or Coleman stove. Quitting can be done.
For that matter, why do people ever start smoking nowadays? It's not like the message isn't clear or hasn't been repeated over and over and over again. Kind of like telling people not to poke sharp sticks in their eyes, it's not really anything you think a sane person would do in the first place. But people do. Why aren't cigarettes going the way of the buggy whip*? Once plentiful but now confined to museums and images of Rod Serling on Twilight Zone.
* kids, a buggy whip is not some hip young dessert topping** it was an implement drovers used to urge their animals forward. If you don't know what a drover is, look it up.
** many thanks to Henny Youngman, may he rest in peace, for that fossil of a joke
I passed the SAG offices at 12:30 PM, smack in the middle of lunch by anyone's reckoning. I caught a face full of some chick's exhaled Marlboro, and then got a snootful of another person's noxious vapors before I realized what was going on. Stationed every four or five feet along the entire length of the building were people driving another nail before their lunch hour ended. I counted eight people and I'd already passed two or three with more around the corner. They all stared at the sidewalk, or at the plants in the planter, ashamed of their dependence and yet powerless to resist its pull. People who want to light up are relegated to the fringes – literally – forced to indulge their addiction in alcoves and behind dumpsters, out in the heat of summer and the cold of winter.
So why don't more of them quit?
Easy for me to say, I'm don't have a two-pack a day habit. One of my friends has been 'quitting' for years now, using every method that comes along, and he's just not up to the task. But my mother quit, decades ago, and my father quit not too long after she did. And this was before nicotine gum or recovery programs or anything. Back then if you wanted to quit you were on your own, and you'd have people bumming your Green Stamps off of you so they could get a windbreaker or Coleman stove. Quitting can be done.
For that matter, why do people ever start smoking nowadays? It's not like the message isn't clear or hasn't been repeated over and over and over again. Kind of like telling people not to poke sharp sticks in their eyes, it's not really anything you think a sane person would do in the first place. But people do. Why aren't cigarettes going the way of the buggy whip*? Once plentiful but now confined to museums and images of Rod Serling on Twilight Zone.
* kids, a buggy whip is not some hip young dessert topping** it was an implement drovers used to urge their animals forward. If you don't know what a drover is, look it up.
** many thanks to Henny Youngman, may he rest in peace, for that fossil of a joke
Monday, July 12, 2010
Psychic Bizarre
I saw a sign on Highland Ave. today, a bright neon yellow rectangle of cardboard taped to a light post. Since traffic at 5 PM on Highland crawls like a drunk sorority chick on a Saturday night, I had time to read the message closely. On it, in a decidedly feminine hand, were the words:
Psychic Bazaar & Clothes
Intriguing to say the least. A psychic bazaar... what would that be? A marketplace of psychics? How could anyone make any profit? You could read the shopkeeper's mind and find out how much he paid for each item. Conversely, it would be difficult to haggle if the guy behind the counter knew how much money you had in your pocket.
I was also intrigued by the '& Clothes' part of the sign. Are they psychic clothes? And if they're not, why are they selling them at the psychic bazaar? Or is it the case that even psychics need pants so they might as well sell to a captive audience? Do psychics wear cargo pants? I have nothing but questions.
The best part, though, had to be the fact that there was no address or phone number on the posterboard. So I suppose you really did have to be psychic to know where the Bazaar & Clothes is.
Now I'm inspired. I think I need to create a web site on which I'll sell high-priced items at a steep discount, but only to psychic people. You send me money, and I'll telepathically beam the pickup spot to you. If you don't receive my psychic waves, obviously you weren't meant to have those items, and you should probably work harder on developing your mental powers. I'll keep the money until you telepathically tell me your powers are strong enough.
Yeah... that's the plan. You... the one who thinks you might have psychic powers. Yes, you. I'm talking to you... with my mind. Send me money. A few hundred dollars will do. For a start. Yes... money... to me...
Psychic Bazaar & Clothes
Intriguing to say the least. A psychic bazaar... what would that be? A marketplace of psychics? How could anyone make any profit? You could read the shopkeeper's mind and find out how much he paid for each item. Conversely, it would be difficult to haggle if the guy behind the counter knew how much money you had in your pocket.
I was also intrigued by the '& Clothes' part of the sign. Are they psychic clothes? And if they're not, why are they selling them at the psychic bazaar? Or is it the case that even psychics need pants so they might as well sell to a captive audience? Do psychics wear cargo pants? I have nothing but questions.
The best part, though, had to be the fact that there was no address or phone number on the posterboard. So I suppose you really did have to be psychic to know where the Bazaar & Clothes is.
Now I'm inspired. I think I need to create a web site on which I'll sell high-priced items at a steep discount, but only to psychic people. You send me money, and I'll telepathically beam the pickup spot to you. If you don't receive my psychic waves, obviously you weren't meant to have those items, and you should probably work harder on developing your mental powers. I'll keep the money until you telepathically tell me your powers are strong enough.
Yeah... that's the plan. You... the one who thinks you might have psychic powers. Yes, you. I'm talking to you... with my mind. Send me money. A few hundred dollars will do. For a start. Yes... money... to me...
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Grease Is The Word... Ugh...
I've been trying to eat better lately, more healthy stuff, more veggies and less sweets. Trying to be good. But every so often you just gotta have a burger.
Yesterday I went to a local place where you can get a great burger with your choice of a lot of different toppings, even specialty mayonnaise. You can also get sweet potato fries, regular fries, and onion ring things all on one plate. So that's what I got. And a 1/3 pound burger with Gruyere cheese, grilled onions, pickles, and guacamole. With pesto on the side. Made that one up myself. And it was goooooood... mmm - mmm.
Then I went home.
Climbing the stairs - because the elevator STILL isn't fixed - I felt the bloat. I had a little food baby in my tummy and it was kicking up a storm.
I fumbled with my keys as the lethargy set in. I managed to get through the door before my eyes closed. The couch called to me and I answered. But I couldn't fall asleep. My food baby was tossing and turning, determined not only to keep me awake but to make me sorry I'd ever set foot in the restaurant. As I lay there in abject misery, paying for my twenty minutes of indulgence with hours of regret, I realized things had changed.
I am worthless and weak. Time was I could eat two Big Macs with fries and a big-ass Coke, then do five hours of back-breaking work outside and never feel a thing. Now I eat a great non-fast-food burger with fresh fries and I'm laid out like Sonny Liston after he dared to face off against Muhammad Ali.*
What a wimp.
Next thing you know I'll start liking TV shows about high school glee clubs, and I'll probably start going to Broadway musicals. Hey, wait a second...
* this way-back machine moment brought to you by the Howard Cosell Memorial Sports Reference Foundation.
Yesterday I went to a local place where you can get a great burger with your choice of a lot of different toppings, even specialty mayonnaise. You can also get sweet potato fries, regular fries, and onion ring things all on one plate. So that's what I got. And a 1/3 pound burger with Gruyere cheese, grilled onions, pickles, and guacamole. With pesto on the side. Made that one up myself. And it was goooooood... mmm - mmm.
Then I went home.
Climbing the stairs - because the elevator STILL isn't fixed - I felt the bloat. I had a little food baby in my tummy and it was kicking up a storm.
I fumbled with my keys as the lethargy set in. I managed to get through the door before my eyes closed. The couch called to me and I answered. But I couldn't fall asleep. My food baby was tossing and turning, determined not only to keep me awake but to make me sorry I'd ever set foot in the restaurant. As I lay there in abject misery, paying for my twenty minutes of indulgence with hours of regret, I realized things had changed.
I am worthless and weak. Time was I could eat two Big Macs with fries and a big-ass Coke, then do five hours of back-breaking work outside and never feel a thing. Now I eat a great non-fast-food burger with fresh fries and I'm laid out like Sonny Liston after he dared to face off against Muhammad Ali.*
What a wimp.
Next thing you know I'll start liking TV shows about high school glee clubs, and I'll probably start going to Broadway musicals. Hey, wait a second...
* this way-back machine moment brought to you by the Howard Cosell Memorial Sports Reference Foundation.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
... And That Little Boy Smile
I have a black velvet painting of Elvis. I've had it for years, it was a present from a friend who knew of my fondness for midways, carnies, Vegas, and all things vaguely seedy and disreputable. He got it in Mexico, Neuvo Laredo I think, as part of a weekend-long excursion he only remembers bits of. The best part is the frame, which he got for an extra dollar. It's just mitred wood, there's nothing to actually hang the picture, which means it's been sitting on my floor for years. I vacuum it every so often - really - to keep the white-jumpsuited, Mexican-looking Elvis happy.
My philosophy in life has been 'if it's good enough for Elvis, it's good enough for me.' Not that I've ever had the funds to do most of what Elvis did, or the toadying hangers-on to make doing those things worthwhile. But I'm working on it. So I figure a good first step would be for me to get my own black velvet portrait done. Once I have my smiling face beaming down from a wall somewhere I know I'll have arrived, and the rest will just fall into place. I can get a 'TCB' three-finger ring, a big ol' convertible Caddy, and I can start shooting televisions. And a cape. I need a cape.
It's a natural progression - black velvet painting of myself, then all the stuff, then the cape, then financial independence. The way is so clear, I don't know why I didn't see it before. All I have to do is find someone to paint a black-velvet portrait of me and I'll be just like Elvis.
I'll take a pass on dying on the toilet, though, if it's all the same to everyone else.
My philosophy in life has been 'if it's good enough for Elvis, it's good enough for me.' Not that I've ever had the funds to do most of what Elvis did, or the toadying hangers-on to make doing those things worthwhile. But I'm working on it. So I figure a good first step would be for me to get my own black velvet portrait done. Once I have my smiling face beaming down from a wall somewhere I know I'll have arrived, and the rest will just fall into place. I can get a 'TCB' three-finger ring, a big ol' convertible Caddy, and I can start shooting televisions. And a cape. I need a cape.
It's a natural progression - black velvet painting of myself, then all the stuff, then the cape, then financial independence. The way is so clear, I don't know why I didn't see it before. All I have to do is find someone to paint a black-velvet portrait of me and I'll be just like Elvis.
I'll take a pass on dying on the toilet, though, if it's all the same to everyone else.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Industrious By Example
My local gym reopened a few weeks back after being closed a month for renovations. It's not much different except for the absolutely hideous yellow paint. You know it's got to be bad for me to use a word like 'hideous.' Think of the palest, ugliest, most irredeemable yellow you've ever seen and that's what's on the walls. Like primer, except it's not primer, that's the color the walls are supposed to be. Horrible.
They may have spruced up the place, but they kept the staff, including the guy who cleans. This guy doesn't speak much English - hardly any, actually - and he gets dropped off out front at 7 AM and picked up at 3 PM (I saw this on separate visits, I'm not stalking him). He's the guy who mops the floor, who dusts every piece of equipment, who cleans the sinks and the toilets and empties the trash.
Man, that dude hustles. No matter when I'm at the gym when I see him he's always on the move, like a human freight train chugging along. I saw him this morning as a matter of fact, doing his usual thorough job of dusting. And I realized that I should probably be more like him. Do your job and do it well, no matter what it that job is. While I'm sitting here bemoaning my fate and grousing about my work situation and how it's not what I want it to be, this guy is out there hustling every day. Putting me to shame.
I don't know... maybe with greater opportunity comes greater expectations? If this guy had worked his way up the ladder and then got put back in charge of a vacuum cleaner, would he give it the same effort he does now? Would he keep doing the same bang-up job if it was a job he hated? I don't know, and I hope he never has to find out.
I tell you what, if I owned my own office building, I'd hire that guy away in a heartbeat. You gotta surround yourself with good people.
They may have spruced up the place, but they kept the staff, including the guy who cleans. This guy doesn't speak much English - hardly any, actually - and he gets dropped off out front at 7 AM and picked up at 3 PM (I saw this on separate visits, I'm not stalking him). He's the guy who mops the floor, who dusts every piece of equipment, who cleans the sinks and the toilets and empties the trash.
Man, that dude hustles. No matter when I'm at the gym when I see him he's always on the move, like a human freight train chugging along. I saw him this morning as a matter of fact, doing his usual thorough job of dusting. And I realized that I should probably be more like him. Do your job and do it well, no matter what it that job is. While I'm sitting here bemoaning my fate and grousing about my work situation and how it's not what I want it to be, this guy is out there hustling every day. Putting me to shame.
I don't know... maybe with greater opportunity comes greater expectations? If this guy had worked his way up the ladder and then got put back in charge of a vacuum cleaner, would he give it the same effort he does now? Would he keep doing the same bang-up job if it was a job he hated? I don't know, and I hope he never has to find out.
I tell you what, if I owned my own office building, I'd hire that guy away in a heartbeat. You gotta surround yourself with good people.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Who's Got The Hairpiece?
I saw a guy today with the worst toupee ever. And I mean worst, hands-down, he wins the prize, nobody else need apply. It was obviously one he bought twenty years ago, he'd gone gray since he bought it and the top of his head was still chestnut brown while the sides were gray as a mule. Kind of like Mr. Tudball from the Carol Burnett show. Poor guy, still attached to his old perception of himself. Say what you will, though, it was a distinctive look.
Which got me to thinking, especially since I have issues with getting a good haircut. Maybe I need a toupee. I'm not going bald, not as far as I can tell anyway, but a toupee or two or three or ten would let me change my look from time to time as my whims lead me. I could have wavy Tom Selleck-as-Magnum hair (with a matching mustache), I could have Jim Morrison hair, Poison circa 1987 hair, Larry King hair, Andy Rooney hair, maybe Bob Marley hair for when I'm feelin' irie.
Why not? Women change hair color all the time, why can't I change my own hair? I'd be like Roger from American Dad, a new disguise for every day of the week.
Sure would make it hard to get past the TSA, though. Let me think this through some more.
Which got me to thinking, especially since I have issues with getting a good haircut. Maybe I need a toupee. I'm not going bald, not as far as I can tell anyway, but a toupee or two or three or ten would let me change my look from time to time as my whims lead me. I could have wavy Tom Selleck-as-Magnum hair (with a matching mustache), I could have Jim Morrison hair, Poison circa 1987 hair, Larry King hair, Andy Rooney hair, maybe Bob Marley hair for when I'm feelin' irie.
Why not? Women change hair color all the time, why can't I change my own hair? I'd be like Roger from American Dad, a new disguise for every day of the week.
Sure would make it hard to get past the TSA, though. Let me think this through some more.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Cheese It, The Cops!
So I'm driving home today. From work. Where I go now. Every weekday. Bastards...
Anyway, I'm driving home, going through Koreatown and hitting every damn light, when I see a black-and-white on a side street. He pulled out and got in line behind me. I'm not doing anything suspicious, and Lord knows there's absolutely no chance to speed through Koreatown with a red light every 100 yards or so, but I still sat up straighter, put my hands at 10 and 2, and kept a safe distance between my truck and the car in front of me.
Let me repeat: I was doing nothing wrong in the least, and yet I shaped up when I saw the cop.
They've got me conditioned like one of Pavlov's dogs. Maybe it's because I've been watching COPS for the past 20 years. See a cop, start behaving, even if you're not misbehaving at the moment.
What the hell? Maybe if I was swigging from a quart of cheap tequila, or had just picked up the skankiest hooker I could find, or happened to be carrying a truck load of illegal immigrants (my truck seats 5 with room in the cargo area to stack a few more) then maybe, just maybe I'd need to be careful. But I was doing none of those things - as far as you know - and had nothing to fear from any officer of the law. I was being a perfectly law-abiding citizen.
And get this: when the cop finally turned off I actually sighed and relaxed. Slouched, even. Like I'd gotten away with something.
Obviously I need more excitement in my life. Maybe the next time I see a cop I'll give him the finger. That'll be exciting, don't you think?
Anyway, I'm driving home, going through Koreatown and hitting every damn light, when I see a black-and-white on a side street. He pulled out and got in line behind me. I'm not doing anything suspicious, and Lord knows there's absolutely no chance to speed through Koreatown with a red light every 100 yards or so, but I still sat up straighter, put my hands at 10 and 2, and kept a safe distance between my truck and the car in front of me.
Let me repeat: I was doing nothing wrong in the least, and yet I shaped up when I saw the cop.
They've got me conditioned like one of Pavlov's dogs. Maybe it's because I've been watching COPS for the past 20 years. See a cop, start behaving, even if you're not misbehaving at the moment.
What the hell? Maybe if I was swigging from a quart of cheap tequila, or had just picked up the skankiest hooker I could find, or happened to be carrying a truck load of illegal immigrants (my truck seats 5 with room in the cargo area to stack a few more) then maybe, just maybe I'd need to be careful. But I was doing none of those things - as far as you know - and had nothing to fear from any officer of the law. I was being a perfectly law-abiding citizen.
And get this: when the cop finally turned off I actually sighed and relaxed. Slouched, even. Like I'd gotten away with something.
Obviously I need more excitement in my life. Maybe the next time I see a cop I'll give him the finger. That'll be exciting, don't you think?
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Disco Inferno
I was unlucky enough to be alive during the Disco era, though definitely not of age. I remember watching Dick Clark on American Bandstand and wondering what the hell those people in matching outfits were trying to accomplish with their synchronized flailing. And Lord help us... our family watched Solid Gold every Saturday. Because my mother and father hated me and my sister, evidently, and wanted to make our childhoods nothing but torture. That's the only explanation I have.
But the music was the worst. Oy... my nightmares have a soundtrack from AM radio in 1979. I spent my high school years listening to 99.5 KISS FM and album rock because I'd been so traumatized by Disco when I was younger.
So why do I know and enjoy those songs now?
A while back I was cleaning and suddenly realized I was singing 'I Will Survive.' In its entirety. Then I got some rest, the sun came up again, and everything was new. No more disco.
They renovated my local gym last month, and now it seems they're playing the 'Torture Don' channel. Or call it 70's Hits, whatever. But, damn me, I can't help but get a little bounce in my step when KC and his Sunshine Band come on. Keep It Coming Love indeed. I thought I would tear my eyes out if I ever heard 'Love Will Keep Us Together' in a non-ironic way, but there's something about it that makes the treadmill bearable. Stupid Captain. Stupid Tennille.
And, damn it all to Hell and back twice, Leo Sayer is on some TV commercial. And if it's not Leo Sayer then it's something awfully close. And I don't hate it. What's wrong with me?
You know what it is? It's this working stuff. It's not only ruining my sleep cycle, it's making me regress, back to elementary school and AM radio and Solid Gold.
Crap.
But the music was the worst. Oy... my nightmares have a soundtrack from AM radio in 1979. I spent my high school years listening to 99.5 KISS FM and album rock because I'd been so traumatized by Disco when I was younger.
So why do I know and enjoy those songs now?
A while back I was cleaning and suddenly realized I was singing 'I Will Survive.' In its entirety. Then I got some rest, the sun came up again, and everything was new. No more disco.
They renovated my local gym last month, and now it seems they're playing the 'Torture Don' channel. Or call it 70's Hits, whatever. But, damn me, I can't help but get a little bounce in my step when KC and his Sunshine Band come on. Keep It Coming Love indeed. I thought I would tear my eyes out if I ever heard 'Love Will Keep Us Together' in a non-ironic way, but there's something about it that makes the treadmill bearable. Stupid Captain. Stupid Tennille.
And, damn it all to Hell and back twice, Leo Sayer is on some TV commercial. And if it's not Leo Sayer then it's something awfully close. And I don't hate it. What's wrong with me?
You know what it is? It's this working stuff. It's not only ruining my sleep cycle, it's making me regress, back to elementary school and AM radio and Solid Gold.
Crap.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Eavesdropping
I like to keep my eyes and ears open, I try to observe without being obtrusive and listen without butting in. People fascinate me, all kinds of people, even the most pretentious, horrible douchebag is someone's son or someone's father, and as such has an innate nobility, even if that person doesn't know it themselves. If you just hang back a little, watch and listen, you learn the most amazing things.
I took my empty plastic and glass bottle up to Ralph's today, to the recycling center. This is the one right across the street - literally - from the Salvation Army mission, so it's always busy with homeless people cashing in their day's treasure. If you get there early in the morning, however, they're mostly all still out picking through dumpsters, so you can get in and out pretty quick.
I got there early, about ten minutes after it opened, and got to work feeding my empties through one at a time. After about five minutes I happened to look up and saw that a crowd had gathered. Where there had been no one but me and another guy, all of a sudden there were eight or ten people, all waiting patiently for their turn. They snuck up on me.
You can tell the career homeless, especially in Summer. They're the ones with the dramatic brown tans, the thin, bony limbs, and the towels and re-used bottles of water in their shopping carts. There were three of them in line. They all knew each other, and they were speaking low and quiet. I tried to eavesdrop over the sound of the recycler but it was too clangy. Then a fourth lady showed up, loud and happy and overbearing. She joined the conversation, and as usually happens the others increased their volume to match hers. And I listened. It was a glimpse into a world that, honestly, I hope never to become part of.
Things I learned:
Pickers - as they call themselves - absolutely have turf. They discussed major streets and intersections across Pasadena, who had claim to what side, and who they witnessed venturing out of their regular area.
They know police officers by first name.
They're actually averse to certain soup kitchens, because of lectures they get. They'd rather sift through a dumpster than hear a sermon.
There's a protocol to who gets first crack at restaurant food tossed out at the end of the night, and if you violate that protocol you're cruising for a beating.
You're also cruising for a beating if you cheat someone out of a prime spot in the shade at the park during the day.
Some travel very long distances on a regular route. One guy spent a few days in Pasadena, a few in Long Beach, a few in Santa Monica, and a few in LA proper before starting the cycle again. During the hottest summer months he favored the beach communities, but evidently so do many others.
As you might expect, there is a great deal of personal tragedy that goes into putting a person out of a regular home. But these four talked about friends dying on the street with such detachment that it made me want to cry for them, since they weren't willing or able to themselves.
They're not smart. It sounds uncharitable, I know, but I didn't hear any hidden pearls of wisdom, or glean any astounding insights into the human condition. They were four very down-on-their-luck homeless people just trying to get through another day. I don't suppose you find yourself in that position if you're prone to introspection and thinking about the consequences of what you do.
When I was finished I got my ticket for $5.75, redeemable in Ralph's just steps away. I thought I would buy grapes and fruit juice, but I finally got a good look at the loud lady. Thin, unwashed, gray hair and bad teeth, wearing men's clothes pulled from a bin of cast-offs. She was the one who'd been talking about all her friends who'd died in the past year, street people who weren't coming back to the Mission across the street, ever.
I gave her the ticket. She needed it more than I did.
I took my empty plastic and glass bottle up to Ralph's today, to the recycling center. This is the one right across the street - literally - from the Salvation Army mission, so it's always busy with homeless people cashing in their day's treasure. If you get there early in the morning, however, they're mostly all still out picking through dumpsters, so you can get in and out pretty quick.
I got there early, about ten minutes after it opened, and got to work feeding my empties through one at a time. After about five minutes I happened to look up and saw that a crowd had gathered. Where there had been no one but me and another guy, all of a sudden there were eight or ten people, all waiting patiently for their turn. They snuck up on me.
You can tell the career homeless, especially in Summer. They're the ones with the dramatic brown tans, the thin, bony limbs, and the towels and re-used bottles of water in their shopping carts. There were three of them in line. They all knew each other, and they were speaking low and quiet. I tried to eavesdrop over the sound of the recycler but it was too clangy. Then a fourth lady showed up, loud and happy and overbearing. She joined the conversation, and as usually happens the others increased their volume to match hers. And I listened. It was a glimpse into a world that, honestly, I hope never to become part of.
Things I learned:
Pickers - as they call themselves - absolutely have turf. They discussed major streets and intersections across Pasadena, who had claim to what side, and who they witnessed venturing out of their regular area.
They know police officers by first name.
They're actually averse to certain soup kitchens, because of lectures they get. They'd rather sift through a dumpster than hear a sermon.
There's a protocol to who gets first crack at restaurant food tossed out at the end of the night, and if you violate that protocol you're cruising for a beating.
You're also cruising for a beating if you cheat someone out of a prime spot in the shade at the park during the day.
Some travel very long distances on a regular route. One guy spent a few days in Pasadena, a few in Long Beach, a few in Santa Monica, and a few in LA proper before starting the cycle again. During the hottest summer months he favored the beach communities, but evidently so do many others.
As you might expect, there is a great deal of personal tragedy that goes into putting a person out of a regular home. But these four talked about friends dying on the street with such detachment that it made me want to cry for them, since they weren't willing or able to themselves.
They're not smart. It sounds uncharitable, I know, but I didn't hear any hidden pearls of wisdom, or glean any astounding insights into the human condition. They were four very down-on-their-luck homeless people just trying to get through another day. I don't suppose you find yourself in that position if you're prone to introspection and thinking about the consequences of what you do.
When I was finished I got my ticket for $5.75, redeemable in Ralph's just steps away. I thought I would buy grapes and fruit juice, but I finally got a good look at the loud lady. Thin, unwashed, gray hair and bad teeth, wearing men's clothes pulled from a bin of cast-offs. She was the one who'd been talking about all her friends who'd died in the past year, street people who weren't coming back to the Mission across the street, ever.
I gave her the ticket. She needed it more than I did.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
A Little Magic
I was trudging up the stairs this morning - because the elevator STILL isn't fixed - and I got to thinking how it would be really great if I had a faithful manservant who would just carry me. Then I realized that any man big enough to actually pick me up probably wouldn't fit through a normal-sized door, so I abandoned that thought. Lifting one foot after the other, though, I hit on another great idea.
I need to master the mystic arts. Then I could just magic myself up the stairs, no walking needed.
As a matter of fact, if I were an adept enough student then I could just magic myself up a whole host of things that seem to be problems for me at the moment. I wouldn't need a job because I'd just conjure stacks of cash. I wouldn't need to go to the grocery store because I'd just wave my hand and make food appear. I'd wave the other hand to clean the dishes - no more dishwasher for me. I wouldn't have to pay rent, and I'd probably move out of my place to find my Sanctum Sanctorum at the top of some mountain or in a bubble at the bottom of the sea. Probably the mountain, the sea smells like a fish toilet to me.
The one hitch to my plans is that these sorts of things usually happen with some great personal tragedy. Batman's parents were killed, Superman is the last survivor of an entire planet, a brilliant but arrogant surgeon loses the use of his hands in an auto accident, that kind of thing. I'm not really down with the whole idea of personal tragedy. I don't want to lose any parts or pieces that I've become fond of over the years.
I'm an American, dammit, I want everything good without any risk or sacrifice! And I want it now!
So rather than real magic, maybe I'll just settle for some douchebaggy trickery, camera tricks and bad illusions. Let me get some leather and ugly tattoos, some skanky ex-stripper chicks for eye candy and I'll be in business. Chris Angel, I'm coming for you...
I need to master the mystic arts. Then I could just magic myself up the stairs, no walking needed.
As a matter of fact, if I were an adept enough student then I could just magic myself up a whole host of things that seem to be problems for me at the moment. I wouldn't need a job because I'd just conjure stacks of cash. I wouldn't need to go to the grocery store because I'd just wave my hand and make food appear. I'd wave the other hand to clean the dishes - no more dishwasher for me. I wouldn't have to pay rent, and I'd probably move out of my place to find my Sanctum Sanctorum at the top of some mountain or in a bubble at the bottom of the sea. Probably the mountain, the sea smells like a fish toilet to me.
The one hitch to my plans is that these sorts of things usually happen with some great personal tragedy. Batman's parents were killed, Superman is the last survivor of an entire planet, a brilliant but arrogant surgeon loses the use of his hands in an auto accident, that kind of thing. I'm not really down with the whole idea of personal tragedy. I don't want to lose any parts or pieces that I've become fond of over the years.
I'm an American, dammit, I want everything good without any risk or sacrifice! And I want it now!
So rather than real magic, maybe I'll just settle for some douchebaggy trickery, camera tricks and bad illusions. Let me get some leather and ugly tattoos, some skanky ex-stripper chicks for eye candy and I'll be in business. Chris Angel, I'm coming for you...
Saturday, July 3, 2010
At L'Hotel Pretentieux
'Allo, monsieur, I am Thierry. Welcome to L'Hotel Pretentiuex. May I provide you Spanish almonds while Manuel retrieves your bags?
Actually, all I have is this carry-on.
Oh... but of course. Manuel will just have to pretend to be valuable for another hour. Usually patrons of the Pretentieux have more... extensive baggage needs.
Not me, Just here for one night.
Certainly, sir. But that will hardly give you time to enjoy our wide array of amenities. Would you like a seat at our tapas bar? The menu is almost certainly affordable for a man with your wardrobe.
No thanks. Just a room key.
Perhaps a guided tour of our climate-controlled wine cellar? It was once used to hide partisans from socialist forces.
Really? Partisans? In Los Angeles?
The Pretentieux had an entire Burgundian cellar dismantled boulder by boulder and brought to the United States to be painstakingly rebuilt exactly as it was.
Nifty. I just want to hit the sack.
Ah, sack. Perhaps you would like a visit to our club room. It was once the pride of the duke of a certain demesne in Italia. The Pretentieux had it...
... dismantled plank by plank and reconstructed.
Precisely, sir. Down to the last bit of wainscoting and the buttons on the leather chairs. We serve the finest port in crystal snifters.
I've been on a plane all day, I just want to lay down.
I believe you mean lie down, sir. Lay is transitive while lie is intransitive.
Thanks.
We have a wine lounge, which we complement with only the finest artisanal cheeses, or certified organic vegetarian fare if that's your preference.
I'm a meat-eater.
Of course you are.
Please. A room.
Certainly. We have a dizzying array of choices in accomodation...
The cheapest one you have with a TV and an alarm clock!
We frown on raised voices at The Pretentieux, sir.
Son of a... I came all the way from San Antonio for this...
San Antonio? Really? I'm from Austin.
I thought your name was Thierry.
It is. My parents are kind of hippies.
How about that room? A quiet one, away from people.
Right on, man. You wouldn't believe some of the posers we get in this place.
Actually, all I have is this carry-on.
Oh... but of course. Manuel will just have to pretend to be valuable for another hour. Usually patrons of the Pretentieux have more... extensive baggage needs.
Not me, Just here for one night.
Certainly, sir. But that will hardly give you time to enjoy our wide array of amenities. Would you like a seat at our tapas bar? The menu is almost certainly affordable for a man with your wardrobe.
No thanks. Just a room key.
Perhaps a guided tour of our climate-controlled wine cellar? It was once used to hide partisans from socialist forces.
Really? Partisans? In Los Angeles?
The Pretentieux had an entire Burgundian cellar dismantled boulder by boulder and brought to the United States to be painstakingly rebuilt exactly as it was.
Nifty. I just want to hit the sack.
Ah, sack. Perhaps you would like a visit to our club room. It was once the pride of the duke of a certain demesne in Italia. The Pretentieux had it...
... dismantled plank by plank and reconstructed.
Precisely, sir. Down to the last bit of wainscoting and the buttons on the leather chairs. We serve the finest port in crystal snifters.
I've been on a plane all day, I just want to lay down.
I believe you mean lie down, sir. Lay is transitive while lie is intransitive.
Thanks.
We have a wine lounge, which we complement with only the finest artisanal cheeses, or certified organic vegetarian fare if that's your preference.
I'm a meat-eater.
Of course you are.
Please. A room.
Certainly. We have a dizzying array of choices in accomodation...
The cheapest one you have with a TV and an alarm clock!
We frown on raised voices at The Pretentieux, sir.
Son of a... I came all the way from San Antonio for this...
San Antonio? Really? I'm from Austin.
I thought your name was Thierry.
It is. My parents are kind of hippies.
How about that room? A quiet one, away from people.
Right on, man. You wouldn't believe some of the posers we get in this place.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Scary Friday
Some days are just normal, regular old days when you go about your business like you always do and nothing particularly strange or eventful happens. Then you'll have a day like today. There's got to be something in the water, or in the air, or in the mind-control beams the CIA sends all over Los Angeles, because the crazies were out in force. I'm wondering if I have some sort of tracking device that lets the weirdos know where I am.
On the way to work:
A woman in a sequined cream-colored evening gown - really - crossing the street against the light in Koreatown. She was definitely NOT tall or glamorous, and the gown was too big for her and worn and frayed at the hem. Nobody honked, we didn't want to draw her attention to us. But there was obviously a story there.
A guy running backwards down Wilshire. The sidewalk West of LaBrea is plenty wide enough for it, and I like to think he was trying to exercise his legs differently or something. But he was absolutely trotting opposite the way he was looking. I didn't stop to see how he handled the crosswalks.
At the post office:
A skinny, way-too-tan guy with long gray hair, wearing a tank top and little tiny running shorts that reminded me of Daisy Dukes, small and tight and cut up the side, threatening to flop open and show the world more than we're prepared to see. That was enough to qualify for the list, but it gets better. He had a prosthetic left leg and was wearing black socks with his green-and-yellow tennis shoes. I'm gonna cut the guy a break and say he was color blind or something. 'Course that doesn't explain the shorts.
Behind him, a Filipino woman in blinding pink scrubs, loudly explaining to the Post Office lady how she had absolutely nothing illegal, fragile, perishable, or illegal in her package. Nothing illegal at all. Did she mention that there was nothing illegal in it?
Behind me, a doofus-y guy who would cough self-consciously and then make a weird high-pitched mumbling sound. Not words but like pieces of baby talk. Then he'd be quiet for thirty seconds, cough again and mutter again. Twice. Then the cycle would repeat. He was buying a stamp. That's right. One stamp.
At the grocery store:
A really, really, really fat guy trying to sneak up on his friend. We're talking 350 + pounds of floppy-fat goober, mincing down the aisle like he was a ninja. He was about the same width side-to-side as he was front-to-back. Best of all, the guy he thought was his friend was not; he was 'sneaking' up on the wrong person.
A lady making her lunch out of things she bought at the deli counter. She'd gotten a prepared sandwich and potato salad and was enjoying both while she shopped. I'm assuming she intended to pay for them when she was done. Unless she was going through the self-service registers. Although... she's given me an idea for a way to economize during this economic downturn.
I have no idea why this assemblage decided to present itself to me all at once today. Maybe because it's a long holiday weekend? I'm kind of afraid to leave the house now, don't know what else is lurking out there.
On the way to work:
A woman in a sequined cream-colored evening gown - really - crossing the street against the light in Koreatown. She was definitely NOT tall or glamorous, and the gown was too big for her and worn and frayed at the hem. Nobody honked, we didn't want to draw her attention to us. But there was obviously a story there.
A guy running backwards down Wilshire. The sidewalk West of LaBrea is plenty wide enough for it, and I like to think he was trying to exercise his legs differently or something. But he was absolutely trotting opposite the way he was looking. I didn't stop to see how he handled the crosswalks.
At the post office:
A skinny, way-too-tan guy with long gray hair, wearing a tank top and little tiny running shorts that reminded me of Daisy Dukes, small and tight and cut up the side, threatening to flop open and show the world more than we're prepared to see. That was enough to qualify for the list, but it gets better. He had a prosthetic left leg and was wearing black socks with his green-and-yellow tennis shoes. I'm gonna cut the guy a break and say he was color blind or something. 'Course that doesn't explain the shorts.
Behind him, a Filipino woman in blinding pink scrubs, loudly explaining to the Post Office lady how she had absolutely nothing illegal, fragile, perishable, or illegal in her package. Nothing illegal at all. Did she mention that there was nothing illegal in it?
Behind me, a doofus-y guy who would cough self-consciously and then make a weird high-pitched mumbling sound. Not words but like pieces of baby talk. Then he'd be quiet for thirty seconds, cough again and mutter again. Twice. Then the cycle would repeat. He was buying a stamp. That's right. One stamp.
At the grocery store:
A really, really, really fat guy trying to sneak up on his friend. We're talking 350 + pounds of floppy-fat goober, mincing down the aisle like he was a ninja. He was about the same width side-to-side as he was front-to-back. Best of all, the guy he thought was his friend was not; he was 'sneaking' up on the wrong person.
A lady making her lunch out of things she bought at the deli counter. She'd gotten a prepared sandwich and potato salad and was enjoying both while she shopped. I'm assuming she intended to pay for them when she was done. Unless she was going through the self-service registers. Although... she's given me an idea for a way to economize during this economic downturn.
I have no idea why this assemblage decided to present itself to me all at once today. Maybe because it's a long holiday weekend? I'm kind of afraid to leave the house now, don't know what else is lurking out there.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Ain't No Mary Poppins
Today I went to the Farmer's Market by The Grove for lunch with a friend. These covered or semi-covered markets smell the same all over the world, the one in Adelaide smells like the one in Okinawa which smells like the one in Aviano which smells like the one in Frankfurt which smells like the one in London which smells like the one next to The Grove. Candles and cooking oil, popcorn and tomatoes, body odor and perfume, spilled beer and vomit, the aromas are all remarkably the same. It's an amazing coincidence that I just take for granted.
But that's not what I wanted to write about. I noticed a lot of women with baby strollers at The Grove. A lot. But, oddly enough, the babies and children were predominantly blonde and fair, while the women with the strollers were uniformly swarthy and olive-skinned. It took me a minute or two, but I finally figured it out when the little kids were asking for things in English, but the women behind the strollers were speaking to each other in Spanish.
These are the nannies.
I knew this sort of thing existed, it's no secret and I've seen it before, but I've never seen so many in one place. It's the shadow economy walking around in broad daylight. I don't know for sure, but I'm reasonably certain that these women's employers are not declaring their wages to the State and they probably pay in cash on Friday, which ensures a full week's worth of nanny-ing were the ladies to decide they wanted to quit. A handful of twenties sure can make you wait around for five days. The nannies, in turn, probably don't inform the IRS of their wages and so continue to exist on the fringes.
It bothers me when the wealthy prey on the less well-off, and that's certainly what's happening with these nannies. The kids need looking after, this young woman needs a job, and so - voila! - a match is made in heaven. Except the reason the mother and father look for these women is because they don't have to pay them the going rate for proper child care from a reputable provider. Instead of $800 - $1000 dollars a week, the parents can probably pay $400 and the poor nanny thinks she's wandered into tall cotton, never realizing she's probably getting paid less than minimum wage.
And they don't even sing or carry a talking umbrella. Who would at those prices?
But that's not what I wanted to write about. I noticed a lot of women with baby strollers at The Grove. A lot. But, oddly enough, the babies and children were predominantly blonde and fair, while the women with the strollers were uniformly swarthy and olive-skinned. It took me a minute or two, but I finally figured it out when the little kids were asking for things in English, but the women behind the strollers were speaking to each other in Spanish.
These are the nannies.
I knew this sort of thing existed, it's no secret and I've seen it before, but I've never seen so many in one place. It's the shadow economy walking around in broad daylight. I don't know for sure, but I'm reasonably certain that these women's employers are not declaring their wages to the State and they probably pay in cash on Friday, which ensures a full week's worth of nanny-ing were the ladies to decide they wanted to quit. A handful of twenties sure can make you wait around for five days. The nannies, in turn, probably don't inform the IRS of their wages and so continue to exist on the fringes.
It bothers me when the wealthy prey on the less well-off, and that's certainly what's happening with these nannies. The kids need looking after, this young woman needs a job, and so - voila! - a match is made in heaven. Except the reason the mother and father look for these women is because they don't have to pay them the going rate for proper child care from a reputable provider. Instead of $800 - $1000 dollars a week, the parents can probably pay $400 and the poor nanny thinks she's wandered into tall cotton, never realizing she's probably getting paid less than minimum wage.
And they don't even sing or carry a talking umbrella. Who would at those prices?
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