Jake tied Old Paint to the hitching post, close enough to the trough for a drink. Like Jake himself, his horse had seen better days but was too proud and ornery to admit it. Jake pulled his shotgun from the saddle holster and checked to make sure there were two shells ready to go in the chambers. Today was the day, he was either going to put an end to this once and for all or it was going to put an end to him.
Knocking the dust from his boots he sauntered down the raised wooden sidewalk, headed for One-Eyed Jack's, the only saloon in town. Those gentle citizens who found themselves in Jake's path took one look at the determined glint in his eye - and at the shotgun in his hand - and made themselves scarce. It didn't take a Pinkerton to see what was about to happen.
When the swinging doors to One-Eyed Jack's parted everyone turned to the man with the shotgun. Lefty stopped his one-handed plinking on the black-and-white keys and stared at Jake with wide, rheumy, alcohol-rimmed eyes before he scrambled for cover behind the piano. The miners at the first table looked up from betting their week's wages on a rigged card game then scattered like straw on the wind, leaving behind chips, cards, and a half-empty bottle of rotgut whisky. The swinging doors fanned the air as people beat a hasty retreat. Like a wave rolling across the beach, when the saloon's inhabitants saw Jake they flowed somewhere else.
Clara, the town whore and Jake's sometime fling caught sight of him as she descended the stairs. "Jacob Ulysses McGrath, what do you think you're doing with that shotgun?"
"I'm gonna take care of it, Clara," Jake snarled. "Once and for all. Or go to Boot Hill tryin.'"
Skirts flying and bosom threatening to burst from her corset, Clara raced in front of him. "Jake, you just leave that Facebook alone."
The twin barrels of the shotgun pressed against the laptop Clancy the bartender kept there for his customers to use. He stole broadband from the Chinese laundry next door.
"I'm tired of it," Jake snarled. "Had about enough of them keepin' my personal, private information. Sharing it when they see fit, not when I do. All those ads based on my birthday. Whose business is that?"
Clara put her soft hand on his shoulder. "You're working yourself up to something you don't want to do. Why don't you come on up to my room? We can get rid of some of this tension."
Jake shrugged her hand off. "I know you check in on FourSquare all the time. I told you I want out. I don't want any more 'friend' suggestions, I don't care what other people 'like' and I ain't aimin' to be 'tagged' in anyone's gol-durned pictures."
"Nobody said you had to do any of that," Clara stuttered. "Put the gun down, why don't you?"
"Somebody has to stand up to them," Jake growled. "This is my information, not theirs. I own it, it's mine to do with as I please. And they ain't pleasin' me right at the moment."
He pressed the shotgun tight against his shoulder and pulled the hammers back. The laptop was going to get both barrels, point-blank.
Clara's face went pale. "Jake, you need to reconsider..."
"You want to know the worst of it?" Jake's voice was a cold whisper. "Mafia Wars. I'm like Bert, over there in the corner, sleeping in his own vomit because he can't give up the hooch. But my hooch is Mafia Wars. This is the only way, Clara. The only way."
Jake heard the click of the derringer's firing pin as he felt the cold metal on his temple. "I can't let you do that, Jake. I keep in touch with my cousin in Dodge City on Facebook. And I play Farmville every night."
"Why are you playing Farmville when there are twenty farms within an hour's walk of this saloon?" Jake barked. "I'm gonna put an end to the madness."
"Back away from the laptop," Clara ordered. She pressed the derringer tighter to his head.
"Seems like we got us a Mexican standoff," Jake said.
"Yup," Clara said.
"I'll give you to the count of three to put that little toy back in your garter," Jake said. "Or you and I are gonna have us a problem."
"I'd say we got us a problem now," Clara whispered.
Jake's jaw clenched. "One... two..."
A shot rang out.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Sims Echo Park
When I was driving home today I was stopped at a light watching a phalanx of people trotting across the intersection. An old guy, a pregnant woman pushing a stroller, three women in office attire, a fat guy wearing a too-short shirt and pajama bottoms (I suspect he was an escapee from the hospital on the corner), two students with backpacks, and several men and women running for the local bus. Quite the collection. I could hear their conversation, but since I was in the truck I couldn't make out the words; it sounded like the nonsense sounds the Sims make.
Then it hit me. Maybe they really were Sims. Maybe I was a Sim. Maybe the words I was speaking, thinking, and writing made no more sense than the gibberish the Sims used. Maybe I only thought I understood myself because my delusion was internally consistent. Like dream logic that makes perfect sense in the moment but doesn't stand up to scrutiny when you're awake.
Thoroughly freaked out, I drove on when the light changed. Did I think in pictograms that only some at-a-distance observer could see? Was my existence a figment, and only in-progress when some person started a program? Was I just a copy of some piece of code, trapped somewhere in a larger algorithm?
Then I realized that I was starting to think I was in the movie Tron. Or maybe the Matrix. Probably Tron because that's way cooler, and they're coming out with a sequel next year.
But that brief two-block episode did bring me back to my college days and discussions in philosophy class. How do we know what's real? How do we know that we are experiencing what we think we are?
I honestly don't remember the answers to any of that. Probably there aren't answers. But I would say that if I can sit behind the wheel of my truck and have a brief solipsistic crisis, then I have too much time on my hands. The fact of the matter is, real or imagined, there are other people in the world, and it's connections with those other people that matter the most. Any one of those people crossing the intersection this afternoon might have made a great friend. Or a terrible enemy. Or maybe they just had an interesting story to tell, or a tragic one, or an hilarious one. Thing is, I'll never know because I had the windows rolled up.
I need to fix this. I need to get out more.
Then it hit me. Maybe they really were Sims. Maybe I was a Sim. Maybe the words I was speaking, thinking, and writing made no more sense than the gibberish the Sims used. Maybe I only thought I understood myself because my delusion was internally consistent. Like dream logic that makes perfect sense in the moment but doesn't stand up to scrutiny when you're awake.
Thoroughly freaked out, I drove on when the light changed. Did I think in pictograms that only some at-a-distance observer could see? Was my existence a figment, and only in-progress when some person started a program? Was I just a copy of some piece of code, trapped somewhere in a larger algorithm?
Then I realized that I was starting to think I was in the movie Tron. Or maybe the Matrix. Probably Tron because that's way cooler, and they're coming out with a sequel next year.
But that brief two-block episode did bring me back to my college days and discussions in philosophy class. How do we know what's real? How do we know that we are experiencing what we think we are?
I honestly don't remember the answers to any of that. Probably there aren't answers. But I would say that if I can sit behind the wheel of my truck and have a brief solipsistic crisis, then I have too much time on my hands. The fact of the matter is, real or imagined, there are other people in the world, and it's connections with those other people that matter the most. Any one of those people crossing the intersection this afternoon might have made a great friend. Or a terrible enemy. Or maybe they just had an interesting story to tell, or a tragic one, or an hilarious one. Thing is, I'll never know because I had the windows rolled up.
I need to fix this. I need to get out more.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
It Ain't Baseball
I'm fascinated by foreign sports. A while back I happened upon Australian rules football, which looks to me like a cross between real football (American football), rugby, and soccer (the rest of the world's football). It's played on a huge oval field - yep, oval - and there are four goal posts. Crazy brutal, as befits Australia. And beer. There's lots of beer too.
I tried to get into cricket, but I couldn't make heads or tails of it. I had several rabid cricketers explain the game to me in detail, and I only ended up more confused than before. When I was in Australia a few years back there was The Ashes test match. What that means I have no idea, but it was a great big deal. Huge. Shane Warne played his last match (test?) just after I left Oz, which was another colossal deal that I just had no conception of. Cricket is such a big deal in Australia that KFC Sponsors a competiton. That's right, KENTUCKY Fried Chicken sponsors cricket in Australia. They don't sponsor NASCAR here, but they lay out the cash in Australia. That's how big a deal it is.
Last night I happened across Irish hurling, part of the Gaelic Athletic Association. Yet another sport that has a rabid following in its home country that I just had no idea even existed. It's kind of like lacrosse, but not really. There's a stick, a ball, big goal posts like in Australian rules football but only two of them, and a net underneath like a soccer goal. The field is huge, like an American football field wide (100 yards) and maybe 150 yards long. There was a lot of ceremony at the beginning, and the immense stadium was packed to the rafters. I had no idea what was happening - lots of running and hitting a ball with the stick - but with the Irish-accented commentators whatever was going on certainly did sound charming. And the players had names like Seamus and Ewen, which makes me think of my relatives coming through Ellis Island. I also imagine the entire stadium celebrates after the game with a pint of Guiness and a potato. Then they tickle their leprechauns before falling asleep in a field of four-leaf clovers. That's a typical day in Ireland, right?
Now I'm wondering what else there is in the world of sport that I don't know about. I know about soccer, and I don't care about it, as I have mentioned before. But do they have some sort of native sport in Iceland, for example, or Bolivia, or Ghana, or Uzbekistan? I'll be watching the sports channels to find out.
I tried to get into cricket, but I couldn't make heads or tails of it. I had several rabid cricketers explain the game to me in detail, and I only ended up more confused than before. When I was in Australia a few years back there was The Ashes test match. What that means I have no idea, but it was a great big deal. Huge. Shane Warne played his last match (test?) just after I left Oz, which was another colossal deal that I just had no conception of. Cricket is such a big deal in Australia that KFC Sponsors a competiton. That's right, KENTUCKY Fried Chicken sponsors cricket in Australia. They don't sponsor NASCAR here, but they lay out the cash in Australia. That's how big a deal it is.
Last night I happened across Irish hurling, part of the Gaelic Athletic Association. Yet another sport that has a rabid following in its home country that I just had no idea even existed. It's kind of like lacrosse, but not really. There's a stick, a ball, big goal posts like in Australian rules football but only two of them, and a net underneath like a soccer goal. The field is huge, like an American football field wide (100 yards) and maybe 150 yards long. There was a lot of ceremony at the beginning, and the immense stadium was packed to the rafters. I had no idea what was happening - lots of running and hitting a ball with the stick - but with the Irish-accented commentators whatever was going on certainly did sound charming. And the players had names like Seamus and Ewen, which makes me think of my relatives coming through Ellis Island. I also imagine the entire stadium celebrates after the game with a pint of Guiness and a potato. Then they tickle their leprechauns before falling asleep in a field of four-leaf clovers. That's a typical day in Ireland, right?
Now I'm wondering what else there is in the world of sport that I don't know about. I know about soccer, and I don't care about it, as I have mentioned before. But do they have some sort of native sport in Iceland, for example, or Bolivia, or Ghana, or Uzbekistan? I'll be watching the sports channels to find out.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Shorts 'N Boots
I know it's been hot here in SoCal lately, and I want to be understanding. Really, I do. The AC in my apartment works only halfway at best, and the AC in my truck doesn't hardly work at all. I can sympathize with someone who's just trying to make the best of a bad situation.
But seriously... shorts with boots? In Pasadena? In 2010?
This is never, ever, EVER a good fashion choice, not even back in 1978 when the world was young and people didn't know any better and certainly not now. And keep in mind this proclamation is coming from a guy who proudly owns five Hawaiian shirts, one for each day of the work week.
If you're a female and you strut down the street in boots and shorts the best you can hope for is that you look like an awkward fashion disaster. Like someone who dressed in the darkness of an early morning. Pity from strangers is better than the other option, which is that you just look like a hooker. And not a high-class hooker, more like a truck-stop hooker with a meth habit to feed.
If you're a guy wearing shorts and boots you'd better be covered in paint or sawdust, otherwise you look like a moron. And if you're a fat dude, don't wear a wife-beater because that just exposes your man-boobs. And, for God's sake, don't wear a cowboy hat to complete the ensemble, you're just begging to get beat up. Yes, man at the corner of Lake and Del Mar at 5:15 PM today, I'm talking directly to you here.
If only doofuses who wore boots with shorts read this blog, the world would be safe from their monkeyshines.
But seriously... shorts with boots? In Pasadena? In 2010?
This is never, ever, EVER a good fashion choice, not even back in 1978 when the world was young and people didn't know any better and certainly not now. And keep in mind this proclamation is coming from a guy who proudly owns five Hawaiian shirts, one for each day of the work week.
If you're a female and you strut down the street in boots and shorts the best you can hope for is that you look like an awkward fashion disaster. Like someone who dressed in the darkness of an early morning. Pity from strangers is better than the other option, which is that you just look like a hooker. And not a high-class hooker, more like a truck-stop hooker with a meth habit to feed.
If you're a guy wearing shorts and boots you'd better be covered in paint or sawdust, otherwise you look like a moron. And if you're a fat dude, don't wear a wife-beater because that just exposes your man-boobs. And, for God's sake, don't wear a cowboy hat to complete the ensemble, you're just begging to get beat up. Yes, man at the corner of Lake and Del Mar at 5:15 PM today, I'm talking directly to you here.
If only doofuses who wore boots with shorts read this blog, the world would be safe from their monkeyshines.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
I Got Gamblin' Fever
I want to go to Vegas.
'But Don,' you say, 'you live in Pasadena, you could just drive up to Vegas on a weekend. What's the big deal?' True enough. But I don't want to go to Vegas now, I want to go to Vegas then.
It was 1998, at least I'm pretty sure it was, and five of us planned a trip to Vegas. Five guys. Three days in Vegas. Yeah.
Back then (jeez... 1998 is 'back then') Vegas was just starting to build up. Caesars Palace was completing their second tower, the Mirage was the happening place, the Tam-o-Shanter was still there. So was the Sands. And the Frontier, and the Stardust, and the Boardwalk, and the Desert Inn. It was Old Vegas - Sinatra's mobbed-up Vegas - mingling grudgingly with the new, douchebag Vegas - Steve Wynn's Vegas. There weren't pedestrian walkways then, you had to get across the Strip the old-fashioned way, by jaywalking.
Me, Scott, Mike, Sean, and Bizarro Don. Who brought his own pillow. Really. Right through the Mirage lobby. Ah, those were the days. Me and those guys out on the town. Them partaking of the free booze, sometimes with an undeserved sense of entitlement, me the perpetual designated driver since I don't drink alcohol. I want those three days back, or I suppose I want to re-live those three days over and over again. The trip of a lifetime. Seriously.
Some highlights:
Wrasslin' in the room. Both Mike and Sean used to wrestle in high school, so this was truly a contest of champions. Scott wrestled because he thought he could beat the other two because he outweighed each of them by forty pounds. He was wrong. I knew better and didn't participate, though I did egg everyone else on.
Scott - who was Jewish - kept his vow to eat bacon at every meal. He achieved his goal admirably, though sometimes with puzzled looks from waiters.
Crazy Girls in the Stardust. A topless revue. It was bad. Really bad. Spectacularly bad. So bad that it came back around and crossed over to being good. The performers were almost all former showgirls who'd been injured, or got too heavy, or had kids or bad boob jobs or all of the above. Some possibly with drug habits to support. Just agonizingly awful, and yet sublime because of it. We were about to leave before the show started but Mike made us stay, since we'd made the effort to get tickets. 'We're staying right here and we're gonna watch the show.' Good call, man.
Also, the scary mafioso ticket taker guy. You could look in his eyes and know he'd murdered someone. Thin and sinister. 'So you want to see the Crazy Girls?' Yes, sir, we would. If that's okay by you.
Five dollar craps tables at the Stratosphere. A great place to learn the game. Especially at 9 AM.
Star Trek the Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton. Nerd-vana. You could get Ferengi drinks at the Quark's Bar. And if you were an uber-nerd you could get a Klingon-themed wedding.
Me, Scott, Mike, and Sean, walking two abreast on the sidewalk, clearing a path before us. I didn't think we looked particularly tough or threatening, but evidently our fellow vacationers felt otherwise.
The President from The Fifth Element at the Rio. We were waiting for a cab and there he was.
Club Paradise. A 'gentleman's club' where guys act like anything but. Scott took complete leave of his senses and spent waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much money. We were there for hours. HOURS. And it wasn't horrible. Scott actually paid for 'bootie bucks' or whatever they call their fake cash. A lot of bootie bucks. We helped him whittle his stash down and he was so drunk he never noticed.
Thanks, guys. A truly great time.
'But Don,' you say, 'you live in Pasadena, you could just drive up to Vegas on a weekend. What's the big deal?' True enough. But I don't want to go to Vegas now, I want to go to Vegas then.
It was 1998, at least I'm pretty sure it was, and five of us planned a trip to Vegas. Five guys. Three days in Vegas. Yeah.
Back then (jeez... 1998 is 'back then') Vegas was just starting to build up. Caesars Palace was completing their second tower, the Mirage was the happening place, the Tam-o-Shanter was still there. So was the Sands. And the Frontier, and the Stardust, and the Boardwalk, and the Desert Inn. It was Old Vegas - Sinatra's mobbed-up Vegas - mingling grudgingly with the new, douchebag Vegas - Steve Wynn's Vegas. There weren't pedestrian walkways then, you had to get across the Strip the old-fashioned way, by jaywalking.
Me, Scott, Mike, Sean, and Bizarro Don. Who brought his own pillow. Really. Right through the Mirage lobby. Ah, those were the days. Me and those guys out on the town. Them partaking of the free booze, sometimes with an undeserved sense of entitlement, me the perpetual designated driver since I don't drink alcohol. I want those three days back, or I suppose I want to re-live those three days over and over again. The trip of a lifetime. Seriously.
Some highlights:
Wrasslin' in the room. Both Mike and Sean used to wrestle in high school, so this was truly a contest of champions. Scott wrestled because he thought he could beat the other two because he outweighed each of them by forty pounds. He was wrong. I knew better and didn't participate, though I did egg everyone else on.
Scott - who was Jewish - kept his vow to eat bacon at every meal. He achieved his goal admirably, though sometimes with puzzled looks from waiters.
Crazy Girls in the Stardust. A topless revue. It was bad. Really bad. Spectacularly bad. So bad that it came back around and crossed over to being good. The performers were almost all former showgirls who'd been injured, or got too heavy, or had kids or bad boob jobs or all of the above. Some possibly with drug habits to support. Just agonizingly awful, and yet sublime because of it. We were about to leave before the show started but Mike made us stay, since we'd made the effort to get tickets. 'We're staying right here and we're gonna watch the show.' Good call, man.
Also, the scary mafioso ticket taker guy. You could look in his eyes and know he'd murdered someone. Thin and sinister. 'So you want to see the Crazy Girls?' Yes, sir, we would. If that's okay by you.
Five dollar craps tables at the Stratosphere. A great place to learn the game. Especially at 9 AM.
Star Trek the Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton. Nerd-vana. You could get Ferengi drinks at the Quark's Bar. And if you were an uber-nerd you could get a Klingon-themed wedding.
Me, Scott, Mike, and Sean, walking two abreast on the sidewalk, clearing a path before us. I didn't think we looked particularly tough or threatening, but evidently our fellow vacationers felt otherwise.
The President from The Fifth Element at the Rio. We were waiting for a cab and there he was.
Club Paradise. A 'gentleman's club' where guys act like anything but. Scott took complete leave of his senses and spent waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much money. We were there for hours. HOURS. And it wasn't horrible. Scott actually paid for 'bootie bucks' or whatever they call their fake cash. A lot of bootie bucks. We helped him whittle his stash down and he was so drunk he never noticed.
Thanks, guys. A truly great time.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Un-Welcome Back
It's been a while since I've really had to deal with Microsoft's insanity when it comes to software installation. I've had my iMac for a few years now, and even in my current 1099 gig - where I use a PC - I'm not the one doing the installing. I've been isolated. Become used to an operating system that just works. Seamlessly. I'll admit, I've been spoiled. Until today. I'm helping a friend out, and installing some video conferencing stuff on the Windows XP instance I keep on my Mac for just such an occasion, it's only there if I really, really need it. So far I've spent the past hour installing, re-installing, and re-re-installing stuff, all so I can get Windows videoconferencing on my Mac that already comes with it.
Holy crap on a cracker, what a nightmare.
I'd forgotten what an ordeal updates and installations are on a PC. Really. I'd blissfully put all that out of my mind and let Steve Jobs and his crew whisk me away on a comfy carpet of no-worries. First I need the security updates. And, being Windows, there are a LOT of those. Then the extra stuff like Internet Explorer - which this video conference thing needs - and then the .NET framework, and the updates to that, and then the video conference software itself. And on and on and on.
And you know what? It's not going to work. You know it, I know it, Bill Gates knows it, the people who wrote the video conference thing know it. It's one huge pantomime opera we all agree to go through when we know the end result is going to be 'Just use Skype.' It's like a North Korean show trial, or elections in Libya.
Why do I bother?
Holy crap on a cracker, what a nightmare.
I'd forgotten what an ordeal updates and installations are on a PC. Really. I'd blissfully put all that out of my mind and let Steve Jobs and his crew whisk me away on a comfy carpet of no-worries. First I need the security updates. And, being Windows, there are a LOT of those. Then the extra stuff like Internet Explorer - which this video conference thing needs - and then the .NET framework, and the updates to that, and then the video conference software itself. And on and on and on.
And you know what? It's not going to work. You know it, I know it, Bill Gates knows it, the people who wrote the video conference thing know it. It's one huge pantomime opera we all agree to go through when we know the end result is going to be 'Just use Skype.' It's like a North Korean show trial, or elections in Libya.
Why do I bother?
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
They Tried To Make Me Go To Rehab
I've given up bread for a while. Complex carbohydrates, that is, bread and crackers and corn and potatoes and what not. It's been a week, and I'm doing okay, I've only fallen off the wagon a little bit and then I hopped right back on. I'm doing it to see if I can lose some weight, and to increase the amount of vegetables in my diet. And, truth to tell, Drew Cary lost 70 pounds doing the same thing. I don't have 70 pounds to lose, but it's worth a shot.
It's a challenge. I feel like a junkie, jonesing for a slice of pizza. Or a cracker, for God's sake. I didn't know I ate so much starch, honestly. I knew I ate too many sweets, but chips and pretzels and sandwiches and pita bread... too much.
I was in the grocery store today, getting bananas, carrots, cherries, and fruit juice. Like a hippie. And I picked up a pack of peanut M&Ms. No wheat in that, right? I was an addict, substituting the fix at hand for my regular drug of choice.
If I'd had a beehive hairdo I could have been a portly Amy Winehouse. I walked around the grocery store for a good five minutes with that pack of M&M's, and then I 'happened by' the fresh-made pizza section. The chocolate-covered peanuts were the devil on my left shoulder, tempting me to completely give up my week-long attempt to drop some poundage. Summoning up my reserves of willpower I put the delicious, oh-so chocolately morsels on the shelf next to the pizza.
Score one for me. I've replaced my toast and butter with green beans, at least for the next few weeks. I actually do feel a little more alert, but that could be the DTs from not having flour in my system.
If you see me with a doughnut in my hands, feel free to slap me. Or at least feel free to try.
It's a challenge. I feel like a junkie, jonesing for a slice of pizza. Or a cracker, for God's sake. I didn't know I ate so much starch, honestly. I knew I ate too many sweets, but chips and pretzels and sandwiches and pita bread... too much.
I was in the grocery store today, getting bananas, carrots, cherries, and fruit juice. Like a hippie. And I picked up a pack of peanut M&Ms. No wheat in that, right? I was an addict, substituting the fix at hand for my regular drug of choice.
If I'd had a beehive hairdo I could have been a portly Amy Winehouse. I walked around the grocery store for a good five minutes with that pack of M&M's, and then I 'happened by' the fresh-made pizza section. The chocolate-covered peanuts were the devil on my left shoulder, tempting me to completely give up my week-long attempt to drop some poundage. Summoning up my reserves of willpower I put the delicious, oh-so chocolately morsels on the shelf next to the pizza.
Score one for me. I've replaced my toast and butter with green beans, at least for the next few weeks. I actually do feel a little more alert, but that could be the DTs from not having flour in my system.
If you see me with a doughnut in my hands, feel free to slap me. Or at least feel free to try.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Get My Line Straight
Back in middle school we had a PE teacher, Coach Washington - or Carwch Warshintin as he would have pronounced it - who would not stand for any nonsense. He was a Vietnam vet, had a steel plate in his head and bridgework he would remove when he wanted to demonstrate proper blocking techniques. I remember him ranting during football practice with a mouth full of popcorn, bridgework in his pocket, and little yellow flecks escaping the space where he teeth should have been, raining down on Joey Guererro's white helmet. There were many things Carwch Washintin would not abide, but if he had to pick one thing he absolutely would not tolerate it would have to be sloppy line-standing. I can still see him now, hands raised to shoulder-height, gesturing like he was directing a plane on a runway, bellowing his catch phrase 'Get my line straight, get my line straight.'
If he's still alive today, Cawrch Warshintin must be positively beside himself. People just don't know how to line up any more.
In cars, for instance, I've noticed a definite tendency for people to stop well back of the white stripe on the pavement. This goes for stop signs or stop lights. I just don't understand what they're saving that space for, the white stripe is there for a reason, to tell you where to put the nose of your car.
Or the people behind those people. When did it become the rule of the road to leave a complete car length between you and the car in front of you? In LA we need to squeeze as many cars as possible into a small space, and if some douchebag is keeping a 'safety zone' of twenty feet in front of him, that means I'm not going to make this light. And I really need to make this light.
What about in line at the convenience store? Since when when does ten feet away from the person in front of you constitute being in line? Are people that socially awkward that they're afraid of offending a stranger by properly lining up? Maybe they all have ugly wallets. If I had an ugly wallet I wouldn't want anyone to see it either.
We need to take lessons from the Russians. And not today's Russians, Soviet-era Russians. Those folks knew how to line up.
If he's still alive today, Cawrch Warshintin must be positively beside himself. People just don't know how to line up any more.
In cars, for instance, I've noticed a definite tendency for people to stop well back of the white stripe on the pavement. This goes for stop signs or stop lights. I just don't understand what they're saving that space for, the white stripe is there for a reason, to tell you where to put the nose of your car.
Or the people behind those people. When did it become the rule of the road to leave a complete car length between you and the car in front of you? In LA we need to squeeze as many cars as possible into a small space, and if some douchebag is keeping a 'safety zone' of twenty feet in front of him, that means I'm not going to make this light. And I really need to make this light.
What about in line at the convenience store? Since when when does ten feet away from the person in front of you constitute being in line? Are people that socially awkward that they're afraid of offending a stranger by properly lining up? Maybe they all have ugly wallets. If I had an ugly wallet I wouldn't want anyone to see it either.
We need to take lessons from the Russians. And not today's Russians, Soviet-era Russians. Those folks knew how to line up.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Wishing Ring
There are tons of fables, fairy tales, and stories about being granted wishes. Almost all of them involve finding a ring, or catching a fish, or rubbing a magic genie lamp that results in you getting three wishes. The first two are usually ill-advised and you need to use the last one to undo the effects of the first two.
That seems like a lot of wasted effort just to learn a lesson about morality or greed or lust that you probably should already have learned.
So I got to thinking, what would good wishes be? I'm talking about ones that wouldn't ironically backfire on you or wink you out of existence.
*Fix the air conditioning in my building. Of course, that would probably make it like the South Pole in here, and I don't like penguins. They're not trustworthy.
*Bring prices down in Whole Foods. Of course you can't use wishes to make impossible things happen, like touching your right hand to your right elbow, so this would probably just be a wasted wish.
*Make it so my shirts would never need to be ironed. Which would probably turn them into polyester.
*I'd never want to go hungry. Which would probably turn me into a tree or something else photosynthetic, like phytoplankton.
*Give me the power to run really fast, like the Flash. But I'd probably run right out of my clothes, which would be freeing but would ultimately be embarrassing.
*Find out the secrets to everyday things that no one seems to know the answer to. Like what fire is, exactly. Can't think of a way this would backfire... except I'd probably have to become one of those mountaintop monks, dispensing wisdom only to those with enough moral fiber to make it all the way to my cave. Which ain't bad, actually, as long as I had really fast wireless.
That seems like a lot of wasted effort just to learn a lesson about morality or greed or lust that you probably should already have learned.
So I got to thinking, what would good wishes be? I'm talking about ones that wouldn't ironically backfire on you or wink you out of existence.
*Fix the air conditioning in my building. Of course, that would probably make it like the South Pole in here, and I don't like penguins. They're not trustworthy.
*Bring prices down in Whole Foods. Of course you can't use wishes to make impossible things happen, like touching your right hand to your right elbow, so this would probably just be a wasted wish.
*Make it so my shirts would never need to be ironed. Which would probably turn them into polyester.
*I'd never want to go hungry. Which would probably turn me into a tree or something else photosynthetic, like phytoplankton.
*Give me the power to run really fast, like the Flash. But I'd probably run right out of my clothes, which would be freeing but would ultimately be embarrassing.
*Find out the secrets to everyday things that no one seems to know the answer to. Like what fire is, exactly. Can't think of a way this would backfire... except I'd probably have to become one of those mountaintop monks, dispensing wisdom only to those with enough moral fiber to make it all the way to my cave. Which ain't bad, actually, as long as I had really fast wireless.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Cojones Grandes
Man, I've seen some daring people before, but just now I witnessed a lady who takes the cake. And eats it. And then takes your cake and eats that too.
I went to get gasoline in the truck, and decided that I would run it through the 'Touchless' car wash to knock the Los Angeles off of it. I wiped it down afterwards and then went inside to get my lottery tickets. You can't win if you don't play.
A lady came in behind me and handed over a receipt. She asked the clerks for a refund on the car wash, since it 'wasn't valid' and there were too many people in line right now and she couldn't use it anyway. Could she please have her money back. No big deal and none of my business.
Until I walked out the door.
A little econo-box was sitting right outside the doors, and it was still dripping wet from the car wash.
What are the odds...? I thought. So I waited. Got in my truck and watched the door. And, sure enough, the lady who wanted a refund on her car wash because she couldn't use it got into the freshly-washed car and drove away.
Astonishing. Just... remarkable. Not only to lie like that to get a free car wash, but to park your still-wet-from-the-wash car right outside the door when you do it? That takes some nerve. Completely reprehensible and wrong, but you gotta admit that takes major chutzpah to even think about doing, let alone carry out successfully. That's like... Captain Kirk ballsy.
When I grow up I want to be like that lady. Only honest.
I went to get gasoline in the truck, and decided that I would run it through the 'Touchless' car wash to knock the Los Angeles off of it. I wiped it down afterwards and then went inside to get my lottery tickets. You can't win if you don't play.
A lady came in behind me and handed over a receipt. She asked the clerks for a refund on the car wash, since it 'wasn't valid' and there were too many people in line right now and she couldn't use it anyway. Could she please have her money back. No big deal and none of my business.
Until I walked out the door.
A little econo-box was sitting right outside the doors, and it was still dripping wet from the car wash.
What are the odds...? I thought. So I waited. Got in my truck and watched the door. And, sure enough, the lady who wanted a refund on her car wash because she couldn't use it got into the freshly-washed car and drove away.
Astonishing. Just... remarkable. Not only to lie like that to get a free car wash, but to park your still-wet-from-the-wash car right outside the door when you do it? That takes some nerve. Completely reprehensible and wrong, but you gotta admit that takes major chutzpah to even think about doing, let alone carry out successfully. That's like... Captain Kirk ballsy.
When I grow up I want to be like that lady. Only honest.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Beware The Couch
I stubbed my toe the other day. My little toe. Hard. Really hard, against the wooden leg of my couch. So of course I hit the couch, because it's the couch's fault for... you know... being a couch.
Big mistake.
This moment of indiscretion started a karmic backlash that I don't think I've seen the end of yet. Monday night I stubbed my toe, slapped the couch. Later on that night I was flossing my teeth (yes, every night) and scraped my fingernail across my gum, on the upper inside. If you've never done this, don't go trying it. It's hard to do, and hurts like Hell when you do it. Trust me. Brought tears to my eyes.
The next morning I didn't duck enough when I got in the shower and I hit my head on the door frame. Hard. Scraped my scalp a little bit too.
At work (ugh...) I jammed my elbow into the bathroom door and hit my funny bone. Been a while since that's happened to me. It's not funny. Well, maybe to someone else, but not to me.
Tuesday night I ran my thigh into the sharp edge of my recliner, which really, really hurts. Like cuss-out-loud hurt, even though I was alone in the room.
This morning I painfully brushed my teeth around the scrape in my mouth, nursed the bruise on my elbow and the knot on my head, and examined the dent in my thigh. Then I ran my knuckle into the water faucet. Got blood out of that one.
I almost - ALMOST - slammed my fingers in the truck door, and had elevator doors close on me as I was leaving the garage at work.
I'm starting to fear for my life. For good karma I gave $5 to the guy outside the grocery store soliciting for Labor Day feed the homeless stuff.
I also apologized to my couch for abusing it. Really. You can't be too careful.
Big mistake.
This moment of indiscretion started a karmic backlash that I don't think I've seen the end of yet. Monday night I stubbed my toe, slapped the couch. Later on that night I was flossing my teeth (yes, every night) and scraped my fingernail across my gum, on the upper inside. If you've never done this, don't go trying it. It's hard to do, and hurts like Hell when you do it. Trust me. Brought tears to my eyes.
The next morning I didn't duck enough when I got in the shower and I hit my head on the door frame. Hard. Scraped my scalp a little bit too.
At work (ugh...) I jammed my elbow into the bathroom door and hit my funny bone. Been a while since that's happened to me. It's not funny. Well, maybe to someone else, but not to me.
Tuesday night I ran my thigh into the sharp edge of my recliner, which really, really hurts. Like cuss-out-loud hurt, even though I was alone in the room.
This morning I painfully brushed my teeth around the scrape in my mouth, nursed the bruise on my elbow and the knot on my head, and examined the dent in my thigh. Then I ran my knuckle into the water faucet. Got blood out of that one.
I almost - ALMOST - slammed my fingers in the truck door, and had elevator doors close on me as I was leaving the garage at work.
I'm starting to fear for my life. For good karma I gave $5 to the guy outside the grocery store soliciting for Labor Day feed the homeless stuff.
I also apologized to my couch for abusing it. Really. You can't be too careful.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Tales From My Past - Almost Shot
It was hot in the sun, I remember that much, cool in the shade one particular Friday afternoon during my second semester at the University of Texas. I was eighteen and thought I knew it all. I judge it one of the better days of my life, in that I was moments away from being shot and yet I escaped without being harmed. Or even without realizing the danger I was in until later.
For some reason I was on campus studying on a Friday. Probably because I'm a nerd and it never occurred to me that Friday afternoons for college students are about ramping up for the weekend's binge drinking and other dangerous excesses.
In any event, I was headed back to the dorms - Jester Center, room 54, if you must know, the ground floor – and decided to wander past the Student Union. Going down the alley between the Union and the UGL I saw a big ol' limo parked right outside the doors. While this was unusual it was not completely unheard-of, the Union hosted musicians from time to time and I'd seen various vehicles parked there before. Just not an enormous shiny black Lincoln.
Two guys in black suits stood outside the limo, one in front, one in back. Both of them wore black sunglasses. In the shade. They saw me coming – I was alone in the alley – and they turned to each other. Since I was eighteen I didn't think anything of it and kept on walking.
As I went around the front bumper of the limo the doors to the Union burst open and four more guys in black suits charged out, surrounding a little tiny woman. It took me no time at all to recognize Sandra Day O'Connor. Yeah, that one, the Supreme Court Justice. She was giving a talk at the Union and had evidently just finished when I ambled past. I had no idea she was so petite. I waved at her but she didn't see me.
When I waved the four guys around her all reached into their suit coats, then at the same time they put their left hands to their ears. I saw lips moving on one of the first two guys and I thought it was neat-o that they had radios and could talk to each other. I kept on walking. The Union would be on about 23nd Street, if a street were actually there. I made it all the way down to 21st and Speedway before I realized something that made my knees go weak.
If that was Sandra Day O'Connor, then those guys in black suits were Secret Service. Which meant they weren't reaching into their jackets for smokes, they were reaching for their machine pistols. They saw me wave and thought I was a threat. They were going to shoot me.
Let me say that again. I was moments away from taking several bullets from Secret Service agents. The only reason I'm here right now to tell you about it is because one of the first two guys was kind enough to tell the other four that I was exactly what I looked like, an oblivious Freshman.
I had to sit down by the gym and compose myself. It's not every day you cheat death by the skin of your teeth and only realize it ten minutes too late.
You want to know the truly incredible thing? That was just the first time I've been very close to being shot. At least the first time I know of. The stories about the other times will have to wait.
For some reason I was on campus studying on a Friday. Probably because I'm a nerd and it never occurred to me that Friday afternoons for college students are about ramping up for the weekend's binge drinking and other dangerous excesses.
In any event, I was headed back to the dorms - Jester Center, room 54, if you must know, the ground floor – and decided to wander past the Student Union. Going down the alley between the Union and the UGL I saw a big ol' limo parked right outside the doors. While this was unusual it was not completely unheard-of, the Union hosted musicians from time to time and I'd seen various vehicles parked there before. Just not an enormous shiny black Lincoln.
Two guys in black suits stood outside the limo, one in front, one in back. Both of them wore black sunglasses. In the shade. They saw me coming – I was alone in the alley – and they turned to each other. Since I was eighteen I didn't think anything of it and kept on walking.
As I went around the front bumper of the limo the doors to the Union burst open and four more guys in black suits charged out, surrounding a little tiny woman. It took me no time at all to recognize Sandra Day O'Connor. Yeah, that one, the Supreme Court Justice. She was giving a talk at the Union and had evidently just finished when I ambled past. I had no idea she was so petite. I waved at her but she didn't see me.
When I waved the four guys around her all reached into their suit coats, then at the same time they put their left hands to their ears. I saw lips moving on one of the first two guys and I thought it was neat-o that they had radios and could talk to each other. I kept on walking. The Union would be on about 23nd Street, if a street were actually there. I made it all the way down to 21st and Speedway before I realized something that made my knees go weak.
If that was Sandra Day O'Connor, then those guys in black suits were Secret Service. Which meant they weren't reaching into their jackets for smokes, they were reaching for their machine pistols. They saw me wave and thought I was a threat. They were going to shoot me.
Let me say that again. I was moments away from taking several bullets from Secret Service agents. The only reason I'm here right now to tell you about it is because one of the first two guys was kind enough to tell the other four that I was exactly what I looked like, an oblivious Freshman.
I had to sit down by the gym and compose myself. It's not every day you cheat death by the skin of your teeth and only realize it ten minutes too late.
You want to know the truly incredible thing? That was just the first time I've been very close to being shot. At least the first time I know of. The stories about the other times will have to wait.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Eyewitness To History
Sometimes you happen upon the best stuff, purely by accident. Stuff that is so cool you can't believe it. I had this happen twice to me this past weekend.
After my Dad died I asked my mother to send me one or two of his old Zippo lighters. She sent me eleven. It looks to me that most of these were souvenirs from his Coast Guard service, like the lighters from the USCGC Buttonwood or the USCGC Tamaroa, both vessels my father served on. Or the one from Okinawa engraved like a Japanese woodblock print. Too cool.
But the history started when I found the one from the Kwajalein test site in the Marshall Islands. On one side is a cloisonne enameled diagram of the atoll, and on the other side a shield with 'KWAJALEIN TEST SITE,' and below that 'AMC' and 'NIKE-X', then the legend 'Kwajalein, Marshall Islands.'
Now, I just happened to have done some research in college about Kwajalein and the military missile tests there. The AMC stands for 'Army Materiel Command,' the organization in charge of procuring and testing ICBMs, including the Nike-X. And my father was there during the first tests, he even got a souvenir cigarette lighter.
Too cool. There was stuff he wouldn't tell me about his years of service in the US Coast Guard, and this is probably one of those things. He was, more than likely, sworn to secrecy and he kept his word. It would have been 1962-1963, at the height of Cold War tensions because of the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the US Government took the secrecy of its missile defense systems deadly seriously.
But it gets better. I found another lighter, this one from Weisbaden, Germany. My father was never stationed in Germany (not a lot of Coast Guard stations there for some reason), but my grandfather was. In 1954. Which is the date on the lighter, a souvenir from the Rocker Club, the NCO club on-base.
Cool enough, a lighter that's coming up on 60 years old, and never used because my grandfather had been forced to stop smoking by then. But the best part, the historical part, is the stamped legend on the back side. In little tiny print it reads 'Made in US Zone of Germany.'
Even though the BRD - West Germany - was ostensibly independent, in 1954 it was still occupied territory, and was only declared its own country in 1955. So I have a lighter from that brief period after WWII ended until the BRD became officially sovereign.
Sweet.
I majored in History in college, so this kind of thing really boils my potato. The best gift my father could have given me. Thanks, Dad.
After my Dad died I asked my mother to send me one or two of his old Zippo lighters. She sent me eleven. It looks to me that most of these were souvenirs from his Coast Guard service, like the lighters from the USCGC Buttonwood or the USCGC Tamaroa, both vessels my father served on. Or the one from Okinawa engraved like a Japanese woodblock print. Too cool.
But the history started when I found the one from the Kwajalein test site in the Marshall Islands. On one side is a cloisonne enameled diagram of the atoll, and on the other side a shield with 'KWAJALEIN TEST SITE,' and below that 'AMC' and 'NIKE-X', then the legend 'Kwajalein, Marshall Islands.'
Now, I just happened to have done some research in college about Kwajalein and the military missile tests there. The AMC stands for 'Army Materiel Command,' the organization in charge of procuring and testing ICBMs, including the Nike-X. And my father was there during the first tests, he even got a souvenir cigarette lighter.
Too cool. There was stuff he wouldn't tell me about his years of service in the US Coast Guard, and this is probably one of those things. He was, more than likely, sworn to secrecy and he kept his word. It would have been 1962-1963, at the height of Cold War tensions because of the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the US Government took the secrecy of its missile defense systems deadly seriously.
But it gets better. I found another lighter, this one from Weisbaden, Germany. My father was never stationed in Germany (not a lot of Coast Guard stations there for some reason), but my grandfather was. In 1954. Which is the date on the lighter, a souvenir from the Rocker Club, the NCO club on-base.
Cool enough, a lighter that's coming up on 60 years old, and never used because my grandfather had been forced to stop smoking by then. But the best part, the historical part, is the stamped legend on the back side. In little tiny print it reads 'Made in US Zone of Germany.'
Even though the BRD - West Germany - was ostensibly independent, in 1954 it was still occupied territory, and was only declared its own country in 1955. So I have a lighter from that brief period after WWII ended until the BRD became officially sovereign.
Sweet.
I majored in History in college, so this kind of thing really boils my potato. The best gift my father could have given me. Thanks, Dad.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Snake Neckties
I went to Catalina with my mother yesterday. It's an island off the coast of Los Angeles, purely a vacation destination, there is no other industry. You can take a helicopter, but since I'm not made of money (yet), we took the boat like everybody else. The town is Avalon - like the island from King Arthur's story - and it's a neat-o little beach community, very small, with restaurants and shops and hotels for the tourists to spend money in. Interesting note: on Catalina there are very few cars, mostly they get around with golf carts. True story.
Anyway, the day was winding down and we were sitting in the sun getting sunburned and eating ice cream while people-watching. Lots of good people-watching on a tourist island the last weekend of summer break. Generally speaking, too much skin from people you would really rather stay covered up, and not enough skin from people you would rather see more from.
Then we saw him, the drunk shirtless guy carrying the snake. A real snake, black-and-white banded, draped around his neck. The guy was fat, but a solid fat, like he works with his hands not in front of a computer, and his face was red from booze and the sun. He was handling the snake gently but a little carelessly, I thought. And all could think was this was his way of screaming 'somebody take a look at me!'
Kind of desperate, really. Waddling down a beachfront with hundreds of tourists just takin' it easy, carrying a big snake. Surefire way to draw attention to yourself, because people aren't usually noncommittal about snakes. I wondered what kind of home life this guy must have that he needed to walk around, drunk, with a snake around his neck. What does his place look like? I imagine litter-strewn and stained, and it probably smells like a pet store. Or worse. Maybe a stolen neon beer sign or two. Carpets that have never seen a vacuum since he moved in. Not a place he'd want to stay anyway, which makes it easier to grab Slinky and make for the boardwalk.
And then I imagined what must be in his refrigerator. A jar of pickles with one left inside, which had probably been in there for months. Mustard. A take-out container with days-old leftovers. A few slices of moldy bread. An almost-empty jar of grape jelly. No fruits, no vegetables. Cheap beer. Frozen pizza in the freezer, the cheapest he can get on the island.
The guy disappeared onto the boardwalk, engaging in his desperate plea for validation as a person and I turned my attention to others, like the red-faced loud guy in the cowboy hat, or the girl who looked kind of like an Easter Island statue but with a silver ring in her lip (it looked like she was drooling), or the ten-year-old boys having a grand old time hitting each other with foam bats over and over and over and over, or the tall woman with fake breasts that looked like torpedoes jutting out from her ribcage. Good times, good times.
As we were getting ready to head back to the boat, I saw the snake guy again. Still drunk, but this time he wore a gray shirt. And he had the snake looped around his neck like a necktie.
Nobody paid him any attention.
Anyway, the day was winding down and we were sitting in the sun getting sunburned and eating ice cream while people-watching. Lots of good people-watching on a tourist island the last weekend of summer break. Generally speaking, too much skin from people you would really rather stay covered up, and not enough skin from people you would rather see more from.
Then we saw him, the drunk shirtless guy carrying the snake. A real snake, black-and-white banded, draped around his neck. The guy was fat, but a solid fat, like he works with his hands not in front of a computer, and his face was red from booze and the sun. He was handling the snake gently but a little carelessly, I thought. And all could think was this was his way of screaming 'somebody take a look at me!'
Kind of desperate, really. Waddling down a beachfront with hundreds of tourists just takin' it easy, carrying a big snake. Surefire way to draw attention to yourself, because people aren't usually noncommittal about snakes. I wondered what kind of home life this guy must have that he needed to walk around, drunk, with a snake around his neck. What does his place look like? I imagine litter-strewn and stained, and it probably smells like a pet store. Or worse. Maybe a stolen neon beer sign or two. Carpets that have never seen a vacuum since he moved in. Not a place he'd want to stay anyway, which makes it easier to grab Slinky and make for the boardwalk.
And then I imagined what must be in his refrigerator. A jar of pickles with one left inside, which had probably been in there for months. Mustard. A take-out container with days-old leftovers. A few slices of moldy bread. An almost-empty jar of grape jelly. No fruits, no vegetables. Cheap beer. Frozen pizza in the freezer, the cheapest he can get on the island.
The guy disappeared onto the boardwalk, engaging in his desperate plea for validation as a person and I turned my attention to others, like the red-faced loud guy in the cowboy hat, or the girl who looked kind of like an Easter Island statue but with a silver ring in her lip (it looked like she was drooling), or the ten-year-old boys having a grand old time hitting each other with foam bats over and over and over and over, or the tall woman with fake breasts that looked like torpedoes jutting out from her ribcage. Good times, good times.
As we were getting ready to head back to the boat, I saw the snake guy again. Still drunk, but this time he wore a gray shirt. And he had the snake looped around his neck like a necktie.
Nobody paid him any attention.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Visting
My Mommy is in town for a visit this weekend, so I may not be posting as regularly as usual. Sorry for the inconvenience, if in fact this is an inconvenience for you.
I'll leave you with this thought: do you suppose pickles were an accident or a deliberate invention? I'm talking thousands of years ago, did some Sumerian scientist sit down and explore the preservative properties of vinegar and come to a conclusion about the best way to keep a bumper crop of cabbage or carrots or cucumbers? Or did someone drop a vegetable into a vat of vinegar by accident and come back to it six months later and find the cucumber was still edible? I'd like to think it was a scientist, but I know it my heart it was probably an accident.
I'll leave you with this thought: do you suppose pickles were an accident or a deliberate invention? I'm talking thousands of years ago, did some Sumerian scientist sit down and explore the preservative properties of vinegar and come to a conclusion about the best way to keep a bumper crop of cabbage or carrots or cucumbers? Or did someone drop a vegetable into a vat of vinegar by accident and come back to it six months later and find the cucumber was still edible? I'd like to think it was a scientist, but I know it my heart it was probably an accident.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
What A Feelin'
She's a steel-town girl on a Saturday night, lookin' for the fight of her life, in the real-time world no one sees her at all, they all think she's crazy.
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!!!
The lyrics for 'Maniac' have been running through my head for hours now, and I have no idea why. And just when I think it's over the lyrics for 'Flashdance' begin.
At first when there's nothing but a slow-moving dream that your fear seems to hide deep inside your mind....
AAAAAAAGHHHHH!!
I saw part of 'Flashdance' only once, thirty years ago, and I put the 80's behind me back in 1985. Because I'm an overachiever. I haven't heard these songs on the truck radio lately, or in the gym, or on iTunes. As far as I can remember I haven't heard either of these songs all the way through in a decade or more.
But damn me to Hell and back, I remember almost every word. And it's INSIDE MY HEAD, so I can't even get sweet release by puncturing my eardrums.
I understand now. This is what makes street people crazy. They're all hearing early 80's pop songs non-stop in their brains and it's driven them around the bend. If this keeps up much longer I'm going to join them.
I hear Target has the best shopping carts, but it's really difficult to get them off the property. And where's my tin foil? I need to make a hat.
WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!!!
The lyrics for 'Maniac' have been running through my head for hours now, and I have no idea why. And just when I think it's over the lyrics for 'Flashdance' begin.
At first when there's nothing but a slow-moving dream that your fear seems to hide deep inside your mind....
AAAAAAAGHHHHH!!
I saw part of 'Flashdance' only once, thirty years ago, and I put the 80's behind me back in 1985. Because I'm an overachiever. I haven't heard these songs on the truck radio lately, or in the gym, or on iTunes. As far as I can remember I haven't heard either of these songs all the way through in a decade or more.
But damn me to Hell and back, I remember almost every word. And it's INSIDE MY HEAD, so I can't even get sweet release by puncturing my eardrums.
I understand now. This is what makes street people crazy. They're all hearing early 80's pop songs non-stop in their brains and it's driven them around the bend. If this keeps up much longer I'm going to join them.
I hear Target has the best shopping carts, but it's really difficult to get them off the property. And where's my tin foil? I need to make a hat.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Makin' A Break
I live across the street from an old folks' home, and while the place is normally quiet, every so often - usually in the middle of the night - an ambulance arrives. I get woken up to the sound of sirens and red flashing lights through the blinds. I hate it when that happens.
Every weekend you can see loving family members taking the residents on walks around the block, or driving them to lunch, or bringing them birthday presents. It's heartwarming in the best way and makes me glad I'm across the street to see it.
But today, I saw something I've never seen before, and I mean ever. Anywhere. I saw an old man make a run for it.
I had gotten home from work (ugh...) and realized that I forgot to buy my lottery ticket. You can't win if you don't play. So I climbed back into the truck and set out for the Chevron station. As the garage gate was coming up I saw an old man running across the street from the old folks' home, jogging determinedly across El Molino as if it weren't 6:30 PM and there weren't cars speeding in both directions. He made it too, a tall, thin, white-haired Frogger.
As drove out of the garage I saw another old man running across the street in the same spot, right in front of oncoming traffic. An ill-advised move at best. Then I saw a flash of someone else doing the same thing, going pretty fast. I wondered if the ice cream man was down the block or something.
When finally rolled the truck outside I saw everything. The guy I didn't really see worked for the old folks' home, and he had apprehended the first old man. Stopped him, really, and was gesturing back across the street, trying to reason with him. The second old man, probably a brother or cousin, took the first old man's hand and pulled him back across the street.
The first old man was clearly addled, though he was dressed like he was just going out for a stroll. The other two took him back - right through the center of traffic - escorting him gently all the way.
The only thing I could think was: 'Damn... so close...'
Every weekend you can see loving family members taking the residents on walks around the block, or driving them to lunch, or bringing them birthday presents. It's heartwarming in the best way and makes me glad I'm across the street to see it.
But today, I saw something I've never seen before, and I mean ever. Anywhere. I saw an old man make a run for it.
I had gotten home from work (ugh...) and realized that I forgot to buy my lottery ticket. You can't win if you don't play. So I climbed back into the truck and set out for the Chevron station. As the garage gate was coming up I saw an old man running across the street from the old folks' home, jogging determinedly across El Molino as if it weren't 6:30 PM and there weren't cars speeding in both directions. He made it too, a tall, thin, white-haired Frogger.
As drove out of the garage I saw another old man running across the street in the same spot, right in front of oncoming traffic. An ill-advised move at best. Then I saw a flash of someone else doing the same thing, going pretty fast. I wondered if the ice cream man was down the block or something.
When finally rolled the truck outside I saw everything. The guy I didn't really see worked for the old folks' home, and he had apprehended the first old man. Stopped him, really, and was gesturing back across the street, trying to reason with him. The second old man, probably a brother or cousin, took the first old man's hand and pulled him back across the street.
The first old man was clearly addled, though he was dressed like he was just going out for a stroll. The other two took him back - right through the center of traffic - escorting him gently all the way.
The only thing I could think was: 'Damn... so close...'
Monday, August 9, 2010
Kill Gilligan
The other day I was thinking about Gilligan's Island, which I haven't seen in a very long time. Back in the days of only three broadcast channels (and PBS) and no cable TV Gilligan's Island was my favorite show. It was perfect for a little kid, with characters painted in broad strokes, simple situations, and lots of running and falling down. Very entertaining, especially with a glass of juice and a cookie for a snack.
As I got older I began to deconstruct Gilligan's Island, finding allegories and archetypes that I'm certain the creators never intended. For instance, the Skipper is the Miles Gloriosus of Roman Comedy, Mr. Howell is the Senex, Gilligan is the clever Adulescens, Ginger is the Meretrix, and so on. Lots of smarty-pants college kid stuff there. But I still liked the show. Especially Gilligan.
But if I were on that island I would have killed him.
The forgiving nature of Gilligan's island-bound cohorts always bothered me, no matter how old I was. It seemed that every week Gilligan was the one who cost them their way off the island. It was his fault. Every time. And the others never did a thing about it.
The first time I can see forgiving him, it's human nature. The second time, okay, maybe then too. But as the series stretched on and switched from black-and-white to color, Gilligan had kept them from getting rescued for YEARS.
About the fourth or fifth time he cost me a trip back to civilization, Gilligan would have found himself on the wrong end of a pointed stick. Or a heavy volcanic rock. Or a noose made of banana leaves. Or maybe just a quick toss off a precipice on the 'other side of the island.'
Having unleashed this murderous streak inside myself, I got to thinking about other classic TV characters who wouldn't have had nearly the longevity they did if I were there.
Dr. Smith from Lost In Space. Mincing pedophiles should always be the first tossed out the airlock.
Darren from Bewitched. The second one, I liked the first one. The second Darren was annoying and superior and always wanted to keep Sam down. Be free, sister!
Eddie Haskell from Leave It To Beaver. Hey, Eddie, want to go down to the abandoned quarry?
Greg from The Brady Bunch. He turns into Johnny Bravo, he should have been stopped before that was allowed to happen.
Laurie from the Partridge Family. All she did was whine. And get skinnier. I hate skinny whiners.
Gleek the Space Monkey from Superfriends. He's a blue space monkey that speaks in baby-babble. 'Nuff said.
As I got older I began to deconstruct Gilligan's Island, finding allegories and archetypes that I'm certain the creators never intended. For instance, the Skipper is the Miles Gloriosus of Roman Comedy, Mr. Howell is the Senex, Gilligan is the clever Adulescens, Ginger is the Meretrix, and so on. Lots of smarty-pants college kid stuff there. But I still liked the show. Especially Gilligan.
But if I were on that island I would have killed him.
The forgiving nature of Gilligan's island-bound cohorts always bothered me, no matter how old I was. It seemed that every week Gilligan was the one who cost them their way off the island. It was his fault. Every time. And the others never did a thing about it.
The first time I can see forgiving him, it's human nature. The second time, okay, maybe then too. But as the series stretched on and switched from black-and-white to color, Gilligan had kept them from getting rescued for YEARS.
About the fourth or fifth time he cost me a trip back to civilization, Gilligan would have found himself on the wrong end of a pointed stick. Or a heavy volcanic rock. Or a noose made of banana leaves. Or maybe just a quick toss off a precipice on the 'other side of the island.'
Having unleashed this murderous streak inside myself, I got to thinking about other classic TV characters who wouldn't have had nearly the longevity they did if I were there.
Dr. Smith from Lost In Space. Mincing pedophiles should always be the first tossed out the airlock.
Darren from Bewitched. The second one, I liked the first one. The second Darren was annoying and superior and always wanted to keep Sam down. Be free, sister!
Eddie Haskell from Leave It To Beaver. Hey, Eddie, want to go down to the abandoned quarry?
Greg from The Brady Bunch. He turns into Johnny Bravo, he should have been stopped before that was allowed to happen.
Laurie from the Partridge Family. All she did was whine. And get skinnier. I hate skinny whiners.
Gleek the Space Monkey from Superfriends. He's a blue space monkey that speaks in baby-babble. 'Nuff said.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Random Thoughts
A leaf followed me on my way to the gym today. Really. I was walking on Madison towards the cooking school, when the wind blew up. I could hear a magnolia leaf skittering up the sidewalk (and, yes, magnolia leaves do make a distinctive sound). It passed me, going in a dead straight line. When it reached the corner the wind died and the leaf stopped, like it was waiting for me.
It was kind of spooky.
They have fingerprint scanners at the gym now. Instead of handing over your card you can type in an access code and scan your finger.
I don't like that. It's too... 1984. Too anonymous. And spooky.
No matter who I talk to these days, it seems no one is satisfied working for a corporation. Big or small. It's just a paycheck to them, no longer a career. This is the unintended consequence of treating your employees like 'resources' instead of human beings. Loyalty down the chain means loyalty up the chain. If the people in charge are only in the job for the short term, to get as much money as they can steal and then get the hell out, they can't be surprised when their employees do exactly the same. It's time to get back to a real reciprocal employer-employee relationship. And American needs to make stuff again, for God's sake. No more financial 'industry.'
How fat was the guy who invented cheese-stuffed pizza? Just wondering.
Where are the college grads of this year going to be in ten years? There aren't any jobs for them now, how are they supposed to become productive tax-paying members of society with no employment? And, for that matter, how is Social Security supposed to provide for all the retiring Baby Boomers if their grandkids aren't paying into the system? Looks like a lot of former hippies are going to be working part-time at the Wal-Mart.
It was kind of spooky.
They have fingerprint scanners at the gym now. Instead of handing over your card you can type in an access code and scan your finger.
I don't like that. It's too... 1984. Too anonymous. And spooky.
No matter who I talk to these days, it seems no one is satisfied working for a corporation. Big or small. It's just a paycheck to them, no longer a career. This is the unintended consequence of treating your employees like 'resources' instead of human beings. Loyalty down the chain means loyalty up the chain. If the people in charge are only in the job for the short term, to get as much money as they can steal and then get the hell out, they can't be surprised when their employees do exactly the same. It's time to get back to a real reciprocal employer-employee relationship. And American needs to make stuff again, for God's sake. No more financial 'industry.'
How fat was the guy who invented cheese-stuffed pizza? Just wondering.
Where are the college grads of this year going to be in ten years? There aren't any jobs for them now, how are they supposed to become productive tax-paying members of society with no employment? And, for that matter, how is Social Security supposed to provide for all the retiring Baby Boomers if their grandkids aren't paying into the system? Looks like a lot of former hippies are going to be working part-time at the Wal-Mart.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Dope Man
'I'm the Dope man, yeah boy, wear corduroy/ Money up to here but unemployed.'
-- NWA, 1987*
You may have heard on the news, there are 'medical' marijuana dispensaries all over Los Angeles. And I mean everywhere, rich neighborhoods, poor neighborhoods, by the train tracks and in strip malls. It's a HUGE problem because - duh - these storefronts attract violent criminals as well as docile potheads. Like most well-meaning California statutes, the law allowing these dispensaries was grounded in good intent but the execution was severely flawed.
Back in 2005, when this was first allowed, Pasadena passed an ordinance banning 'medical' marijuana shops. So we ain't got 'em, which means we don't have to put up with all the antics that Los Angeles does. Score one for the good guys.
However...
I was driving this morning and I noticed a big green cross with '420' on it, right across the street from the DMV office on Rosemead. For those of you not hip to the sub-culture, the green cross is the co-opted symbol for the 'herbal remedy' crowd, as are the numbers 420. The building they occupy is not in Padadena, the city limits stop a few hundred yards to the West. This little bit of land is actually unincorporated LA County, even though it doesn't look any different from Pasadena or Arcadia, the city immediately to the East (like two blocks away, seriously).
So despite the best efforts of the Pasadena City Council, we do - in effect - have at least one 'medical' marijuana facility. And because it's in unincorporated LA County there's not a whole lot Pasadena can do about it. There's no real LA County authority willing or able to do anything about these places.
Here's my prediction: in the next two years, as the furniture stores and psychics and roofing supply places on that part of Rosemead close up shop, we're going to see more and more 'medical' marijuana places move in. That area is already sketchy, but right now it's not nearly as bad as parts of the Valley, say, or even much of Los Angeles. In two years time, though, I guarantee it's going to be the hub in a great wheel of criminal enterprises.
Here's hoping I'm dead wrong on this one.
* Man, has it really been 23 years since NWA dropped their first CD? Wow, I'm old.
-- NWA, 1987*
You may have heard on the news, there are 'medical' marijuana dispensaries all over Los Angeles. And I mean everywhere, rich neighborhoods, poor neighborhoods, by the train tracks and in strip malls. It's a HUGE problem because - duh - these storefronts attract violent criminals as well as docile potheads. Like most well-meaning California statutes, the law allowing these dispensaries was grounded in good intent but the execution was severely flawed.
Back in 2005, when this was first allowed, Pasadena passed an ordinance banning 'medical' marijuana shops. So we ain't got 'em, which means we don't have to put up with all the antics that Los Angeles does. Score one for the good guys.
However...
I was driving this morning and I noticed a big green cross with '420' on it, right across the street from the DMV office on Rosemead. For those of you not hip to the sub-culture, the green cross is the co-opted symbol for the 'herbal remedy' crowd, as are the numbers 420. The building they occupy is not in Padadena, the city limits stop a few hundred yards to the West. This little bit of land is actually unincorporated LA County, even though it doesn't look any different from Pasadena or Arcadia, the city immediately to the East (like two blocks away, seriously).
So despite the best efforts of the Pasadena City Council, we do - in effect - have at least one 'medical' marijuana facility. And because it's in unincorporated LA County there's not a whole lot Pasadena can do about it. There's no real LA County authority willing or able to do anything about these places.
Here's my prediction: in the next two years, as the furniture stores and psychics and roofing supply places on that part of Rosemead close up shop, we're going to see more and more 'medical' marijuana places move in. That area is already sketchy, but right now it's not nearly as bad as parts of the Valley, say, or even much of Los Angeles. In two years time, though, I guarantee it's going to be the hub in a great wheel of criminal enterprises.
Here's hoping I'm dead wrong on this one.
* Man, has it really been 23 years since NWA dropped their first CD? Wow, I'm old.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Walk On By
I've been watching people walk lately. Not just hot chicks, though I've done my share of that – maybe more than my share. I've been watching all kinds of people, young, old, short, tall, fat, thin, and everything in between. I'm fascinated with it, kind of my new obsession. If I were the type to get obsessed with things. Which I'm not. But if I were…
The street's the best place to begin your studies, a large public thoroughfare with lots of pedestrians. Like Wilshire, where I'm working right now, or Lake Avenue in Pasadena. You have to find a real crossroads where many different types come and go. A melting pot of ambulatory styles, if you will. You can tell so much about a person and the day they're having by the way they walk when they think no one is watching them.
Here are some things I've noticed:
Small women usually walk in one of two ways. Either they draw in, clutching their bags to their chests, chin down, taking small steps and trying to be unobtrusive, or they pretend they're a foot taller than they actually are and try to take up more space and look other people in the eye.
Small men in office attire are uniformly combative, refusing to get out of the way for anyone and making people go around them. Small men who work with their hands for a living don't feel the need to prove anything to anyone so they just get where they need to go.
Big doofus-y guys – fat or not – seem very conscious of their bulk. They watch the way ahead of them and try to plan for others not realizing how big they actually are. Almost apologetic.
The exception to this is big doofus-y teenaged boys, who really don't know how big they actually are and constantly get in the way. They'll grow into themselves.
Tall women walk fast. Don't know why, they just do. Really fast, sometimes. Dangerously fast. Give them a wide berth when they start swinging those monkey arms.
Pregnant women always get a lot of space from others on the sidewalk. Especially if they look like they're about to pop. Just a safety deal, I think.
Old men seem to move through crowds like ninjas, finding just the right space at just the right time. Probably their years of walking experience.
Old couples holding hands walk slowly, but no one seems to mind.
Angry people make eye contact then look away quickly. Sad people don't make eye contact, they look past you. Happy people smile and acknowledge you. Distracted people weave from side to side as they go. Crazy people have crazy eyes and you should avoid them at all costs. If you don't know what crazy eyes are, I can't explain it to you.
Douchebag dudes – sunglasses backwards on their heads, gold chains on their necks or wrists, bowling shirts, that kind of thing – don't usually abandon their Jeep Wranglers to walk anywhere, but when they do they walk right out of their flip-flops. Which is funny because well-traveled sidewalks are not made for bare feet. That's what you get for being a jerkoff, jerkoff.
Teen girls walk in packs. But not well-organized, cohesive packs like wolves, more like packs of hamsters. Chittering, giggling, stumbling hamsters who get where they're going by chance, not by design. With 'Hello Kitty' backpacks they're too old to be wearing, but they wear anyway because they think it's cute. And texting the other girls in the group because actually talking is just soooo 20th Century.
Adult men always watch where they're going and try to stay out of each other's way. It's a guy thing, a combat challenge deal, a mutually-agreed-upon convention that if you stay out of my way and I stay out of yours then we have no problem with each other and we can go about our business. You ever see how boys fight? It starts with one blocking the other in, asserting control and dominance. That never ends well.
Women don't know this convention, or they don't understand it. This is why women always, always, always, always go the wrong way on the sidewalk and end up right in front of some huge dude who glares down at them until they get out of the way. Learn the convention ladies, it'll save you wondering why people on the street are so angry.
The street's the best place to begin your studies, a large public thoroughfare with lots of pedestrians. Like Wilshire, where I'm working right now, or Lake Avenue in Pasadena. You have to find a real crossroads where many different types come and go. A melting pot of ambulatory styles, if you will. You can tell so much about a person and the day they're having by the way they walk when they think no one is watching them.
Here are some things I've noticed:
Small women usually walk in one of two ways. Either they draw in, clutching their bags to their chests, chin down, taking small steps and trying to be unobtrusive, or they pretend they're a foot taller than they actually are and try to take up more space and look other people in the eye.
Small men in office attire are uniformly combative, refusing to get out of the way for anyone and making people go around them. Small men who work with their hands for a living don't feel the need to prove anything to anyone so they just get where they need to go.
Big doofus-y guys – fat or not – seem very conscious of their bulk. They watch the way ahead of them and try to plan for others not realizing how big they actually are. Almost apologetic.
The exception to this is big doofus-y teenaged boys, who really don't know how big they actually are and constantly get in the way. They'll grow into themselves.
Tall women walk fast. Don't know why, they just do. Really fast, sometimes. Dangerously fast. Give them a wide berth when they start swinging those monkey arms.
Pregnant women always get a lot of space from others on the sidewalk. Especially if they look like they're about to pop. Just a safety deal, I think.
Old men seem to move through crowds like ninjas, finding just the right space at just the right time. Probably their years of walking experience.
Old couples holding hands walk slowly, but no one seems to mind.
Angry people make eye contact then look away quickly. Sad people don't make eye contact, they look past you. Happy people smile and acknowledge you. Distracted people weave from side to side as they go. Crazy people have crazy eyes and you should avoid them at all costs. If you don't know what crazy eyes are, I can't explain it to you.
Douchebag dudes – sunglasses backwards on their heads, gold chains on their necks or wrists, bowling shirts, that kind of thing – don't usually abandon their Jeep Wranglers to walk anywhere, but when they do they walk right out of their flip-flops. Which is funny because well-traveled sidewalks are not made for bare feet. That's what you get for being a jerkoff, jerkoff.
Teen girls walk in packs. But not well-organized, cohesive packs like wolves, more like packs of hamsters. Chittering, giggling, stumbling hamsters who get where they're going by chance, not by design. With 'Hello Kitty' backpacks they're too old to be wearing, but they wear anyway because they think it's cute. And texting the other girls in the group because actually talking is just soooo 20th Century.
Adult men always watch where they're going and try to stay out of each other's way. It's a guy thing, a combat challenge deal, a mutually-agreed-upon convention that if you stay out of my way and I stay out of yours then we have no problem with each other and we can go about our business. You ever see how boys fight? It starts with one blocking the other in, asserting control and dominance. That never ends well.
Women don't know this convention, or they don't understand it. This is why women always, always, always, always go the wrong way on the sidewalk and end up right in front of some huge dude who glares down at them until they get out of the way. Learn the convention ladies, it'll save you wondering why people on the street are so angry.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
I Think Too Much
I've been thinking too much lately, wrapping myself in knots over things that I have no control over. Thing is, I have no idea why. Even last month I was blithely unaware. Maybe unconcerned, really. Back in March, early April, I didn't have a job, didn't much care, things were going to work out one way or another.
Now? I'm spending hours - literally - worrying about my next job, or thinking about things I did and didn't do ten years ago that I'd like to have a do-over for.
What's the deal, man? Why these thoughts and feelings? Why now instead of ten years ago, or even last year? I'm not being productive and I'm not helping myself with this, but for the last week or so it's been nothing but second-guessing and recriminations.
Where's the stress coming from? I have to figure that out and find a way to eliminate it.
I'm thinking maybe it's working. Didn't have all this negative energy when I was a ward of the state. Working'll kill you every time.
Now? I'm spending hours - literally - worrying about my next job, or thinking about things I did and didn't do ten years ago that I'd like to have a do-over for.
What's the deal, man? Why these thoughts and feelings? Why now instead of ten years ago, or even last year? I'm not being productive and I'm not helping myself with this, but for the last week or so it's been nothing but second-guessing and recriminations.
Where's the stress coming from? I have to figure that out and find a way to eliminate it.
I'm thinking maybe it's working. Didn't have all this negative energy when I was a ward of the state. Working'll kill you every time.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Teddy Roosevelt Walks Into A Bar
Hey, there, pal, what'll it be?
I would prefer, my good man, something with a bit of vigor to it. Something strong yet uplifting.
Hmm… I'm thinking vodka and Red Bull.
Bully?
No, Red Bull. Mix it with vodka and it'll get you coming and going.
Then set one up, my friend, post haste.
Coming right up. Nice smile, by the way. Not a whole lot of grinning going on here usually.
I've just had a constitutional, I'm feeling strong and vital.
I'm Harvey.
Well met, Harvey, I'm Theodore.
Good to meet you. You look familiar, where have I seen you before?
I've had many jobs indeed, held many positions. I was New York Police Commissioner.
That's not it.
Assistant Secretary of the Navy.
Nope.
Well, I was President.
I don't pay much attention to politics.
I'm on Mt. Rushmore. The one on the far right.
There you go. I knew you looked familiar.
Always with the Mt. Rushmore. I accomplished so much in my life, and to be remembered for that...
Well, that ain't bad.
I established the first national parks, my good man. Surely that bears remembering. I led the charge up San Juan Hill in the Spanish American War. I boxed and fought and hunted and read voraciously and tried to be the best man I knew how.
I am impressed.
I busted trusts, dear sir. I took on the giants of corporate greed and brought them low with only a big stick.
We could use a little of that now. Lots of corporate greed these days.
Indeed. One wonders why the politicians of this day do not use the tools of my day to combat these 'too big to fail' behemoths. We called it the 'Sherman Anti-Trust Act.'
You don't say.
I do, I do. Using that law I busted trusts right and left. You ever hear of Standard Oil?
Can't say as I have.
Of course you haven't. I broke them up. Too big to fail my Knickerbocker ass...
So this law is still on the books?
Absolutely.
Why don't we use it against these huge banks and financial institutions?
Your guess is as good as mine, friend. How about that drink?
Here you go. On the house.
Bully!
I would prefer, my good man, something with a bit of vigor to it. Something strong yet uplifting.
Hmm… I'm thinking vodka and Red Bull.
Bully?
No, Red Bull. Mix it with vodka and it'll get you coming and going.
Then set one up, my friend, post haste.
Coming right up. Nice smile, by the way. Not a whole lot of grinning going on here usually.
I've just had a constitutional, I'm feeling strong and vital.
I'm Harvey.
Well met, Harvey, I'm Theodore.
Good to meet you. You look familiar, where have I seen you before?
I've had many jobs indeed, held many positions. I was New York Police Commissioner.
That's not it.
Assistant Secretary of the Navy.
Nope.
Well, I was President.
I don't pay much attention to politics.
I'm on Mt. Rushmore. The one on the far right.
There you go. I knew you looked familiar.
Always with the Mt. Rushmore. I accomplished so much in my life, and to be remembered for that...
Well, that ain't bad.
I established the first national parks, my good man. Surely that bears remembering. I led the charge up San Juan Hill in the Spanish American War. I boxed and fought and hunted and read voraciously and tried to be the best man I knew how.
I am impressed.
I busted trusts, dear sir. I took on the giants of corporate greed and brought them low with only a big stick.
We could use a little of that now. Lots of corporate greed these days.
Indeed. One wonders why the politicians of this day do not use the tools of my day to combat these 'too big to fail' behemoths. We called it the 'Sherman Anti-Trust Act.'
You don't say.
I do, I do. Using that law I busted trusts right and left. You ever hear of Standard Oil?
Can't say as I have.
Of course you haven't. I broke them up. Too big to fail my Knickerbocker ass...
So this law is still on the books?
Absolutely.
Why don't we use it against these huge banks and financial institutions?
Your guess is as good as mine, friend. How about that drink?
Here you go. On the house.
Bully!
Monday, August 2, 2010
Hairy Fingers
There was a guy in the office today with the hairiest hands I've ever seen. A dark carpet sticking out past his cuffs that, seriously, looked like it could have been braided. Like an orangutan or something. He wore a gold watch with metal links and all I could think was that he must have rubbed a bare spot on his wrist, otherwise all those hairs would have gotten stuck something fierce. Painful.
I took a look at my own hands, which while not baby's-butt smooth certainly don't have the kind of goat-hair mess that this guy had. Then I took a look at my fingers, and the hair on the first phalanx (that's the fingerbone bit after the knuckle). It's kind of like the hair on my big toes, it's there, but I have no idea why.
I understand the biochemistry of the matter, androgens makes hair grow and since I'm a man (and how!) I grow hair in places women and children don't. Like the bit on my trapezoids or my shoulders. Or on my butt. But my fingers? As my Hispanic friends might say: 'porque?'
I wracked my brain and I can't come up with any reason why hairy fingers would be a good evolutionary adaptation. Especially when the hair on my index finger is far fainter than the hair on my pinky. What use could that kind of gradation possibly be? None, that's what. I think hairy fingers are an evolutionary throwback, the appendix of your skin, as it were. I need to write this up for a medical journal.
The only drawback I can see to publication is that the anti-evolution crowd could seize on this and try to say it disproves evolution. Since there's obviously no evolutionary benefit to hairy fingers they'd want to toss the baby out with the bathwater. So I guess maybe I'd better keep this quiet.
Forget I mentioned it.
I took a look at my own hands, which while not baby's-butt smooth certainly don't have the kind of goat-hair mess that this guy had. Then I took a look at my fingers, and the hair on the first phalanx (that's the fingerbone bit after the knuckle). It's kind of like the hair on my big toes, it's there, but I have no idea why.
I understand the biochemistry of the matter, androgens makes hair grow and since I'm a man (and how!) I grow hair in places women and children don't. Like the bit on my trapezoids or my shoulders. Or on my butt. But my fingers? As my Hispanic friends might say: 'porque?'
I wracked my brain and I can't come up with any reason why hairy fingers would be a good evolutionary adaptation. Especially when the hair on my index finger is far fainter than the hair on my pinky. What use could that kind of gradation possibly be? None, that's what. I think hairy fingers are an evolutionary throwback, the appendix of your skin, as it were. I need to write this up for a medical journal.
The only drawback I can see to publication is that the anti-evolution crowd could seize on this and try to say it disproves evolution. Since there's obviously no evolutionary benefit to hairy fingers they'd want to toss the baby out with the bathwater. So I guess maybe I'd better keep this quiet.
Forget I mentioned it.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Pasadena At Sundown
Top down on the hot rod, cruising the streets just to get out of the house. Even low in the sky the sun blazes, shines in my eyes when I'm heading West, bakes the back of my neck when I'm heading East. I have nowhere to go and no particular time to be there. Sunglasses wrapped around my head and a three-day growth of beard on my chin.
The whine of the differential behind my head competes with the radio competes with the wind noise competes for my attention on the road. Distracted by the faded 1950's signs, new when Colorado Blvd was almost the end of Route 66. Timeless yet dated, angular, you don't see them much any more but you recognize them instantly, like an old friend gone for a while but returned. Faded paint on the monolithic brick sides of old buildings, advertising washers, beer, cigarettes, brands that haven't been made in decades. The ads would be invisible if I were in a car with a roof. I wonder what else I miss every day.
I steer into a neighborhood where the signs are in Spanish. Check cashing stores, carnicerias, shoe repair, liquor stores. The secret side to the Crown City, the place no one talks about. Homes that were once grand Craftsman examples now painted uniform beige. With vinyl siding because it's easier to take care of. High wrought-iron fences with locked gates. Gravel instead of grass, cinderblocks instead of hedges, old cars with rust instead of new cars with shine. Thick women with too much makeup badly applied pushing strollers against the light. The sun is going down and I shouldn't be here.
A mile away I ride through a neighborhood of millionaires, houses that cost too much fifty years ago and now are beyond the reach of almost everyone. Wide yards, old trees, plenty of space between houses and room for expensive automobiles. Well-kept, probably by the people in the neighborhood I just left. None of the signs are in Spanish.
I steer into the industrial district, Pasadena has one, where the railroad tracks used to run. Cracked cement roads with weeds sprouting at odd angles, breaking through the crumbling curbs. No litter, which doesn't surprise me. Who's around to litter? Ranks of parked cars, which does surprise me. Who works on a Sunday in California? I roll past the church, the destination for all the drivers who left their cars by the warehouses. Hymns and organ music waft from the open doors, and for a moment I'm transfixed, my foot comes off the accelerator. Transcendent and transitory. The hymn ends and I'm back on the throttle, speeding on my wandering path to nowhere.
On my way home I take the long way, down Rosemead, which is an open trench during construction. Furniture stores, fast food, and far more psychics than I realized. There are also supposed to be prostitutes but there aren't any walking the street this hour. I think about coming back at night to verify the rumors and then realize that's an extremely poor decision to make.
Back down California, past Cal Tech, where students are just now starting to arrive for the Fall semester. Lots of long hair, unfortunate wardrobe choices, and thick eyeglasses. Sometimes stereotypes exist for a reason.
Into the parking garage of my apartment, the car ticks down slowly after I turn the key, the engine slowly cooling. I listen to the NPR story for just another minute. The top goes up, the doors are locked, and I'm back inside my place.
The whine of the differential behind my head competes with the radio competes with the wind noise competes for my attention on the road. Distracted by the faded 1950's signs, new when Colorado Blvd was almost the end of Route 66. Timeless yet dated, angular, you don't see them much any more but you recognize them instantly, like an old friend gone for a while but returned. Faded paint on the monolithic brick sides of old buildings, advertising washers, beer, cigarettes, brands that haven't been made in decades. The ads would be invisible if I were in a car with a roof. I wonder what else I miss every day.
I steer into a neighborhood where the signs are in Spanish. Check cashing stores, carnicerias, shoe repair, liquor stores. The secret side to the Crown City, the place no one talks about. Homes that were once grand Craftsman examples now painted uniform beige. With vinyl siding because it's easier to take care of. High wrought-iron fences with locked gates. Gravel instead of grass, cinderblocks instead of hedges, old cars with rust instead of new cars with shine. Thick women with too much makeup badly applied pushing strollers against the light. The sun is going down and I shouldn't be here.
A mile away I ride through a neighborhood of millionaires, houses that cost too much fifty years ago and now are beyond the reach of almost everyone. Wide yards, old trees, plenty of space between houses and room for expensive automobiles. Well-kept, probably by the people in the neighborhood I just left. None of the signs are in Spanish.
I steer into the industrial district, Pasadena has one, where the railroad tracks used to run. Cracked cement roads with weeds sprouting at odd angles, breaking through the crumbling curbs. No litter, which doesn't surprise me. Who's around to litter? Ranks of parked cars, which does surprise me. Who works on a Sunday in California? I roll past the church, the destination for all the drivers who left their cars by the warehouses. Hymns and organ music waft from the open doors, and for a moment I'm transfixed, my foot comes off the accelerator. Transcendent and transitory. The hymn ends and I'm back on the throttle, speeding on my wandering path to nowhere.
On my way home I take the long way, down Rosemead, which is an open trench during construction. Furniture stores, fast food, and far more psychics than I realized. There are also supposed to be prostitutes but there aren't any walking the street this hour. I think about coming back at night to verify the rumors and then realize that's an extremely poor decision to make.
Back down California, past Cal Tech, where students are just now starting to arrive for the Fall semester. Lots of long hair, unfortunate wardrobe choices, and thick eyeglasses. Sometimes stereotypes exist for a reason.
Into the parking garage of my apartment, the car ticks down slowly after I turn the key, the engine slowly cooling. I listen to the NPR story for just another minute. The top goes up, the doors are locked, and I'm back inside my place.
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