Poetry Ain't Sissy

When I was in middle school and high school I didn't like poetry. I read voraciously, almost anything I could get, from The Hobbit to Moby Dick (seriously, I read the whole thing), and all those books they assign you in English class, like Silas Marner. But when it came to poetry they lost me. Shakespeare was all right, but I liked the blood and guts and ghosts better - and the severed body parts in Titus Andronicus - than I liked the sonnets. Keats, Coleridge, Yeats, I could do without them all. Ode to Grecian Urn my ass. Poetry was not for me.
   Then I got to college, or specifically to my alma mater, Austin College (go 'Roos!) and an upper-level English class. We got to the inevitable poetry component, which I was determined to gut out like a recruit in boot camp. Dr. Gray had us read some old coot named Walt Whitman. So I put off the assignment as long as possible, and only a few hours before class did I crack the Norton Anthology and read 'Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.'
   After the first stanza it was like somebody punched me in the gut.
   I read it. And read it again. And a third time. It's not long but it is powerful. Nuclear. If this was poetry I was hooked. The lyricism, the immediacy, the raw energy of Whitman's words made me feel like I was there with him, waiting to cross the East River into 1858 Manhattan. Read it, please, and read it again. If you don't like poetry you will after you read 'Crossing Brooklyn Ferry.'
   A lot of what we think of as American democracy, the populist, inclusive, celebratory spirit that informs our national image comes from Whitman. His work was controversial because of its frank sexuality and sometimes erotic imagery, but that's part of what makes it so good. If nothing else poetry should be honest and evocative, and Whitman's work is absolutely those two things.
   I'm telling you, if you haven't read Walt Whitman you're cheating yourself. Go to the library - or libary - and check out a volume of 'Leaves of Grass.' Doesn't matter which one, he revised the thing every few years for most of his life, just get it and devour it. You'll thank me, I guarantee it.


COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes     back - 35 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 72 days

Whose Type Am I?

I was walking down Wilshire today to get Lotto tickets at the liquor store - you can't win if you don't play - and I noticed several different types of people walking with me. There are several medical plazas between my office and the liquor store, so there are patients on the sidewalks, people who obviously need some kind of medical attention. Because Variety, E!, G4, Comcast, and other entertainment companies have their headquarters on that stretch of the Miracle Mile there are young-ish LA hipster types in the entertainment biz, all with the same kind of sneakers, jeans, and t-shirts. Don't know when it became okay to wear jeans and a t-shirt to work, but evidently it is nowadays. Because a fairly rough part of LA is about two miles South there are some clearly indigent, possibly felonious types of many races and creeds. A melting pot, if you will. Oh, and speaking of pot, there's a medical marijuana store/dispensary/whatever on the way, so there are some stoner types out and about too.
   As I was classifying these people I got to wondering what type I was for them? While I'd prefer to think I was the 'rakishly handsome, put together guy in charge' type, I doubt that was really the case.
   I wear business clothes to work - slacks, an ironed shirt and dress shoes - and I'm a white guy of a certain age. What does that mean for, say, one of the stoners? And what does my wrist watch mean for the hipster entertainment people? Or my bathed condition for the indigent people?
   Do I represent The Man? Am I emblematic of that corporate America I so desperately want to escape? Am I thinking too much? Should I just shut up, keep my head down, and thank God that I have a job?
   Nah...


COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes, fire trucks     back - 36 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 73 days

Speecy-Spicy

You know what I was thinking about today? Why doesn't anybody make spicy lip balm?
   I'm not talking about cinnamon-flavored, or menthol or peppermint. I mean cumin or red pepper or bay leaf. Maybe basil. Rosemary or cayenne pepper. Don't you think there'd be a market?
   And what about animal-flavored, like barbeque brisket or jerk chicken? Baloney? Wouldn't pasty, weak vegans just love to rub some meat flavoring on their lips, for old times' sake?

Man... I think I just found my new business opportunity. Nobody steal it from me. I know who you are.

COMMUTE: there - 45 minutes, fire trucks     back - 41 minutes, I went a new way
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 74 days

The Reason I Don't Own A House

In my life I've done more than my share of home maintenance and I don't even own a home. It's how I made a living into my college years and a few beyond. I've always considered buildings to be permanent. Cars wear out, refrigerators go on the fritz, jackets get holes at the elbows. But buildings were special. My elementary school might not have been St. Peter's, but it was always around, right where it had always been.
   But as I've been walking around the Miracle Mile district I've seen that buildings are as impermanent as everything else, it's just that their depreciation schedule is a little longer.
   I see a Shakey's that's been shuttered, a vacant building that clearly used to be an upscale department store, art deco office buildings and theaters sitting empty, their gold trim now faded. What was once clearly a walkable neighborhood is now a district for day residents, commuters like me who get the hell out as fast as they can at the end of the day. Everything used to be something else. And everything is slowly fading away.
   I remember when Windsor Park Mall was under construction. My friends and I would ride our bikes to look at the huge hole in the ground. Its grand opening was a huge event, klieg lights, balloons, media coverage, the whole magilla. It was the hang out when I was in high school. Ten years later it was in decline, and twenty years later it was closed. Shuttered and left for the rats and cockroaches. In my lifetime I've seen a huge structure born, descend into middle age, and die.
   This is a long way around to saying that I don't own a home because I'd rather not fight the inevitable decay. At least not right now. Houses need a lot of maintenance, and all the effort needed to fight the breakdown is really just trying to sweep the tide back with a broom. I'd rather live in my apartment, with no working elevator, with termites, with central heating that isn't hot and cooling that isn't cool because it's somebody else's responsibility to get it fixed.
   Plus, now that I'm working, I'm not home most of the day anyway.

COMMUTE: there - 38 minutes back - 46 minutes to my fencing lesson
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 75 days

I Want To Shake The Hand Of The Man

I was grocery shopping yesterday and I forgot to make a list so I was kind of wandering around the store trying to think about things I needed and what kind of meals I was going to make. And then I got thinking about how much I really wanted fajitas right then and there, in the store. But since I wasn't in Costco there was no chance I was going to get any. The first time I had fajitas was back in San Antonio, in high school, when Taco Cabana was just one store on Hildebrand that used to get closed down every two months when La Migra raided it and sent all the illegals home.
   I wanted to shake the hand of the man who invented fajitas, but the origins of that delicious food are lost in the mists of time. So I got to thinking about other great things I can't thank anyone for.

French bread pizza. It should be a travesty but it's oh-so delicious.
   Star fruit. It's fruit... shaped like a star. Sounds like a marketing ploy, but it's all natural.
Bogs. They're like swamps but without alligators and with mummified Stone Age people.
   Australian $2 coins. The best thing for scratching your scratch-off Lottery tickets.
Gyros meat. I know it's processed to Hell and back, but... mmmmm....
   Craftsman furniture. I could try to shake the hand of Gustav Stickley, but he's been dead for decades.
Carnies. God love 'em, they're so crooked they make Louisiana politicians look honest. Only hot chicks win the huge stuffed Pink Panther, how's that fair? I could shake one of their hands, but, really, I'd rather not.
    Gun shows. The only place where you can be amused, horrified, disgusted, and intrigued in the space of five minutes. Why is it the people you least want to have guns have the most?
Revell models. Really I'm more a fan of Testor's model glue, but they don't make it same way now as they did when I was a kid. No good fumes anymore. And, actually, one of the Revell founders is still alive, but he's in Florida and I never go there.
   Coca-Cola Santa Claus. Other than Nat Cole singing, nothing puts me more in the Christmas mood.
Undershirts. The thin, thin, thin kind you wear under a dress shirt. The kind Marlon Brando wore as Stanley Kowalski in Streetcar. Nothing makes you feel more like a hard-boiled 50's detective than putting on an undershirt.

I Was Actually Speechless...

I know this blog is supposed to be about being out of work and whatever crosses my mind while jobless, not about work stories. But since I have a job now - even though it's a contract gig - work stories are bound to come up. So give me a break already!
   Besides, this one is good and creepy.
   I have been getting to work between 7:15 and 7:30 AM; I'm a morning person, I'd rather get in and get the day started than hang around waiting for it. Today was no different, and as I got into the elevator from the garage, there was already a guy on it, coming up from the lower parking level. We nodded to each other, and then he said:
   "We meet again, huh?"
   I honestly didn't know what to say, and that rarely happens, ask anyone who knows me. I looked at him but couldn't place him at all, and told him I didn't know we'd met a first time.
   So he explained that, sure, we were in the elevator the day before, just the two of us, about this time, and that I got off on Floor Three. When I left the elevator - on Floor Three - I told him I'd see him next week. But I hope I don't.
   This creeped me out. I didn't remember this guy at all, and he not only remembers me, he remembers what floor out of 21 my office is on. Now I think I understand why chicks get creeped out when some random strange guy remembers things about them. I don't feel like the prettiest girl at the dance at all, I feel like I'm being stalked.
   That's it. Next week I'm going to stop wearing short skirts to work.


COMMUTE: there - 35 minutes      back - 44 minutes.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 78 days

Stop Being Curious

I like to know stuff. Actually, I guess it's better to say that I like to find stuff out. When I was in college I worked in the library - I used to say 'libary' to make my boss angry - and I tried to learn something new every day, even if it was some completely random fact I learned off an out-of-date atlas. Like Zimbabwe used to be Rhosdesia, stuff like that.
   Sometime, though, curiosity can be a bad thing. Ignorance really is bliss.
   I got a thing in the mail for a local dry cleaner, I'm sure everyone gets them for their local dry cleaners too. Twenty dollars off an order of $70 or more, if you're interested and want to ship your clothes to Pasadena for some reason.
   Anyway, I got to wondering what dry cleaners use to clean clothes. So I hit the internet and had a look. Mistake. Big mistake.
   Dry cleaning fluid is tetrachloroethylene, which sounds like something crazy people in the Middle East use for chemical warfare. The best thing you can say for it is that it won't catch fire. Other than that, it's nothing good. It's a carcinogen and a degreaser for auto parts, for God's sake, why would I want my clothes put in that?
   I should have just left well enough alone, but evidently I didn't learn my lesson from a couple of months ago, and I just had to go digging. I swear, if I find one more thing that's bad for me that I assumed was okay, I'm going to go live in a convent.
   Yeah, you heard me.


COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes      back - 50 minutes. Ride share Thursday my ass...
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 79 days

Man's Best Friend

Hey Beans.
   Puddles! What up, dawg?
Very funny.
   I see you got your garbage on.
Someone turned over a can behind a Thai restaurant. Best rolling I've had in a while.
   Very aromatic. I'm gonna have to get real close to smell your butt.
Maybe later, buddy. We've got business.
   You want me to go first?
Please, I have to gnaw on my hind leg for a little while.
   Well, the takeover isn't going as planned. But I guess you knew that.
Mffm... grblllfmm...
   Of course, you always expect setbacks, but this just isn't working out. I think it's because we don't have thumbs.
That's just an excuse and you know it. If we really wanted this, really, really wanted it, we'd find a way to make it work, thumbs or not.
   Easy for you to say, you're eighty pounds of fur and muscle. Some of us weigh less than a Thanksgiving turkey.
All I'm hearing are excuses. 'I can't' instead of 'I will.'
   Okay, big guy, how's your part going?
Well...
   See? It's easy to give orders, not so easy to follow them.
That's not it. I may have been too successful.
   What 'choo talkin' 'bout, Puddles?
This whole financial meltdown, it's gotten out of hand. Way beyond what we intended.
   Don't tell me they actually went for it.
All of it. Everything. Loaning money to people who clearly couldn't pay it back, lax oversight, rampant greed. Even credit default swaps, for Lassie's sake!
   Really? Those were Jughead's ideas, may his spirit chase bees forever. I thought he was stupid for even suggesting them.
They worked. And now my person's out of a job. Snausages are getting few and far between at my house.
    Mine too. I guess we should put the takeover plan on the back burner.
For now. But we can't lose sight of the goal: canine domination.
   A world without Snausages isn't one I want to live in, let alone rule over.
Agreed. I'll pass the word.
    Can I sniff your butt now?


COMMUTE: there - 36 minutes      back - 38 minutes, not too bad
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 80 days

What's The iPad Gonna Do?

In my quest never to have to work for the Man again, I have been thinking through social trends. Back when Apple introduced the iPod - back in 2001, if you can believe it - people knew intellectually that it would change the way people bought music. No one could have predicted that it would destroy an entire industry, and give rise to grass-roots music efforts that finally allowed little-known performers to make a living with their art. If I had known in 2001 what the landscape of American music would look like in 2010, I would have done a few things differently.
   I want to be ahead of the curve this time. So I'm trying to figure out what the iPad is going to change. Because you know it's gonna change something, even if you don't want it to. I gave it some thought, read a few things, and I figure the iPad is going to change:

      games - the screen on an iPad is just big enough to get your game on, and the touch interface is perfect for gaming. Who needs a controller or a keyboard?
      books - the iPad is the Kindle-killer. There, I said it. People might say print is dead (which they've been saying for 20 years), but print is going to have a resurgence with the iPad. Being a writer this is especially near and dear to my heart.
      shopping - there are already iPhone apps that read barcodes and tell you places close by that have that thing for less, the iPad is probably going to do the same thing but better. And because the screen is bigger people will use that function more.
       work - another subject near and dear to my heart. The iPad isn't a clunky laptop, and it's not a minuscule smart phone. It's right in between, and perfect for not being in the office. Which is my aspiration.
      theft - the iPad is just the right size for stealing too. So I'm pretty sure when the broadband-enabled iPad comes out there's going to be a surge in thefts, and then subsequent resales to pawn shops and what have you.


COMMUTE: there - 35 minutes back - 60 minutes, it's raining there were accidents
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 81 days

Where's My Social Revolution?

During my commute to... (( le sigh ))... work today I had a little time to think, seeing as how I was stuck behind a bus AND a fish delivery van going side-by-side down Wilshire Blvd. at about 25 MPH. Bastards...
   Anyway, I thought about all my friends who are still 'between assignments,' and older workers displaced by the sour economy, and the kids fresh out of college hoping to enter the workforce but finding doors shut in their faces. And I got to wondering
   Where is the anger? Where is the social unrest? Where is the agitation and demonstrating and yelling and demanding? What happened to us?
   I know when I was unemployed - as little as a week ago - I didn't have the first thought that I might go out and make my displeasure understood to those in power. Just didn't occur to me. And that bothers me now that I have a job, as temporary as it might be. Why? Why did I just sit back let it happen? And why are 15% of us still standing there like a punch-drunk boxer waiting to get another one on the chin? Why aren't they - we - out there doing something?
   Marx said that religion is the opiate of the masses, but I think the real opiate is the 40+ hour workweek, the 9-to-5 job that slowly becomes 7-to-6. The Romans gave their populace bread and circuses - kept 'em fed and entertained so that they wouldn't realize that social change was just one good riot away.
   Same thing here, for the past 20 years or more. Pay your people well enough that they'll put up with the garbage job you're having them do, which also keeps them tired enough that they won't look for work somewhere else, and have no energy to do other things. Like, say, keep informed about political matters, or vote, or go to local government meetings. Seems like corporate jobs that let people make a living are keeping them from living their lives properly.
   You might say I'm just cranky and reading too much into it, but during the Great Depression unemployment was above 10% for years and the government was worried about civil unrest. That's why FDR put all those people to work. We've been over 10% unemployment for quite a while during this depression, and if I were the government, I'd be concerned.
   Just saying...

COMMUTE: there - 35 minutes back - 40 minutes to fencing lesson
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 82 days

Better Than I Remember

A while back I wrote about something that was not nearly as good as I remember. Visits to things from your past are sometimes dangerous journeys onto wind-tossed shoals of memory, where one wrong move can drive your fond recollections onto the sharp rocks of reality. But not everything you remember fondly from your past is doomed to turn out poorly in the present. Today, for example, I was pleasantly surprised.
   I'd just finished fencing and was driving home in the hot rod when some Jethro Tull came on the radio. Even though Tull was a regular part of my youth, it's been quite a while since I've listened to any of my old favorites. Sure, the songs are on my iTunes list, but the last time I was really into Tull I had to listen on a cassette tape.* And that's quite a while ago.
   Gotta say, I remember why I liked them all those years ago. I was jamming out on the highway to 'Aqualung,' which is about a 6 minute song, so I got pretty far down the 134 with Tull blaring, almost like when I used to pop the cassette into the player in my '72 Chevelle on my way to pick up my friends for a night of mischief. Good times, good times.

So not everything I liked when I was a kid is crap. It's a good thing I thought parachute pants were stupid back in the day, or I might have more to regret than Heavy Metal the Movie.


* Kids, cassette tapes replaced 8-track cartridges in the national zeitgeist and were co-existent with vinyl LPs, which themselves were like big, fragile, black CDs. CDs are what your older brothers and sisters used to buy back before iTunes.
** also, Jethro Tull was a real person a few centuries ago. Sounds like a Dickens character.

An Argument Like Music

So I'm driving to work today... yeah, sounds weird to me too...and I'd just made it through Koreatown with my windows down because it was a nice, cool morning. I heard what I thought was someone's car stereo, blaring some terrible rap.
   But I was oh so wrong.
   A white car pulled alongside me - between Crenshaw and Rossmore if you're familiar with the area - which was the source of the music. Except it wasn't music, it was an EXTREMELY angry woman berating the man in the passenger seat.
   As traffic moved along it was like listening to the ocean waves, I would pull ahead and the argument would fade. We'd reach a stop light (lots of those) and the argument would grow louder as the car pulled alongside me. The light would change and the argument would lull into the background again. Over and over and over.
   I expected at some point the woman would stop yelling, or at least take a breath, but she just kept going. I tried to hear the actual words she was saying, but the only thing I could tell was the man - husband, boyfriend, son, brother? I don't know - had been late for something. Perhaps the first in his long line of infractions that earned him the most serious tongue-lashing I've witnessed in a long time.
   At least it kept my morning commute entertaining. I'm still pissed off that I have a commute, but that's nothing I can fix for now.

-- Oh, and I saw a guy smoking a pipe today too. That's odd because the last person I knew who smoked a pipe was my father and he quit smoking back when I was a freshman in college. You just don't see that any more. And, yes, the guy smoking the pipe was old.


COMMUTE: there - 35 minutes back - 40 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 85 days

I Need A Catchphrase

Ah... the good old days of 70's TV... when everyone had a catchphrase. Everyone worth knowing, that is. That's how you knew they were a regular cast member. I'm feeling a little lost now, back in the corporate grind, and I need to know that I'm a regular cast member in my own life, and not just a bit player. Or, God forbid, an under-5 featured extra. I figure that there have been some catchphrases so long out of use that one of them has to fit my purposes.

   So here's a short list:
Dyn-o-mite!!
And that's the name of that tune...
What 'choo talkin' 'bout, Willis? ( a personal favorite because of all the apostrophes)
Aaaayyy!
Consume mass quantities.
Gotta put the hammer down.
Kiss my grits!
Hey hey hey! (this was Rerun, not Dwayne)
Who loves ya, baby?
You wouldn't like me when I'm angry...
I love it when a plan comes together.
I'm coming to meet you, Elizabeth!


COMMUTE: there - 35 minutes back - 50 minutes (I took a different way)
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 86 days

More From The World Of Work

First, let me say that the work itself is not bad, it's something I can do and it's something I'm good at. And the people seem nice too, at least after 3 days on the job. But the nice might be part of the problem.
   I'm gonna get fat. Okay, fatter, but you know what I mean. The HR lady has candy. Lots of candy. The developers have snacks. And today someone who works remotely was in the office and they bought pies. I'm going to have to develop much, much, much stronger willpower. I don't want to be worthless and weak. But for God's sake, it was free pie...
   And I'm tired now. Not bone tired, not up-for-three-days tired, but more tired than I have been in quite a while. It's getting me down.


COMMUTE: there - 35 minutes back - 40 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 87 days

Held Hostage

I was telling a friend of mine just last night that even though I've re-entered the workforce - go me! - it's only grudgingly. Given all the bad that's happening in the world I've got it pretty good, no one's shooting at me or trying to chop my hands off for voting or anything like that. I really have nothing to complain about.
   But I'm gonna.
   The office is about 16 miles from my house. Which, in Texas terms, would mean about a 15 to 20 minute commute. But not in LA. The office is on the Miracle Mile, which means it's not easy to get there from anywhere else in the LA area. It takes me 35 minutes at the very least, 50 minutes on a bad day. Insane in the membrane. I've been away from any sort of commute for a year, and I honestly don't see how I once made a 50 minute commute regularly.
   Being in the office for eight to nine hours a day - absent the commute - feels like I'm being held hostage. Or being punished. Seriously. I feel like a fifth-grader staring out the window on a fabulous Spring day.
   I had several meeting today, with various members of the team, sales, marketing, technology, several hours all together. While the meetings did help with the work I need to do, I don't miss meetings. At. All. To say that I'd rather have someone hit me in the back of the head with a nail-studded two-by-four than attend another meeting is understating things. I remember there were people at my previous jobs who did nothing but attend meetings, all day, every day. I just don't see how they did it.
   And then I have to get back in the swing of bringing my lunch to work, which means I have to buy stuff for sandwiches, get chips and carrot sticks, all that kind of thing. And preparing all that stuff takes even more time out of my day...
   Crap.
   Now I'm starting to sound like a 'friend' of mine who has never held a real job in his entire life, and thinks the world owes him a living just by virtue of him being alive. I guess it's time to get involved in a multi-level marketing scheme and get evicted from a home I could never afford in the first place.

CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 88 days

First Day Of Work

Oy... I'm not ready. I don't count myself a particularly lazy man, but if I never had to go back into an office again it would be great.

Gotta gear back up, gotta get back in the groove. Gotta get my LA highway game face on.

I'm sure there are going to be some good stories. I'll keep you posted.

Is This The End Of Our Intrepid Hero?

Sad news, everyone, I will be gainfully employed come Monday.

Yeah... I know... crap.

So, what does this mean for TermedWithPay? Fewer posts, obviously, because with fewer hours in the day to accomplish everyday tasks something's gotta give. But I refuse to abandon the effort. It's a good outlet for me, and it keeps my creative juices flowing.

I'm not going away, just posting less frequently. I apologize.

Wouldn't That Hurt?

I was at the gym today, gettin' my sweat on, and I saw a guy running on the treadmill. Nothing out of the ordinary, that's what treadmills are for. There was something wrong, though, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. He was running... funny. And I do mean ha-ha funny. Comical, in a you-have-to-be-embarrassed-for-him sort of way. So I looked at the other guys beside him, and it hit me. The first guy was running on his toes.
   Normally you go heel-toe, heel-toe when you run. Like when you walk. But this guy had the speed cranked waaaaay up and he was prancing along on his toes like he was an antelope or something, and bobbing up and down like a piston. It was the oddest thing I've seen in that gym in a while.*
   The only thing I could think was 'man, that's gotta hurt...'
   Fast forward to thirty minutes later. I've finished with the cardio portion of my workout and I've moved on to strength and flexibility And who do I see but Prancer from the treadmill. And what was he doing? Groaning and moaning as he tried to stretch out his calves. You'd have thought he was having surgery with no anesthesia the way he was carrying on, wincing in pain and gritting his teeth.
   For a moment I thought I should go over and explain to him what I saw him doing, but then I thought better of it. Not really my business in the first place, and he was making a big show of stretching so he liked the attention that running like a douchebag brought him. And who am I to get in the way of someone else's desperate cry for attention?
   It does make me a little self-conscious, though. Am performing any exercises comically wrong? Am I in a glass house throwing stones here?
   Nah...


* aside from Mr. Grunty Seven-Rep and his torn wardrobe, but I'm used to that annoying bastard now

Entropy Gnomes

I guess the little guy thought I was asleep. I was on the couch, after all, and it was after midnight, and the TV was still on. And my eyes were closed.
   I heard something rattling around behind the coffee table, too big for a spider, too small for a burglar. I wondered how a stray cat had gotten into my apartment, but I kept my eyes closed and waited for it to get closer. It was doing something with the papers on the coffee table, which is also where I keep bills I need to pay. I heard it come around the corner and that's when I pounced.
   I expected to get a handful of fur, but instead I got a foot-and-a-half tall wriggling little man, with a white beard, red cone-shaped cap, and a fat little tummy. He kicked his little feet and battered me with his little fists, uttering a string of what I can only assume must have been colorful curses in his native language. I just held on tighter.
   "Okay... jeez... you got me," the little man squeaked in English. "Ease up, you're gonna squeeze my dinner out of me."
   "What are you?" I asked, as the Sham-Wow infomercial played on the TV.
   "Carl," he said, offering me his tiny hand.
   "Not who," I replied. "What. What are you?
   He seemed disappointed. "I'm an entropy gnome."
   I raised an eyebrow at him and held just a bit tighter.
   "What? You think the Second Law of Thermodynamics just happens on its own?" Carl said. "The Universe needs help bringing disorder to order. That's where we Entropy Gnomes come in."
   "You sure you're not just a tiny burglar?" I replied.
   Carl struggled, punching me futilely with his little bitty fists. Finally he gave up and sagged in my grasp.
   "You ever get a notice that you didn't pay a bill, but you know for sure you did?" I nodded. "Well, that was us. You ever wonder why you only have seven forks when they come in sets of eight? Why you need to change your oil? Why a hinge starts squeaking for no reason? Where all the dust behind the TV comes from? All us."
   "Oh, I get it," I said, as realization dawned on me. "Like when I'm missing a sock out of the dryer."
   Carl shook his head, frowning. "No, those are Sock Gnomes. Creepy little fetishists. Look, I'm on a pretty tight schedule here, so if you don't mind..."
   "But I have so many questions," I said. "Like, what if you guys just, I don't know, passed me by for a while?"
   "Well, the food in your fridge wouldn't go bad," Carl said, raising a hand to his chin as he thought. "That's an entropic process. Your coffee wouldn't get cold, your soda wouldn't get warm. Your jeans wouldn't fade. Your shoelaces would always stay tied. You'd never grow old."
   I sat back against the couch, still clutching Carl tightly.
   "I probably shouldn't have said that last one, huh?" Carl continued, with a nervous laugh. "Look, we're a union shop, so even if you... get rid of me, there's gonna be another Entropy Gnome here tomorrow with the same checklist. Maybe even my supervisor, and he's a real sticker for regulations, if you know what I mean."
   "What about Entropy Gnomes themselves?" I asked.
   Carl shifted uneasily. "What do you mean?"
   "Well, if everything in the Universe is trending towards disorder," I said. "Doesn't that mean Entropy Gnomes are subject to the same thing? Shouldn't you guys eventually just fade aw..."
   Carl glared up at me, furious, as his tiny body turned ephemeral and insubstantial. "You son of a bitch."
   In a moment Carl was gone, and I had nothing to prove that he had ever been there in the first place. I went to bed, resolved never to fall asleep on the couch again.

How Time Does Fly

It's been a year since I started this blog. Amazing, I didn't know if I could keep it going, or if there was even a year's worth of junk in my head to commit to paper. Or... computer monitor. Keyboard? Whatever, you know what I mean.
   So it's TermedWithPay's birthday. I think I'm going to go have a slice of cake to celebrate. I know what you're thinking, how can I celebrate a year's worth of unemployment? It's easy, with a slice of cake everything's a celebration. And not being a wage slave for ten to twelve hours a day has opened my eyes and made me realize there's more out there. It doesn't have to be like it was, you can be happy and make a living without selling your soul to a piece of paper called a corporation.
   It's also made me realize that not everyone is a rat bastard piece of corporate crap. There are good, decent, hard-working people out there who are genuinely concerned about doing the right thing. None of them are in charge of major corporations, but, still, they exist.
   Will there be two years' worth of TermedWithPay? I don't know. Stay tuned, we'll see how it turns out together.

Doctors Don't Know

So I was thinking about stuff the other day, as I usually do, when a puzzle presented itself. I pulled out a few hairs on my leg - because that's what I do when I'm thinking - and I wondered how long it would take those hairs to grow back. Then I thought the whole thing through a little more and a question arose.
   When someone shaves their legs, how does the hair know it's been shaved so that it can grow again?
   If you're wondering how the hair knows when to stop growing you could always cop out and say 'genetics' and you'd probably be right. The hair on your legs is different from the hair on your head, and it only grows so long. But that still doesn't answer the first question, how does the hair know it's been shaved in the first place?
   If you think about pulling the hair out that's different, there's nothing where there used to be something, so that's simple enough for the follicle to figure out. But if you just cut it off at the skin, how does the follicle realize the hair isn't as long as your genes say it should be? Something's gotta tell it, right? And then something has to tell it to start growing again.
   Ask your doctor that one, I'll bet he doesn't know. You could also ask him why the human body still has an appendix, when keeping a vestigial organ that can get inflamed and burst and kill us seems like a negative evolutionary adaptation. Or ask him how Himalayan monks can raise their body temperature voluntarily to dry out soaking wet sheets that they've been wrapped in.
   It's like a big game of Jeopardy without Alex Trebek, but nobody gets to know the answers.

Super-Dog

I was dog-sitting this afternoon, about 40 miles North of Pasadena, when I became witness to an incredible phenomenon. It's common enough, but this is the first time I've seen it in person.
   I was watching TV, with the dogs laying on the floor in the living room, when one of them grumbled, then she sat up and barked loudly. This dog almost never barks, at least not when I've been dog-sitting. She whined to get out, and when she was in the back yard she barked some more and then looked in every direction, like there was something to see that she was missing.
   My first thought was 'earthquake' but I didn't feel anything, and nothing in the house was moving or swaying.
   Fast forward to a few hours later, when I made it back to my place. I turned on the news, and I found out there had been a huge earthquake in Mexico, 7.2 (this is really big). Guess when that earthquake rumbled? 3:40 PM, right when the doggies started barking.
   Amazing. Incredible. The coolest thing I've seen in a long time, and I didn't even know what was going on at the time. The dogs heard/felt/sensed the earthquake hundreds of miles away, and knew enough to realize that it was something they needed to tell me about. Just... astonishing. Like you needed another reason to love dogs.

Can You TP A Space Station?

In a few days there will be four women up in space. That's the largest number of women in orbit ever, and all of them are headed for the space station.
   So which one of them is the mean girl? And which one is the target? You know it's gonna happen, whenever there are three women in the same room, two of them ostracize the third, and it gets even worse the more ladies there are. This is bound to hold true up in orbit, especially in the tight confines of a space shuttle or space station. And don't tell me I'm being sexist or perpetuating sterotypes, it's true and you know it. One of the four women astronauts is going to cry before it's all over, and wonder why the other three don't like her.
   Maybe NASA will pipe down footage of the zero-g pillow fight they're going to have. I mean, seriously, isn't being on the space station like one freaky slumber party? They can get in their sleeping bags, pop popcorn and make cookies, play with a Ouija board, do each other's hair and talk about the boys back in Mission Control.
   Okay, see? That was sexist, that last paragraph. I shouldn't have written that, I know. I feel ashamed. And ready for the YouTube footage of the pillow fight.

Ah, Look At All The Lonely Taco Trucks

So I was down on Wilshire today - for a job interview, yikes!! - and coming back home I took 6th Street, right around lunch time.
   I have never seen so many taco trucks in one place. I know Los Angeles is the mecca for taco trucks, they're everywhere, but this was above and beyond. At 6th and Alvarado I counted nine taco trucks parked around the intersection, vending their food. Nine! That's crazy.
   Obviously the business is there, or the taco trucks wouldn't be parked where they are. But there are also regular restaurants right there too. Probably with owners shaking their fists at the taco trucks.
   Seems to me like a fad, like the automats from sixty years ago, or perhaps something born out of desperation, a quick, easy business started by people with no other option for a job. But I can't imagine that there is enough sidewalk business to keep every taco truck working.
   So what happens when the economy rebounds? Do the taco trucks go away, or do they go upscale? And if the taco trucks go out of business, what happens to the truck itself? Will there be a wave of foreclosures on subprime taco trucks? Do they have subprime taco trucks?
   Things like this keep me up at night.