I woke up from a dream last night and I wrote it down, which I used to do a lot but got out of the habit of. This one was odd enough that I think I need some help. I don't know if the imagery means anything or if it means nothing.
I wrote this in the dark, half-asleep, so there is a section where I couldn't decipher my handwriting. Make up your own words to go in there, like a Mad Lib.
I was in Monument Valley, where Krazy Kat was set, and where John Ford did a lot of his westerns, with all the sandstone bluffs and wind-carved rock formations. Everything was red and ochre, like the sun was setting. I sat alone by a campfire, roasting marshmallows.
Pretty tame so far. Could be right out of a Travel Channel show. Then the kangaroo showed up. He was a normal kangaroo except for the boxing gloves and monocle. Well, he talked too. For some reason he wanted my marshmallow and I wouldn't give it to him or share the rest of the bag. So he threatened me and said he'd be back with friends.
So I packed up what little I had and got into my Volkswagen Microbus and made my escape. The bus was littered with fast food wrappers, piled feet deep from front to back, which whipped out the windows as I fled the kangaroo.
Then I was in a city, for some reason I thought it was Philadelphia even though I've never been to Philadelphia. I parked the Microbus in front of a ballet studio and ran inside, convinced the kangaroo was in hot pursuit.
I gave a little kid my marshmallow on a stick, but then realized the kangaroo would probably hurt him so I took it back. Which made the little kid cry. His mother came out of ballet class and started yelling at me. So I ran from her.
Then it gets weird. Instead of Philadephia I was in Rome, where I have been before, except this was future-Rome, with moving sidewalks and Jetsons cars. I ran through St. Peter's Square where people were playing soccer. I interrupted the game and deflated the soccer ball somehow, which made them all run after me.
An old man hid me from the mob, which included the ballet mom and the kangaroo. He told me he was Leonardo and that he was immortal (this I probably got from Star Trek) and needed my help to...
[this is the part I can't read, I think it says 'steal' scribble scribble scribble, although 'steal' could be 'strike' or 'stomp' or something. All I know is the word starts with an 's']
He said his secret lab was in Monument Valley, and I told him I was just there. He asked if I was the one who left the campfire going and burned everything down.
Then I woke up.
Not the most surreal dream I've ever had, but I didn't much care for the threatening kangaroo for some reason. And, being an Eagle Scout the part where I left the campfire going doesn't please me either. The most disturbing part, though, was the Volkswagen Microbus; I'm no hippy, dammit, I would never drive one of those, and I don't eat in my cars, let alone leave fast food wrappers everywhere like a big fat slob.
What does it all mean? I need some help here.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
I Want My Rat Pack
A friend of mine once gave me a picture, a charcoal drawing from a photo of Frank Sinatra and his cronies around a pool table. Evidently the artist stuck Joey Bishop in there, even though he's not in the photo. It goes with another picture I got in Vegas of the crew outside the Sands marquee with their names plastered on it.
Frank, Dean, Sammy, Peter, Joey. The Rat Pack. Everything that was wrong and right with early 1960's America wrapped up in five guys who put on shows.
I want my own Rat Pack. I'd be Frank - of course - the Chairman of the Board. Frank was mobbed-up (allegedly), but the Mafia now is not what it was fifty years ago. I'd need something else, some other corrupt, pervasive influence to taint every accomplishment I'll ever have. Fox News. That's it. I'll get in tight with those guys, that's a stain that'll never come out.
Then I need my trusty, arguably-more-talented sidekick like Deano. Needs to be a bit of a drunk, and something of a womanizer. Charlie Sheen. There you are. He's my Deano.
I need a black guy too, like Sammy. There aren't nearly the barriers to black performers there were fifty years ago - no one turns a firehose on black folks having lunch - but I'd need someone equally willing to put himself out there for the betterment of us all. There can be only one. Flavor Flav.*
And then I need my politically-connected guy, the man with his finger on the pulse of the ruling class, a la Peter Lawford. With just a moment of thought I came up with the perfect person. George Clooney.
Now I need my Joey Bishop. My second banana. The guy who's going to laugh at all my jokes, even if they're not funny. Especially if they're not funny. Who else could I pick but Andy Richter?
And there you have it. The 21st Century Rat Pack: Me, Charlie Sheen, Flavor Flav, George Clooney, and Andy Richter. When I'm not so busy I'll photoshop a group portrait and post it.
Somebody get these guys on the phone, Vegas is waiting.
* did you know the Flavor went to cooking school? Me neither. It's weird to think of him with a legit job like a chef. Kind of illusion-shattering.
Frank, Dean, Sammy, Peter, Joey. The Rat Pack. Everything that was wrong and right with early 1960's America wrapped up in five guys who put on shows.
I want my own Rat Pack. I'd be Frank - of course - the Chairman of the Board. Frank was mobbed-up (allegedly), but the Mafia now is not what it was fifty years ago. I'd need something else, some other corrupt, pervasive influence to taint every accomplishment I'll ever have. Fox News. That's it. I'll get in tight with those guys, that's a stain that'll never come out.
Then I need my trusty, arguably-more-talented sidekick like Deano. Needs to be a bit of a drunk, and something of a womanizer. Charlie Sheen. There you are. He's my Deano.
I need a black guy too, like Sammy. There aren't nearly the barriers to black performers there were fifty years ago - no one turns a firehose on black folks having lunch - but I'd need someone equally willing to put himself out there for the betterment of us all. There can be only one. Flavor Flav.*
And then I need my politically-connected guy, the man with his finger on the pulse of the ruling class, a la Peter Lawford. With just a moment of thought I came up with the perfect person. George Clooney.
Now I need my Joey Bishop. My second banana. The guy who's going to laugh at all my jokes, even if they're not funny. Especially if they're not funny. Who else could I pick but Andy Richter?
And there you have it. The 21st Century Rat Pack: Me, Charlie Sheen, Flavor Flav, George Clooney, and Andy Richter. When I'm not so busy I'll photoshop a group portrait and post it.
Somebody get these guys on the phone, Vegas is waiting.
* did you know the Flavor went to cooking school? Me neither. It's weird to think of him with a legit job like a chef. Kind of illusion-shattering.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Saturday Circus
What is it about Saturday morning that makes people dress like circus clowns? Do they miss cartoons so much that they feel the need to make believe they're superheroes in spandex tights?
I went to the farmer's market this morning to get me some fresh vegetables and to throw it in the face of all the people in the country still digging out from several feet of snowfall. It's January in SoCal, losers, absolutely no snow and there's even a harvest. So suck it, New York!
Anyway... I want to make it clear that I'm no fashion plate. No shower, no shave, and as a matter of fact I didn't even brush my teeth (sorry about that one). I rolled out of bed, put on a t-shirt, jeans, and shoes and drove to the farmer's market. But you would have thought I was Georgio Armani in comparison to some of the people I saw.
I give new parents a pass. If I see someone pushing a stroller with an infant, they can wear whatever the hell they want, they've probably had very little sleep. But if you're a man in your fifties, plaid shorts, sandals, a parka and a bandana just make you look like you're practicing to be homeless.
Or the lady with curlers in her hair (really, out in public) wearing the pink track suit with pink slippers. She probably thought no one would look at her feet. She didn't get caught out on her sidewalk while she was getting the morning paper, nope, she was in the mix shopping for broccoli with everybody else.
And then there was the couple. You know, THEM. The couple who dress alike, not because the wife insists - which does happen - but because they share a wardrobe. Why two people would still own those awful, awful multi-colored weightlifting pants is beyond me, and why they would wear them in public is a mystery I don't think anyone will be able to solve. Add the ratty not-clever t-shirts and Crocs and it looked to me like they literally rolled out of bed and got in the car with no steps in between. Maybe they slept in the car, I don't know.
Whatever happened to trying to at least look presentable when you go somewhere? All the vendors at the farmer's market made the effort to look decent, why can't the rest of you people?
I went to the farmer's market this morning to get me some fresh vegetables and to throw it in the face of all the people in the country still digging out from several feet of snowfall. It's January in SoCal, losers, absolutely no snow and there's even a harvest. So suck it, New York!
Anyway... I want to make it clear that I'm no fashion plate. No shower, no shave, and as a matter of fact I didn't even brush my teeth (sorry about that one). I rolled out of bed, put on a t-shirt, jeans, and shoes and drove to the farmer's market. But you would have thought I was Georgio Armani in comparison to some of the people I saw.
I give new parents a pass. If I see someone pushing a stroller with an infant, they can wear whatever the hell they want, they've probably had very little sleep. But if you're a man in your fifties, plaid shorts, sandals, a parka and a bandana just make you look like you're practicing to be homeless.
Or the lady with curlers in her hair (really, out in public) wearing the pink track suit with pink slippers. She probably thought no one would look at her feet. She didn't get caught out on her sidewalk while she was getting the morning paper, nope, she was in the mix shopping for broccoli with everybody else.
And then there was the couple. You know, THEM. The couple who dress alike, not because the wife insists - which does happen - but because they share a wardrobe. Why two people would still own those awful, awful multi-colored weightlifting pants is beyond me, and why they would wear them in public is a mystery I don't think anyone will be able to solve. Add the ratty not-clever t-shirts and Crocs and it looked to me like they literally rolled out of bed and got in the car with no steps in between. Maybe they slept in the car, I don't know.
Whatever happened to trying to at least look presentable when you go somewhere? All the vendors at the farmer's market made the effort to look decent, why can't the rest of you people?
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Go Ahead And Collect
The State of California is broke.
This is not really news to anyone, unless you're like most of the rest of the country and couldn't give a rat's ass about California, its fruits and nuts, and its problems. And God bless you if you don't care, I wish I couldn't.
But I live here - for now - and the massive budget shortfall has sparked some drastic measures to try to make up that revenue. I'm talking specifically about the terrifically monstrous increases in traffic fines effective this year.
For instance, if you got caught talking on a cell phone last year, the fine was $25. Arguably not a deterrent and almost laughable. This year, however, the fine is.... wait for it... $148. That is a TIMES SIX increase in the penalty. In-freaking-sane. Failure to notify the DMV of an address change? $214. Park in a handicapped spot and you're not actually handicapped? $1000. Run a red light? $436. Which is also in-freaking-sane because running a red light is the only way to make a left in most of LA.
Aside from pure shock value, raising the traffic fines this much has to be the stupidest thing I've ever seen California do. And I've lived here nine years (sheesh).
Let me 'splain...
I wasn't there, but I know how this came about. Some nimrod bureaucrat was told to find revenue that is not subject to legislative oversight or voter approval. They came up with traffic fines. Some douchebag MBA in Sacramento then looked at the number of, say, cell phone citations and came up with a number. We'll call it 10,000. They said to themselves 'self, if there are 10,000 cell phone violations at $25 each, that's $250,000 to the state. Hmm... what if we raised the fine to, I don't know, $148? Wow! We'd get almost $1.5 million! Hokey smokes! Let's do that!"
And so they raised the rates, assuming that the number of violations would at least remain constant. It won't, but let's give them that one, let's assume that 10,000 citations last year will mean 10,000 citations this year. That doesn't mean they're actually going to get $1.5 million dollars, though.
This flawed bureaucratic thinking ignores one fundamental part of this equation. Nobody has that kind of money.* The state can write all the citations it wants, but with the fines raised this much people just aren't going to pay. Really. It happened with overpriced mortgages and it's going to happen with this.
Think about it. If you make $50,000 a year gross, that means you'll net about $40,000 after taxes, at least in California, or about $3300 a month. You're in a hurry to get into Wal-Mart (for some reason) and you park in the handicapped spot. You come out to find a ticket for ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS on your windshield, or 2.5% of your ANNUAL take-home pay.
Would you pay it? Of course not. Nobody else will either.
So then what? The state is counting on that $1.5 million from cell phone citations to cover their other gross incompetence in other areas. But they're going to collect an even lower percentage of citations this year than ever before. Which means they'll have to spend money to hire people to go after the money they're owed. Which they're not going to get. And California goes deeper into the crapper, waiting for home prices to come back, which is also not going to happen.
You couldn't mismanage this worse if you'd planned it out ahead of time.
* Unless you're an investment banker, and if you are your time against the wall is coming, trust me. I'm serious.
This is not really news to anyone, unless you're like most of the rest of the country and couldn't give a rat's ass about California, its fruits and nuts, and its problems. And God bless you if you don't care, I wish I couldn't.
But I live here - for now - and the massive budget shortfall has sparked some drastic measures to try to make up that revenue. I'm talking specifically about the terrifically monstrous increases in traffic fines effective this year.
For instance, if you got caught talking on a cell phone last year, the fine was $25. Arguably not a deterrent and almost laughable. This year, however, the fine is.... wait for it... $148. That is a TIMES SIX increase in the penalty. In-freaking-sane. Failure to notify the DMV of an address change? $214. Park in a handicapped spot and you're not actually handicapped? $1000. Run a red light? $436. Which is also in-freaking-sane because running a red light is the only way to make a left in most of LA.
Aside from pure shock value, raising the traffic fines this much has to be the stupidest thing I've ever seen California do. And I've lived here nine years (sheesh).
Let me 'splain...
I wasn't there, but I know how this came about. Some nimrod bureaucrat was told to find revenue that is not subject to legislative oversight or voter approval. They came up with traffic fines. Some douchebag MBA in Sacramento then looked at the number of, say, cell phone citations and came up with a number. We'll call it 10,000. They said to themselves 'self, if there are 10,000 cell phone violations at $25 each, that's $250,000 to the state. Hmm... what if we raised the fine to, I don't know, $148? Wow! We'd get almost $1.5 million! Hokey smokes! Let's do that!"
And so they raised the rates, assuming that the number of violations would at least remain constant. It won't, but let's give them that one, let's assume that 10,000 citations last year will mean 10,000 citations this year. That doesn't mean they're actually going to get $1.5 million dollars, though.
This flawed bureaucratic thinking ignores one fundamental part of this equation. Nobody has that kind of money.* The state can write all the citations it wants, but with the fines raised this much people just aren't going to pay. Really. It happened with overpriced mortgages and it's going to happen with this.
Think about it. If you make $50,000 a year gross, that means you'll net about $40,000 after taxes, at least in California, or about $3300 a month. You're in a hurry to get into Wal-Mart (for some reason) and you park in the handicapped spot. You come out to find a ticket for ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS on your windshield, or 2.5% of your ANNUAL take-home pay.
Would you pay it? Of course not. Nobody else will either.
So then what? The state is counting on that $1.5 million from cell phone citations to cover their other gross incompetence in other areas. But they're going to collect an even lower percentage of citations this year than ever before. Which means they'll have to spend money to hire people to go after the money they're owed. Which they're not going to get. And California goes deeper into the crapper, waiting for home prices to come back, which is also not going to happen.
You couldn't mismanage this worse if you'd planned it out ahead of time.
* Unless you're an investment banker, and if you are your time against the wall is coming, trust me. I'm serious.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Simple Recipes
I was grocery shopping today - yes, AGAIN, I only buy two or three day's worth of food at a time. Because I'm lazy and I like getting out of the house, that's why.
Anyhoo... I got thinking about what I ate as a kid. And I don't mean Frankenberry cereal or my mother's meatloaf, I mean stuff I made for myself. Kid food, made by a kid for a kid. The kind of thing you were allowed to make for yourself as long as you didn't turn on the oven.
Here are a few of my faves
Pickle in American cheese
Just like it sounds. Take a slice of American cheese, the real cheese, not the travesty made of vegetable oil, and a sweet gherkin. Roll the gherkin in the cheese and eat. Mmmm-mmmm good.
Liverwurst and Ritz crackers
Again, just like it sounds. Get some liverwurst - don't ask too many questions about it - and some Ritz crackers. Spread the liverwurst on the crackers and consume while watching Gilligan's Island. Don't burp.
Big Red and Big Hunk
This one used to keep me wired all day when I was on my three-speed. Gather soda bottles from the side of the road, you're going to turn them in for the pennies you get. Go to your local Mr. M's store, redeem the bottles, then buy an ice cold Big Red and a Big Hunk. Grab your ass and hold on tight, you'll be buzzing like a hummingbird for hours.
Frozen Cool Whip
Your mother keeps Cool Whip in the freezer because she thinks that will stop you from eating it. All it does is make the thievery more delicious. Go into the freezer. Move the peas and broccoli out of the way. Take out the tub of Cool Whip. Break off a piece. Let it return to semi-solidity in your mouth. Repeat.
Fries from Burger Chef and Jeff
Find a Burger Chef and Jeff restaurant. Also, have a friend whose name is Jeff. Stop off at the restaurant on your way home from middle school on a particularly cold and blustery day. Get the biggest order of french fries they have. Empty the fries into the bag. Have your friend Jeff pour even more salt on them. Consume the fries from the bag on your way home.
Ignore the fact that decades later that restaurant will become a Walgreen's.
Gringo Nachos
Get yourself some plain Doritos. I know, good luck with that, but they are still out there. Get some American cheese, if you haven't eaten it all with sweet pickles. Tear the slices of American cheese so they fit on the Doritos. Put a drop or two of tabasco onto the American cheese. Put the whole mess in the microwave just long enough for the American cheese to loosen up - it's not going to melt. Consume with a big glass of instant iced tea.
Mashed Potato Sandwich
Best after Thanksgiving or Christmas or some other occasion when you have leftover mashed potatoes. Get some leftover mashed potatoes from the refrigerator. Get some white bread, the kind that you can ball up and use as fish bait. Get some Miracle Whip, because your mother refuses to buy mayonnaise. Spread both slices of white bread with Miracle Whip, then smear on some mashed potatoes. Devour the sandwich but forget to put away the bread, Miracle Whip, and mashed potatoes.
Mmmm. Kid food. Makes me want to go out back and play with my GI Joes. The real kind, the foot-tall kind, who made 'special visits' to my sister's Barbies when he finished a mission. Ken couldn't do a thing about it...
Anyhoo... I got thinking about what I ate as a kid. And I don't mean Frankenberry cereal or my mother's meatloaf, I mean stuff I made for myself. Kid food, made by a kid for a kid. The kind of thing you were allowed to make for yourself as long as you didn't turn on the oven.
Here are a few of my faves
Pickle in American cheese
Just like it sounds. Take a slice of American cheese, the real cheese, not the travesty made of vegetable oil, and a sweet gherkin. Roll the gherkin in the cheese and eat. Mmmm-mmmm good.
Liverwurst and Ritz crackers
Again, just like it sounds. Get some liverwurst - don't ask too many questions about it - and some Ritz crackers. Spread the liverwurst on the crackers and consume while watching Gilligan's Island. Don't burp.
Big Red and Big Hunk
This one used to keep me wired all day when I was on my three-speed. Gather soda bottles from the side of the road, you're going to turn them in for the pennies you get. Go to your local Mr. M's store, redeem the bottles, then buy an ice cold Big Red and a Big Hunk. Grab your ass and hold on tight, you'll be buzzing like a hummingbird for hours.
Frozen Cool Whip
Your mother keeps Cool Whip in the freezer because she thinks that will stop you from eating it. All it does is make the thievery more delicious. Go into the freezer. Move the peas and broccoli out of the way. Take out the tub of Cool Whip. Break off a piece. Let it return to semi-solidity in your mouth. Repeat.
Fries from Burger Chef and Jeff
Find a Burger Chef and Jeff restaurant. Also, have a friend whose name is Jeff. Stop off at the restaurant on your way home from middle school on a particularly cold and blustery day. Get the biggest order of french fries they have. Empty the fries into the bag. Have your friend Jeff pour even more salt on them. Consume the fries from the bag on your way home.
Ignore the fact that decades later that restaurant will become a Walgreen's.
Gringo Nachos
Get yourself some plain Doritos. I know, good luck with that, but they are still out there. Get some American cheese, if you haven't eaten it all with sweet pickles. Tear the slices of American cheese so they fit on the Doritos. Put a drop or two of tabasco onto the American cheese. Put the whole mess in the microwave just long enough for the American cheese to loosen up - it's not going to melt. Consume with a big glass of instant iced tea.
Mashed Potato Sandwich
Best after Thanksgiving or Christmas or some other occasion when you have leftover mashed potatoes. Get some leftover mashed potatoes from the refrigerator. Get some white bread, the kind that you can ball up and use as fish bait. Get some Miracle Whip, because your mother refuses to buy mayonnaise. Spread both slices of white bread with Miracle Whip, then smear on some mashed potatoes. Devour the sandwich but forget to put away the bread, Miracle Whip, and mashed potatoes.
Mmmm. Kid food. Makes me want to go out back and play with my GI Joes. The real kind, the foot-tall kind, who made 'special visits' to my sister's Barbies when he finished a mission. Ken couldn't do a thing about it...
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Reinvent Yourself
For every platitude there are ten self-help books you can buy that try to tell you how to achieve that goal. Want to be a millionaire in ten days? Book for that. Start your own internet business with no money and make ten thousand dollars your first month? Couple of books for that. Want a better relationship with your kids, spouse, co-workers, or pet? A whole aisle of those.
And then there's reinventing yourself. There are even books on tape for that.
Trouble is, there's no one definition for reinventing yourself. Some people just want to stop smoking, others want to lose weight, others want to drop a dead-end career and begin something new and fulfilling.
I'm looking to reinvent myself too. But I have no idea how to go about it, mostly because I don't know what I mean when I say 'reinvent myself.' I'm in that demographic sweet spot, just comfortable enough that I don't feel the need to become a freedom fighter up in the hills, but not so comfortable that I want to keep on this same path the rest of my life.
Kids are a pleasant interruption in most people's lives. You have a few kids and you know that for the next twenty years you're going to be raising them, teaching them, making them responsible citizens and then seeing them on their way. For a few decades you have a reason to endure the daily grind. But I ain't got kids. Want 'em, don't have 'em. So I'm kind of at loose ends here.
Midlife crisis? Perhaps. But I think it's both less and more than that. I do keep thinking there has to be more I can do to help other people, to make a difference instead of just... consuming like an American does. But maybe I should just shut up and keep my head down until my time is over.
Nah. Can't do that. I think, maybe, the struggle is the thing. The struggle to be heard, the struggle to be successful, the struggle to overcome yourself so you can get what you know you need instead of what everyone else says you should want. You only lose when you surrender.
Besides, if I really wanted to 'reinvent' myself, I'd go with a prehensile tail and laser beam eyes. That would be cool.
And then there's reinventing yourself. There are even books on tape for that.
Trouble is, there's no one definition for reinventing yourself. Some people just want to stop smoking, others want to lose weight, others want to drop a dead-end career and begin something new and fulfilling.
I'm looking to reinvent myself too. But I have no idea how to go about it, mostly because I don't know what I mean when I say 'reinvent myself.' I'm in that demographic sweet spot, just comfortable enough that I don't feel the need to become a freedom fighter up in the hills, but not so comfortable that I want to keep on this same path the rest of my life.
Kids are a pleasant interruption in most people's lives. You have a few kids and you know that for the next twenty years you're going to be raising them, teaching them, making them responsible citizens and then seeing them on their way. For a few decades you have a reason to endure the daily grind. But I ain't got kids. Want 'em, don't have 'em. So I'm kind of at loose ends here.
Midlife crisis? Perhaps. But I think it's both less and more than that. I do keep thinking there has to be more I can do to help other people, to make a difference instead of just... consuming like an American does. But maybe I should just shut up and keep my head down until my time is over.
Nah. Can't do that. I think, maybe, the struggle is the thing. The struggle to be heard, the struggle to be successful, the struggle to overcome yourself so you can get what you know you need instead of what everyone else says you should want. You only lose when you surrender.
Besides, if I really wanted to 'reinvent' myself, I'd go with a prehensile tail and laser beam eyes. That would be cool.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Deadly Day At Dusty Creek
With a flick of his finger Marshall Sherman lifted his hat off his forehead, which let him get a better view of the Goolsby boys, all three of them.
He and they faced off from opposite ends of Main Street, the Marshall down by the Chinese laundry, the Goolsby Boys up past Billings' wainwright shop. All three of the brothers hated the Marshall, but the oldest one, Hiram, hated him most of all. The Marshall had sent him to Dodge City for horse stealing, and Hiram had been sentenced to hang for the crime.
Clearly the authorities in Dodge City had failed that execution.
With Hiram back the boys were out for revenge, and with three-to-one odds it looked like the Marshall was mere heartbeats away from finding a spot in the cemetery with all others who had ever crossed the Goolsbys.
"I'm a merciful man, Marshall," Hiram said, glaring down Main Street with his one good eye. "If you clear out of Dusty Creek, I might not shoot you in the back."
"You know I can't do that, Hiram," the Marshall drawled. "Dusty Creek is where I keep all my stuff."
Agonized groans erupted from behind sacks of grain destined for the mill.
Hiram spat, his fingers twitching on the handles of his revolvers. "Are you having fun at my expense?"
"Wouldn't dream of it," the Marshall replied. "I'd never have a battle of wits with an unarmed man."
The dance hall girls watching from the top floor of The Trail's End Saloon frowned, then backed from the window when Hiram glared at them.
"All right, that sounded like an insult," Hiram said. He looked at his brothers who both nodded slowly. "Though it has a familiar ring."
The Marshall wiped at his forehead, suddenly all too aware of the heat. And the eyes of all the townsfolk. "Well, I never could get anything by you. Which isn't odd considering you... the fact that you've only got the one..."
Hiram bristled and one of his brothers pulled his revolver. The Marshall caught glimpses of several townspeople turning away, going back to their everyday tasks.
"Hold on, wait a minute," the Marshall urged. "I... I meant to say that... uh... I could never get anything by you, except on your right side. Because that's the eye you lost when... oh..."
Shutters closed on the saloon, the blacksmith went back to hammering out horse shoes, and even Wing in the Chinese laundry returned to stirring the vat of unmentionables from the whorehouse.
"Looks like you're dying out here, Marshall," Hiram said. He raised his revolver and fired once, dropping the Marshall where he stood.
"I'd call that a mercy killing," Hiram sneered. Giggles sounded from the top floor of the saloon, and the showgirls looked down admiringly.
Mayor Green plucked the silver star from Marshall Sherman's corpse and approached Hiram Goolsby. "There's a vacancy, and horse thief or not I think you might be the man for the job."
Hiram raised his still-smoking revolver to his lips and blew. "I aim to please."
He and they faced off from opposite ends of Main Street, the Marshall down by the Chinese laundry, the Goolsby Boys up past Billings' wainwright shop. All three of the brothers hated the Marshall, but the oldest one, Hiram, hated him most of all. The Marshall had sent him to Dodge City for horse stealing, and Hiram had been sentenced to hang for the crime.
Clearly the authorities in Dodge City had failed that execution.
With Hiram back the boys were out for revenge, and with three-to-one odds it looked like the Marshall was mere heartbeats away from finding a spot in the cemetery with all others who had ever crossed the Goolsbys.
"I'm a merciful man, Marshall," Hiram said, glaring down Main Street with his one good eye. "If you clear out of Dusty Creek, I might not shoot you in the back."
"You know I can't do that, Hiram," the Marshall drawled. "Dusty Creek is where I keep all my stuff."
Agonized groans erupted from behind sacks of grain destined for the mill.
Hiram spat, his fingers twitching on the handles of his revolvers. "Are you having fun at my expense?"
"Wouldn't dream of it," the Marshall replied. "I'd never have a battle of wits with an unarmed man."
The dance hall girls watching from the top floor of The Trail's End Saloon frowned, then backed from the window when Hiram glared at them.
"All right, that sounded like an insult," Hiram said. He looked at his brothers who both nodded slowly. "Though it has a familiar ring."
The Marshall wiped at his forehead, suddenly all too aware of the heat. And the eyes of all the townsfolk. "Well, I never could get anything by you. Which isn't odd considering you... the fact that you've only got the one..."
Hiram bristled and one of his brothers pulled his revolver. The Marshall caught glimpses of several townspeople turning away, going back to their everyday tasks.
"Hold on, wait a minute," the Marshall urged. "I... I meant to say that... uh... I could never get anything by you, except on your right side. Because that's the eye you lost when... oh..."
Shutters closed on the saloon, the blacksmith went back to hammering out horse shoes, and even Wing in the Chinese laundry returned to stirring the vat of unmentionables from the whorehouse.
"Looks like you're dying out here, Marshall," Hiram said. He raised his revolver and fired once, dropping the Marshall where he stood.
"I'd call that a mercy killing," Hiram sneered. Giggles sounded from the top floor of the saloon, and the showgirls looked down admiringly.
Mayor Green plucked the silver star from Marshall Sherman's corpse and approached Hiram Goolsby. "There's a vacancy, and horse thief or not I think you might be the man for the job."
Hiram raised his still-smoking revolver to his lips and blew. "I aim to please."
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Be Careful What You Say
I was in Trader Joe's today, getting too much junk and not enough food, when I noticed two guys. Japanese guys. They stuck out because they were dressed in that just-off-the-plane J-hip style that you see on the Travel Channel. You've seen it, guys with spiked hair, wearing keffiyehs as scarves, chains attached to black jeans, shirts that on anyone other than a Japanese guy would probably be girl's shirts. Then I saw two more. And two more besides. Suddenly there were a lot of hip young Japanese guys wandering around the trail mix section.
CalTech is less than a mile away, and I was guessing that these guys were visiting the University. They had that kind of 'scientist vibe' only people who are deep academics give off. Nerd is universal, it sticks out no matter where you're from. These guys were wandering around Trader Joe's in a daze, as I was when I went into a Japanese grocery store and couldn't tell the candy from the dishwashing soap.
So I said to myself 'looks like the bus just pulled up.'
I finished my purchases and walked out. And, sure enough, there was the bus. Really. One of those big white tour buses. Parked right in front of the shabu-shabu place, ironically enough.
I kind of felt like a jerk. I mean, these guys are just stopping off for some groceries and I have to assume they're like a tour group at the Vatican or something. More than likely they were on a bus because none of them has a valid US driver's license, and it's easier to keep the group together when you're on a vehicle that can carry everyone at once. What kind of a-hole was I to crack wise about tour groups just because they were Japanese?
So I went to the next grocery store to get stuff I can't get at Trader Joe's. And when I got out, there was the bus again. The Japanese guys were filing into Starbuck's for a latte, carrying their Trader Joe's re-usable fabric bags. Which meant the bus really was a tour bus, and the Japanese guys were using Sunday to visit American landmarks. I had made a crass assumption, but it turned out to be right.
I thought about following the bus to see where it went next, but I was afraid they'd stop at McDonald's.
CalTech is less than a mile away, and I was guessing that these guys were visiting the University. They had that kind of 'scientist vibe' only people who are deep academics give off. Nerd is universal, it sticks out no matter where you're from. These guys were wandering around Trader Joe's in a daze, as I was when I went into a Japanese grocery store and couldn't tell the candy from the dishwashing soap.
So I said to myself 'looks like the bus just pulled up.'
I finished my purchases and walked out. And, sure enough, there was the bus. Really. One of those big white tour buses. Parked right in front of the shabu-shabu place, ironically enough.
I kind of felt like a jerk. I mean, these guys are just stopping off for some groceries and I have to assume they're like a tour group at the Vatican or something. More than likely they were on a bus because none of them has a valid US driver's license, and it's easier to keep the group together when you're on a vehicle that can carry everyone at once. What kind of a-hole was I to crack wise about tour groups just because they were Japanese?
So I went to the next grocery store to get stuff I can't get at Trader Joe's. And when I got out, there was the bus again. The Japanese guys were filing into Starbuck's for a latte, carrying their Trader Joe's re-usable fabric bags. Which meant the bus really was a tour bus, and the Japanese guys were using Sunday to visit American landmarks. I had made a crass assumption, but it turned out to be right.
I thought about following the bus to see where it went next, but I was afraid they'd stop at McDonald's.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Tales From My Past - Married?
It was a Friday and I was in college. It was also April 1st.
The phone rang. It was about 8 AM. Which, for a college student, is the equivalent of 3 AM in normal people time. Since I had the bottom bunk I rolled out of bed and fumbled for the receiver.
"Hi Donnie," a cautious voice said on the other side. My sister. "Guess what? Tony and I are getting married tomorrow."
"That's not funny," I grumbled and I hung up.
I crawled back into bed. My roommate asked what was going on, and I told him my sister was playing a very bad April Fool's joke.
Ten minutes later the phone started ringing.
I crawled out of bed again, ready to yell at my sister for not letting me sleep in. This time it was my mother.
"They really are getting married tomorrow," she said. She sounded angry, sad, and giddy all at the same time.
"Huh. Guess I better come back home for the weekend, then," I said.
This is the way I found out my sister was getting married. An early-morning call on April Fool's Day. So I finished class that Friday then got in my car and drove home. They were married the following day.
Over two decades and three children later they're still married. I don't know which one of them is bigger saint for putting up with the other, but they've made it work.
Still, I wish my sister had picked a better day to let me know.
The phone rang. It was about 8 AM. Which, for a college student, is the equivalent of 3 AM in normal people time. Since I had the bottom bunk I rolled out of bed and fumbled for the receiver.
"Hi Donnie," a cautious voice said on the other side. My sister. "Guess what? Tony and I are getting married tomorrow."
"That's not funny," I grumbled and I hung up.
I crawled back into bed. My roommate asked what was going on, and I told him my sister was playing a very bad April Fool's joke.
Ten minutes later the phone started ringing.
I crawled out of bed again, ready to yell at my sister for not letting me sleep in. This time it was my mother.
"They really are getting married tomorrow," she said. She sounded angry, sad, and giddy all at the same time.
"Huh. Guess I better come back home for the weekend, then," I said.
This is the way I found out my sister was getting married. An early-morning call on April Fool's Day. So I finished class that Friday then got in my car and drove home. They were married the following day.
Over two decades and three children later they're still married. I don't know which one of them is bigger saint for putting up with the other, but they've made it work.
Still, I wish my sister had picked a better day to let me know.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Conversation With No Words
I was out on the road today, in a residential area with speed bumps and lots of lights. Which meant we were going slowly, even though there wasn't a whole lot of traffic. I was coming down a really long, straight street - Lake Avenue, if you must know - and I glanced in my rear-view where I saw a woman, probably my age or a little younger, gesturing and talking. She had a determined look on her face, like she was really trying to get her point across but wasn't sure it was working. On the passenger side sat a kid, no more than fourteen I'm guessing, who had his chin to his chest and was glaring sullenly out the window, away from his mother. He didn't say a word the entire time they were behind me, he just stared out the window as his mother talked and lectured and pleaded and threatened.
It was like watching Spanish language TV with the sound turned off. I might not have gotten the specifics, but the broad strokes of the conversation came through loud and clear. The poor kid was screwing up, probably in the same way over and over and over, and his poor mother was at the end of her rope with him. It could have been anything, schoolwork, drugs, maybe even not picking up his socks from the living room floor, but his mother had enough and was putting a stop to it.
Been there. I recall enduring a twenty minute car ride with my mother lecturing me non-stop the whole way. I don't remember what I did - probably something stupid and dangerous that would likely have gotten me injured or killed if I wasn't so clueless - but the ride back was absolutely not worth whatever I'd done to get in trouble. Agony.
Funny thing is, not only have I been on the receiving end of this talking-to, I have witnessed the same scene played out many times, in many countries. I've seen it with little kids in Japan, with uniformed schoolboys in England, with tour groups in the Vatican, in the market in Germany, and in Rundle Mall in Adelaide. It's universal. The mother talks, making her point with gestures and a firm declaration that she's not going to tolerate that behavior any longer, and the mortified child looks anywhere but at her, though usually at the ground or out a window.
It's amazing to me how universal this is. I'm certain little Roman children got the same talking-to from their matres, and little ancient Greek kids who got a dressing down in the agora stared at the boundary stones wondering when she was ever going to stop talking.
So ladies, don't worry about turning into your mothers, there's absolutely nothing you can do about it. It's gonna happen, it happens to everyone.
And, if it's any consolation, you're not turning into your mother, you're turning into your mother's mother's mother's mother's mother's mother.
It was like watching Spanish language TV with the sound turned off. I might not have gotten the specifics, but the broad strokes of the conversation came through loud and clear. The poor kid was screwing up, probably in the same way over and over and over, and his poor mother was at the end of her rope with him. It could have been anything, schoolwork, drugs, maybe even not picking up his socks from the living room floor, but his mother had enough and was putting a stop to it.
Been there. I recall enduring a twenty minute car ride with my mother lecturing me non-stop the whole way. I don't remember what I did - probably something stupid and dangerous that would likely have gotten me injured or killed if I wasn't so clueless - but the ride back was absolutely not worth whatever I'd done to get in trouble. Agony.
Funny thing is, not only have I been on the receiving end of this talking-to, I have witnessed the same scene played out many times, in many countries. I've seen it with little kids in Japan, with uniformed schoolboys in England, with tour groups in the Vatican, in the market in Germany, and in Rundle Mall in Adelaide. It's universal. The mother talks, making her point with gestures and a firm declaration that she's not going to tolerate that behavior any longer, and the mortified child looks anywhere but at her, though usually at the ground or out a window.
It's amazing to me how universal this is. I'm certain little Roman children got the same talking-to from their matres, and little ancient Greek kids who got a dressing down in the agora stared at the boundary stones wondering when she was ever going to stop talking.
So ladies, don't worry about turning into your mothers, there's absolutely nothing you can do about it. It's gonna happen, it happens to everyone.
And, if it's any consolation, you're not turning into your mother, you're turning into your mother's mother's mother's mother's mother's mother.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
A Caveman Walks Into A Bar
Hey there, buddy, nice sabre-toothed tiger.
It not alive, now it coat.
I can see. Very snappy. What'll you have?
Fermented goat's milk.
Sorry, fresh out.
Maybe have steppe berry in spring water?
Never heard of it.
Then light beer.
I'm Harvey.
Me Og.
Good to meet you, Og. What brings a man like you into a place like this?
Me feeling lonely. Me last of kind.
No wonder you need company.
They all gone. Friends, family, even enemies. Gone like mastadon. Never come back.
Here's your beer.
Me left alone with newspaper.
You read newspapers?
What left of them. Me think Garfield funny, him like sabre-tooth who eat lasagna.
You could just read that online.
No have internet. Og still use rotary telephone.
Rotary? Jeez...
No have computer either.
What? Seriously?
Me think typewriter just fine. It work for Hemingway, it work for Og too.
Holy crap. I'm guessing you don't have a cell phone?
Me not need electronic leash. Me free like eagle.
What do you drive, an AMC Javelin?
Me love planet so me take public transportation.
Well, whatever floats your boat.
Me not like boats. Og no swim.
You're really dedicated to the lifestyle.
It not choice, Og born this way.
So you've never heard of Facebook, Twitter, YouTube?
Og not ignorant, Og just not interested in following herd. Unless herd is tasty bison, then Og all over that action.
Maybe you could re-think your position on this. Because you're gonna get left behind. Further than you already are, I mean.
Hey, you not Og's mother. Or therapist. Leave Og to drown sorrows and eat bowls of pretzels.
All right. But you should know barflies are a dying breed too.
Og want you to shut up now.
It not alive, now it coat.
I can see. Very snappy. What'll you have?
Fermented goat's milk.
Sorry, fresh out.
Maybe have steppe berry in spring water?
Never heard of it.
Then light beer.
I'm Harvey.
Me Og.
Good to meet you, Og. What brings a man like you into a place like this?
Me feeling lonely. Me last of kind.
No wonder you need company.
They all gone. Friends, family, even enemies. Gone like mastadon. Never come back.
Here's your beer.
Me left alone with newspaper.
You read newspapers?
What left of them. Me think Garfield funny, him like sabre-tooth who eat lasagna.
You could just read that online.
No have internet. Og still use rotary telephone.
Rotary? Jeez...
No have computer either.
What? Seriously?
Me think typewriter just fine. It work for Hemingway, it work for Og too.
Holy crap. I'm guessing you don't have a cell phone?
Me not need electronic leash. Me free like eagle.
What do you drive, an AMC Javelin?
Me love planet so me take public transportation.
Well, whatever floats your boat.
Me not like boats. Og no swim.
You're really dedicated to the lifestyle.
It not choice, Og born this way.
So you've never heard of Facebook, Twitter, YouTube?
Og not ignorant, Og just not interested in following herd. Unless herd is tasty bison, then Og all over that action.
Maybe you could re-think your position on this. Because you're gonna get left behind. Further than you already are, I mean.
Hey, you not Og's mother. Or therapist. Leave Og to drown sorrows and eat bowls of pretzels.
All right. But you should know barflies are a dying breed too.
Og want you to shut up now.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Geek Musings
I'm about to get really nerdy on you, so send the kids out of the room.
I was just watching a bit of STNG* and one of the characters was holding a candleholder with a lit candle in it. There was some talk about taking it back up to the ship** and the scene continued. But my attention didn't go with them.
I was wondering what would happen if one of those characters tried to use the transporter while carrying an open flame.
We can indulge our willing suspension of disbelief and admit the existence of a transporter, which disassembles things - rocks, fences, people - on a sub-atomic level, moves those sub-atomic particles from one place to another, and then reassembles them into a perfect duplicate of the original. It takes matter from one location and puts it instantaneously into another location.
But fire isn't matter, it's energy. So how would the transporter work? There's no material to get ahold of, nothing there to disassemble that could be reassembled somewhere else. I'm thinking the process would just extinguish the candle. Or blow up in a massive explosion. Or rip a hole in the space-time continuum that only Wesley Crusher could fix.
This is the kind of stuff that would occupy my mind all the time if I let it. Which I don't. Mostly.
I got a few more questions along those lines:
If a lightsaber is made of light (duh), how does it come to a point instead of scattering like a flashlight?
If warp drives really worked, why would it take any time at all to get from point A to point B? Wouldn't the engines just warp space-time and make point A right next to point B and the ship would move across like walking through a doorway?
If future Earth is populated by intelligent apes, why have they given up their feces-flinging ways? Wouldn't that become their football? Wouldn't they have a Super Feces-Flinging Bowl?
If someone invented time travel, wouldn't there almost instantaneously be millions of time travelers invading every moment in time?
* that Star Trek the Next Generation for the uninitiated
** that's the Enterprise, NCC 1701-D
I was just watching a bit of STNG* and one of the characters was holding a candleholder with a lit candle in it. There was some talk about taking it back up to the ship** and the scene continued. But my attention didn't go with them.
I was wondering what would happen if one of those characters tried to use the transporter while carrying an open flame.
We can indulge our willing suspension of disbelief and admit the existence of a transporter, which disassembles things - rocks, fences, people - on a sub-atomic level, moves those sub-atomic particles from one place to another, and then reassembles them into a perfect duplicate of the original. It takes matter from one location and puts it instantaneously into another location.
But fire isn't matter, it's energy. So how would the transporter work? There's no material to get ahold of, nothing there to disassemble that could be reassembled somewhere else. I'm thinking the process would just extinguish the candle. Or blow up in a massive explosion. Or rip a hole in the space-time continuum that only Wesley Crusher could fix.
This is the kind of stuff that would occupy my mind all the time if I let it. Which I don't. Mostly.
I got a few more questions along those lines:
If a lightsaber is made of light (duh), how does it come to a point instead of scattering like a flashlight?
If warp drives really worked, why would it take any time at all to get from point A to point B? Wouldn't the engines just warp space-time and make point A right next to point B and the ship would move across like walking through a doorway?
If future Earth is populated by intelligent apes, why have they given up their feces-flinging ways? Wouldn't that become their football? Wouldn't they have a Super Feces-Flinging Bowl?
If someone invented time travel, wouldn't there almost instantaneously be millions of time travelers invading every moment in time?
* that Star Trek the Next Generation for the uninitiated
** that's the Enterprise, NCC 1701-D
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Wouldn't It Be Cool?
I was talking to a friend of mine who said he'd always wanted to own a hawk. Or a falcon, some sort of bird of prey that you need a license and a certificate of financial responsibility to even think about getting (he'd checked out the process). Generally speaking I question the value of birds as pets - they're not cuddly and are instead nervous and flinchy and poopy - but if a parakeet is marginal then a falcon is just right out. You have to feed it meat and take it out so it can hunt other birds, and you have to blindfold the damn thing so it won't tear your eyes out, and you have to wear a huge thick leather glove... more trouble than a toddler, honestly. When I asked him why he thought he wanted one, he just said 'wouldn't it be cool?'
Indeed.
Which got me to thinking. What else would be cool to have or to do or to have done to you? Or at least what would I think would be cool?
Steal a firetruck and see how far you could go before the cops took you down. Probably a felony, but people would get out of your way as long as you turned on the lights, so it's actually pretty safe.
Chop down a redwood. With an axe. By yourself. That's man stuff right there.
Play football on the moon. Think of how far you could throw the ball, even if you didn't have the perfect spiral.
Figure out what makes Dick Cheney tick. He's such a miserable, unrepentant bastard that there's got to be some deep, deep neuroses there. Of course, there may be things mortal man was not meant to know...
Commandeer one half-hour of local news and just stare into the camera the entire time. See how long you can go without blinking. Call it performance art or whatever you want, but think of the ratings you'd get and the YouTube hits as people tried to figure out what you were doing. It would be like Andy Warhol's 'Sleep' but only half an hour's worth. And not asleep.
Ride a humpback whale as it breaches, and live to tell the tale. That's more man stuff.
Wear a beard of bees. I see it on TV from time to time and it just looks fun. Really.
Get a show on NPR. I don't know what I'd do, but I'd be in great company, and that's the important thing.
Get the Queen of England to give you a massage. How many people could say they'd ever done that? Just no happy ending, though.
Visit the Caves of Nuclear Fire. Tom Swift, Jr. did it and I want to follow in his footsteps.
Indeed.
Which got me to thinking. What else would be cool to have or to do or to have done to you? Or at least what would I think would be cool?
Steal a firetruck and see how far you could go before the cops took you down. Probably a felony, but people would get out of your way as long as you turned on the lights, so it's actually pretty safe.
Chop down a redwood. With an axe. By yourself. That's man stuff right there.
Play football on the moon. Think of how far you could throw the ball, even if you didn't have the perfect spiral.
Figure out what makes Dick Cheney tick. He's such a miserable, unrepentant bastard that there's got to be some deep, deep neuroses there. Of course, there may be things mortal man was not meant to know...
Commandeer one half-hour of local news and just stare into the camera the entire time. See how long you can go without blinking. Call it performance art or whatever you want, but think of the ratings you'd get and the YouTube hits as people tried to figure out what you were doing. It would be like Andy Warhol's 'Sleep' but only half an hour's worth. And not asleep.
Ride a humpback whale as it breaches, and live to tell the tale. That's more man stuff.
Wear a beard of bees. I see it on TV from time to time and it just looks fun. Really.
Get a show on NPR. I don't know what I'd do, but I'd be in great company, and that's the important thing.
Get the Queen of England to give you a massage. How many people could say they'd ever done that? Just no happy ending, though.
Visit the Caves of Nuclear Fire. Tom Swift, Jr. did it and I want to follow in his footsteps.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Factions
Not to overstate things, but I almost saw the end of the universe today.
See, there are two different garbage truck companies that work my neighborhood. Okay, 'waste management experts,' or whatever you call the people who take away all my filthy leavings. One company has gray trucks with red, the other company uses blue trucks. I think my apartment uses the one with blue trucks, which is neither here nor there but I'm throwing it in for a touch of veracity.
Anyway, the two companies try to keep different schedules on different days, so they're not trying to pick up garbage on the same street at the same time, which would be no good for anyone.
Except it didn't quite work out that way today.
The gray truck was on my street, rattling and banging and making all kinds of hydraulic noises as it hoisted a dumpster high overhead and upended it. There was beeping too, as the little truck that retrieves the dumpsters was skittering all over the place. Man, those guys work fast....
As I got to the corner I saw another of those little trucks take a right turn onto my street. The guy driving jammed on the brakes when he saw the other garbage truck, and he grabbed his radio. Right behind him the blue garbage truck that was also going to turn right skidded to a stop - which, if you've never seen a garbage truck skid to a stop, is truly an alarming sight - and almost clipped the back of its little service truck. I think the blue truck sloshed out some garbage juice, because it suddenly reeked of garbage-y grossness right there. Pretty disgusting, but it has to be even worse for the guys driving.
The blue truck backed up, which just put even more beeping and grinding noises into the atmosphere, and then the little pickup truck did the same. All the while completely tying up traffic at the intersection. Meanwhile the guys in the gray truck noticed what was going on and they seemed genuinely alarmed, maybe even a little upset, and I don't think it was because of the garbage juice smell.
Obviously one of those trucks shouldn't have been there. I don't know who had dibs, I just know neither crew expected the other. I used to think it was just a matter of the street being too narrow for two garbage trucks at the same time, but given the reactions of both crews I think it's more than that.
I think one garbage truck is matter and the other is anti-matter. And if Star Trek has taught me anything it's that when matter and anti-matter get together... BOOM!! Instant end of everything as we know it. That's the only explanation that really makes any sense.
Either that, or the two crews are like the Jets and the Sharks and they have to rumble when one encroaches on the other's turf. Yeah, maybe that's it, singing and dancing garbage truck crews. Stranger things have happened.
See, there are two different garbage truck companies that work my neighborhood. Okay, 'waste management experts,' or whatever you call the people who take away all my filthy leavings. One company has gray trucks with red, the other company uses blue trucks. I think my apartment uses the one with blue trucks, which is neither here nor there but I'm throwing it in for a touch of veracity.
Anyway, the two companies try to keep different schedules on different days, so they're not trying to pick up garbage on the same street at the same time, which would be no good for anyone.
Except it didn't quite work out that way today.
The gray truck was on my street, rattling and banging and making all kinds of hydraulic noises as it hoisted a dumpster high overhead and upended it. There was beeping too, as the little truck that retrieves the dumpsters was skittering all over the place. Man, those guys work fast....
As I got to the corner I saw another of those little trucks take a right turn onto my street. The guy driving jammed on the brakes when he saw the other garbage truck, and he grabbed his radio. Right behind him the blue garbage truck that was also going to turn right skidded to a stop - which, if you've never seen a garbage truck skid to a stop, is truly an alarming sight - and almost clipped the back of its little service truck. I think the blue truck sloshed out some garbage juice, because it suddenly reeked of garbage-y grossness right there. Pretty disgusting, but it has to be even worse for the guys driving.
The blue truck backed up, which just put even more beeping and grinding noises into the atmosphere, and then the little pickup truck did the same. All the while completely tying up traffic at the intersection. Meanwhile the guys in the gray truck noticed what was going on and they seemed genuinely alarmed, maybe even a little upset, and I don't think it was because of the garbage juice smell.
Obviously one of those trucks shouldn't have been there. I don't know who had dibs, I just know neither crew expected the other. I used to think it was just a matter of the street being too narrow for two garbage trucks at the same time, but given the reactions of both crews I think it's more than that.
I think one garbage truck is matter and the other is anti-matter. And if Star Trek has taught me anything it's that when matter and anti-matter get together... BOOM!! Instant end of everything as we know it. That's the only explanation that really makes any sense.
Either that, or the two crews are like the Jets and the Sharks and they have to rumble when one encroaches on the other's turf. Yeah, maybe that's it, singing and dancing garbage truck crews. Stranger things have happened.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Casting About
What do I want to do when I grow up?
It's a little late in the game to still be wondering that, I get it. But very few people I know are doing what they really want to do with their lives. Make no mistake, I'm doing all right. But I can't escape the feeling that there's something more out there. And I'm not talking about being a published author, that's been my goal since I was fourteen, and it will happen eventually, as long as I keep at it.
No, I mean something career-wise until I make it as a writer. Something that contributes more than just money to my checking account. I keep coming back again and again to being a teacher. In college I was preparing to enter the teacher's Masters program, but I didn't do it because I wanted to see what else was out there. So, three years later, I got a job teaching Latin on TV. A teaching assistant, really, I'm not a certified teacher, but it was a cool gig. I could have gotten alternative certification easily, but I didn't do it because I had bailed on the Masters degree earlier.
I could have gone back to college to be a professor. I may still. But I can't help thinking that I've been fighting my destiny all this time. I should have been a teacher, a for-real one in a school. And maybe all this wondering what I should be doing with my life is just my subconscious telling me what I've known all along.
I don't know... I just think there's something else.
It's a little late in the game to still be wondering that, I get it. But very few people I know are doing what they really want to do with their lives. Make no mistake, I'm doing all right. But I can't escape the feeling that there's something more out there. And I'm not talking about being a published author, that's been my goal since I was fourteen, and it will happen eventually, as long as I keep at it.
No, I mean something career-wise until I make it as a writer. Something that contributes more than just money to my checking account. I keep coming back again and again to being a teacher. In college I was preparing to enter the teacher's Masters program, but I didn't do it because I wanted to see what else was out there. So, three years later, I got a job teaching Latin on TV. A teaching assistant, really, I'm not a certified teacher, but it was a cool gig. I could have gotten alternative certification easily, but I didn't do it because I had bailed on the Masters degree earlier.
I could have gone back to college to be a professor. I may still. But I can't help thinking that I've been fighting my destiny all this time. I should have been a teacher, a for-real one in a school. And maybe all this wondering what I should be doing with my life is just my subconscious telling me what I've known all along.
I don't know... I just think there's something else.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
For The Record
Bear with me, I gotta get this off my chest. I'll try to keep it short.
I've seen lately a strong streak of 'not my fault' breaking out among people who count themselves as our political leaders, or who desperately want to be seen that way, at any rate. They'll espouse a position or advocate a course of action using inflammatory rhetoric and dangerous imagery, and then try to completely disavow any responsibility for what happens when someone heeds that message a little too well. I'm seeing this from both the left and the right. Well, mostly the right.
Let me make this clear: even if you have no direct legal responsibility for what someone does when they take your message too far, you absolutely, positively, without a doubt have moral responsibility. And if you count yourself a God-fearing person - as many on the right claim - the idea of moral culpability should terrify you far more than any temporal legal entanglements.
Words are weapons, and once you hear something you can't un-hear it. You can put down the knife or the gun, you can dismantle the atom bomb, but words stay. And poisonous words keep spreading their sickness. Quietly. When vulnerable people are at their lowest they'll latch onto something they heard, something vitriolic and hostile, and cling to the hate like a drowning man clings to a life preserver. Hateful words can lead to deadly consequences, and the person who delivered the message stands accountable for what happens afterward.
Still have your doubts? Think of it this way: would you hold your child responsible if the neighbor kids beat up someone because she said that person was a terrorist, even if she didn't actually participate in the beating? Of course you would, your girl would be as liable for the bruises and scrapes as the kids who threw the punches. And if you denied your child was responsible, the parents of the other kids and the one who got beat up would definitely have a different opinion.
When someone in a position of power, authority or influence advocates a violent course of action - even when the message is symbolic or thinly veiled - they bear moral responsibility for any violence that follows when people heed that message. End of story.
I've seen lately a strong streak of 'not my fault' breaking out among people who count themselves as our political leaders, or who desperately want to be seen that way, at any rate. They'll espouse a position or advocate a course of action using inflammatory rhetoric and dangerous imagery, and then try to completely disavow any responsibility for what happens when someone heeds that message a little too well. I'm seeing this from both the left and the right. Well, mostly the right.
Let me make this clear: even if you have no direct legal responsibility for what someone does when they take your message too far, you absolutely, positively, without a doubt have moral responsibility. And if you count yourself a God-fearing person - as many on the right claim - the idea of moral culpability should terrify you far more than any temporal legal entanglements.
Words are weapons, and once you hear something you can't un-hear it. You can put down the knife or the gun, you can dismantle the atom bomb, but words stay. And poisonous words keep spreading their sickness. Quietly. When vulnerable people are at their lowest they'll latch onto something they heard, something vitriolic and hostile, and cling to the hate like a drowning man clings to a life preserver. Hateful words can lead to deadly consequences, and the person who delivered the message stands accountable for what happens afterward.
Still have your doubts? Think of it this way: would you hold your child responsible if the neighbor kids beat up someone because she said that person was a terrorist, even if she didn't actually participate in the beating? Of course you would, your girl would be as liable for the bruises and scrapes as the kids who threw the punches. And if you denied your child was responsible, the parents of the other kids and the one who got beat up would definitely have a different opinion.
When someone in a position of power, authority or influence advocates a violent course of action - even when the message is symbolic or thinly veiled - they bear moral responsibility for any violence that follows when people heed that message. End of story.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Be Still My Heart...
The elevator in my building is fixed.
Yes, FINALLY. It's been over a year since it gave up the ghost, and now it's repaired, inspected and ready to go up and down like an elevator should.
I'm positively giddy, and I swear I squealed like a schoolgirl when I saw the inspector down in the garage pressing buttons and making things happen. Right now I'm a big fan of elevator inspectors. I almost asked him for his autograph. I'm thinking of putting his picture up on my bedroom wall next to my poster of Leif Garret.*
I took my first ride just now, and it was all brand new, like the rosy blush of young love or your very first hit of crack, anything seemed possible. I wasn't taking the stairs like a chump, I was standing still, like Americans should, letting a machine do the work my legs had proved perfectly capable of doing until that very moment. Ah, good times, good times...
I have to confess, though, the elevator car smelled. Not offensive, just stale. Like something that had been sitting unused for thirteen months, closed up and untouched. Like going into a storage unit you haven't opened for quite a while, that kind of stale. And a little damp, probably for the same reason. And I felt just the slightest bit claustrophobic, I didn't recall the elevator being so small. But still, it was a good visit.
So now I have a decision to make every time I drive back into the garage. Do I take the stairs, which I have done every single day I've been here for over a year, or do I wimp out and take my old friend the elevator? I dearly love my old friend, and I miss him and his buzzing clanks, but I'm not so sure he was good for me. Never once did I decide to sit out the evening in the garage because I was too tired to climb the stairs, so there's no real reason I would absolutely NEED to use the elevator. I'm not feeble, not after a year of climbing the stairs every day. But I know that since my good buddy Elevator is ready to help me out, I'll probably use his services more often than not.
Because I'm a lazy American, that's why. Don't you judge me, with your Chocodiles and your pork rinds and your NASCAR... Say, when is NASCAR coming back? February? Gotta stock up on Chocodiles now that the elevator is working again.
* 'Mom? Who's Leif Garret?'
He was like Shaun Cassidy or Rick Springfield.
'Still not sure...'
Yes, FINALLY. It's been over a year since it gave up the ghost, and now it's repaired, inspected and ready to go up and down like an elevator should.
I'm positively giddy, and I swear I squealed like a schoolgirl when I saw the inspector down in the garage pressing buttons and making things happen. Right now I'm a big fan of elevator inspectors. I almost asked him for his autograph. I'm thinking of putting his picture up on my bedroom wall next to my poster of Leif Garret.*
I took my first ride just now, and it was all brand new, like the rosy blush of young love or your very first hit of crack, anything seemed possible. I wasn't taking the stairs like a chump, I was standing still, like Americans should, letting a machine do the work my legs had proved perfectly capable of doing until that very moment. Ah, good times, good times...
I have to confess, though, the elevator car smelled. Not offensive, just stale. Like something that had been sitting unused for thirteen months, closed up and untouched. Like going into a storage unit you haven't opened for quite a while, that kind of stale. And a little damp, probably for the same reason. And I felt just the slightest bit claustrophobic, I didn't recall the elevator being so small. But still, it was a good visit.
So now I have a decision to make every time I drive back into the garage. Do I take the stairs, which I have done every single day I've been here for over a year, or do I wimp out and take my old friend the elevator? I dearly love my old friend, and I miss him and his buzzing clanks, but I'm not so sure he was good for me. Never once did I decide to sit out the evening in the garage because I was too tired to climb the stairs, so there's no real reason I would absolutely NEED to use the elevator. I'm not feeble, not after a year of climbing the stairs every day. But I know that since my good buddy Elevator is ready to help me out, I'll probably use his services more often than not.
Because I'm a lazy American, that's why. Don't you judge me, with your Chocodiles and your pork rinds and your NASCAR... Say, when is NASCAR coming back? February? Gotta stock up on Chocodiles now that the elevator is working again.
* 'Mom? Who's Leif Garret?'
He was like Shaun Cassidy or Rick Springfield.
'Still not sure...'
Monday, January 10, 2011
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm concerned that our dearly departed friends and family really can see what we're doing.
It's a common sentiment, when someone passes on people will tell you the person is 'watching from the other side.' This is supposed to be comforting, but I find it alarming. Are they really watching? Right now? And are they amused, distracted, or disgusted with what was going on? Ghost or not, they're still people, and not necessarily people I want to see every little detail of what goes on in my day.
I mean, if I was doing stuff I didn't want my grandmother to watch while she was alive, why would I want her to be able to get a ring-side seat when she's dead? Same with my dad or my friend Greg who died when he was seventeen. When someone tells me they can see what's going on from the other side, I think of a picture window with a nosy neighbor craning his neck as he tries to see what you just brought back from the hardware store. Or a peeping Tom lurking in the bushes trying to see past the curtains into your boudoir. Or a snitch who's part of your gang but is really just waiting for the chance to turn you into the Feds. See? All kinds of paranoia come up when you start thinking about ghostly witnesses to your dealings.
Even worse, what if there's more than one of them watching, and they start discussing what you're doing, like a football play-by-play?
'Did you see that move, not many people can get the bra off with one hand.'
'No indeed, but... oh, too bad... way too much saliva in that kiss. It's like he sprayed her with a firehose.'
'She sure didn't like that, he's definitely killed the mood. Let's go to the replay.'
And forget about the big stuff like sex or robbing a bank, what about regular everyday stuff you don't need an audience for? Like taking a poop. You ever see that self-conscious look on your dog's face when you watch him doing his business? Now imagine that was you out on the lawn, looking back over your shoulder and so embarrassed you could barely get the job done.
Think about that the next time you're on the throne with your nose buried in your sudoku puzzle book, assuming that just because the door is closed no one can see you. Aunt Gertrude might just be watching...
It's a common sentiment, when someone passes on people will tell you the person is 'watching from the other side.' This is supposed to be comforting, but I find it alarming. Are they really watching? Right now? And are they amused, distracted, or disgusted with what was going on? Ghost or not, they're still people, and not necessarily people I want to see every little detail of what goes on in my day.
I mean, if I was doing stuff I didn't want my grandmother to watch while she was alive, why would I want her to be able to get a ring-side seat when she's dead? Same with my dad or my friend Greg who died when he was seventeen. When someone tells me they can see what's going on from the other side, I think of a picture window with a nosy neighbor craning his neck as he tries to see what you just brought back from the hardware store. Or a peeping Tom lurking in the bushes trying to see past the curtains into your boudoir. Or a snitch who's part of your gang but is really just waiting for the chance to turn you into the Feds. See? All kinds of paranoia come up when you start thinking about ghostly witnesses to your dealings.
Even worse, what if there's more than one of them watching, and they start discussing what you're doing, like a football play-by-play?
'Did you see that move, not many people can get the bra off with one hand.'
'No indeed, but... oh, too bad... way too much saliva in that kiss. It's like he sprayed her with a firehose.'
'She sure didn't like that, he's definitely killed the mood. Let's go to the replay.'
And forget about the big stuff like sex or robbing a bank, what about regular everyday stuff you don't need an audience for? Like taking a poop. You ever see that self-conscious look on your dog's face when you watch him doing his business? Now imagine that was you out on the lawn, looking back over your shoulder and so embarrassed you could barely get the job done.
Think about that the next time you're on the throne with your nose buried in your sudoku puzzle book, assuming that just because the door is closed no one can see you. Aunt Gertrude might just be watching...
Saturday, January 8, 2011
The Stank
I went to the convenience store the other day to buy lottery tickets - because you can't win if you don't play - and right when I walked in I noticed that the place smelled like beef jerky. And I'm not talking sort of in passing, or that it was mildly reminiscent of the spices in beef jerky, the entire place smelled like it was the store room at the beef jerky factory. The stank was so overpowering that it almost brought tears to my eyes, and I have a pretty strong constitution regarding offensive odors. I asked the guys behind the counter and they hadn't noticed a thing. I'm sure when they left for the day they smelled like they'd snapped into a Slim Jim.
The next day I went to work out and the place smelled like blown insulation. Not the pink fiberglass kind, the paper pulp kind they blow into the attic crawl spaces that instantly starts to smell like the flooded basement of an old newspaper publisher. Not overpowering, but strong enough that I noticed people taking a sniff and looking around when they walked in.
After that, of course, I started noticing all sorts of aromas. Either I'm noticing smells more or smells around here are becoming more pronounced, but either way, in the past few days I've tagged distinct smells to different locations. And here are a few of them:
Beef jerky - the convenience store at Colorado and Hill.
Sewer gas - the intersection of Green and El Molino, SE corner. It's always smelled right there, ever since I've lived in the neighborhood.
Corn flakes - all of Altadena, North of Washington on Fair Oaks.
Rotten cantaloupe - the Metro station at Olive Ave. in Burbank.
Funk so strong it'll make you faint - my fencing glove. To me it smells like home...
Feet - the parking garage of my apartment building. Like somebody changed their wet socks and left them hanging from the exposed pipes.
Bad meat or good cheese - the toner store. Something's spoiled, or just about to go bad in there, and they don't even sell food.
Paper insulation - my gym.
Tacos - the sushi restaurant down by the Apple store in Old Town. Yeah, tacos... weird.
Butterscotch pudding - the Target on Colorado between Hudson and Oak Knoll, but not in the grocery section, which might make sense. Up in men's clothes.
Scotch tape - the stairs leading up from the street to the Trader Joe's at Lake and Hudson. Like somebody wrapped a thousand presents right there.
The next day I went to work out and the place smelled like blown insulation. Not the pink fiberglass kind, the paper pulp kind they blow into the attic crawl spaces that instantly starts to smell like the flooded basement of an old newspaper publisher. Not overpowering, but strong enough that I noticed people taking a sniff and looking around when they walked in.
After that, of course, I started noticing all sorts of aromas. Either I'm noticing smells more or smells around here are becoming more pronounced, but either way, in the past few days I've tagged distinct smells to different locations. And here are a few of them:
Beef jerky - the convenience store at Colorado and Hill.
Sewer gas - the intersection of Green and El Molino, SE corner. It's always smelled right there, ever since I've lived in the neighborhood.
Corn flakes - all of Altadena, North of Washington on Fair Oaks.
Rotten cantaloupe - the Metro station at Olive Ave. in Burbank.
Funk so strong it'll make you faint - my fencing glove. To me it smells like home...
Feet - the parking garage of my apartment building. Like somebody changed their wet socks and left them hanging from the exposed pipes.
Bad meat or good cheese - the toner store. Something's spoiled, or just about to go bad in there, and they don't even sell food.
Paper insulation - my gym.
Tacos - the sushi restaurant down by the Apple store in Old Town. Yeah, tacos... weird.
Butterscotch pudding - the Target on Colorado between Hudson and Oak Knoll, but not in the grocery section, which might make sense. Up in men's clothes.
Scotch tape - the stairs leading up from the street to the Trader Joe's at Lake and Hudson. Like somebody wrapped a thousand presents right there.
Friday, January 7, 2011
The Spirit Of LA
Midway through life's journey I found myself in a dark alley, for I had forgotten which parking lot held my vehicle.
In Hollywood was I, after midnight, when the freaks emerge to do their freakish things and honest citizens flee to their homes. Certain that I had parked down a side street I ventured thence, only to discover by my twistings and turnings that the clear path eluded me. Vile odors of body fluids assailed mine nose as the alley I traversed had clearly been used as toilet, vomitorium, and bordello. Perhaps all at the same time.
I spied a junkie, strung out as was his wont, bracing himself against the wall, his clothes and demeanor two weeks unwashed. Hard upon that a pimp did swagger forth, ostrich-plumed cap large and emerald, and behind him staggered his soiled dove, no doubt looking to sell her favors for the promise of silver.
Turning to make my escape I encountered a shadow, the odd form of a person where I had just passed, though I had seen him not before. 'O apparition,' said I, 'if you be friend aid me now, and if you be foe please show mercy.'
He(?) emerged into the street light, slender to the point of emaciation, clad in patent leather rainment that in other circumstances might have been part of a gimp outfit. Work boots he(?) wore, scuffed and worn, and a Raiders jacket, with a cap turned sideways. His(?) face might have been from the Orient, or perhaps a swarthy inhabitant from below the equator, but had been so extensively altered by surgeons that his(?) origin could not be determined, nor could his gender. He(?) gestured behind himself to a food truck I had not seen before.
'I have come to guide you through this inferno,' he(?) said, and even his voice sounded genderless, 'though too late I cannot tarry, for I have an audition in the morning.'
Behind me the pimp approached, smacking his bitch upside the head. Behind them the junkie stood upright, his eyes now full of chemical fury. I turned to the genderless abomination before me, choosing the lesser of two evils.
'Let us be gone to yon food truck,' said I, hurrying towards him(?). 'Of many questions I have let this be the first: what manner of being are you?'
'The Spirit of Los Angeles am I,' he(?) said, bowing as if he were on stage. 'It is appointed to me that I be your guide out of this abyss. Mine own reality show shall be my reward.'
'Let us make haste, then,' said I, leaping into the food truck. 'Does this conveyance vend tacos?'
In Hollywood was I, after midnight, when the freaks emerge to do their freakish things and honest citizens flee to their homes. Certain that I had parked down a side street I ventured thence, only to discover by my twistings and turnings that the clear path eluded me. Vile odors of body fluids assailed mine nose as the alley I traversed had clearly been used as toilet, vomitorium, and bordello. Perhaps all at the same time.
I spied a junkie, strung out as was his wont, bracing himself against the wall, his clothes and demeanor two weeks unwashed. Hard upon that a pimp did swagger forth, ostrich-plumed cap large and emerald, and behind him staggered his soiled dove, no doubt looking to sell her favors for the promise of silver.
Turning to make my escape I encountered a shadow, the odd form of a person where I had just passed, though I had seen him not before. 'O apparition,' said I, 'if you be friend aid me now, and if you be foe please show mercy.'
He(?) emerged into the street light, slender to the point of emaciation, clad in patent leather rainment that in other circumstances might have been part of a gimp outfit. Work boots he(?) wore, scuffed and worn, and a Raiders jacket, with a cap turned sideways. His(?) face might have been from the Orient, or perhaps a swarthy inhabitant from below the equator, but had been so extensively altered by surgeons that his(?) origin could not be determined, nor could his gender. He(?) gestured behind himself to a food truck I had not seen before.
'I have come to guide you through this inferno,' he(?) said, and even his voice sounded genderless, 'though too late I cannot tarry, for I have an audition in the morning.'
Behind me the pimp approached, smacking his bitch upside the head. Behind them the junkie stood upright, his eyes now full of chemical fury. I turned to the genderless abomination before me, choosing the lesser of two evils.
'Let us be gone to yon food truck,' said I, hurrying towards him(?). 'Of many questions I have let this be the first: what manner of being are you?'
'The Spirit of Los Angeles am I,' he(?) said, bowing as if he were on stage. 'It is appointed to me that I be your guide out of this abyss. Mine own reality show shall be my reward.'
'Let us make haste, then,' said I, leaping into the food truck. 'Does this conveyance vend tacos?'
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Mega Lotto
I didn't win the Mega Millions jackpot the other day.
Big surprise, I know, but congratulations to those who did, that's a lot of money. Which got me to thinking, how much is enough? Certainly when someone wins $300 million, they're probably not going to have to work again. Ever. Unless they turn into one of those lottery winners for whom the money becomes abstract and meaningless, so they spend it like it's never going to run out. Which it does, of course, leaving them millions of dollars in debt instead of mere hundreds.
But assume you won the lottery, and further assume you were astute enough, or had astute enough friends, family and advisors around you, that you don't become a cautionary tale and you actually invest your money wisely and spend thriftily enough that you'll die before you run out of funds.
How much do you need?
And I don't mean just cash, I mean stuff. You'd splurge at first, of course, fur-lined sinks, electric dog polishers, that kind of thing, but once you have a house full of junk you'll never use again, then what? Once you've eaten at every restaurant in town once a week for a year, then what?
Wouldn't it be better to use your money to go places, to see things, to do things - or have them done to you - and to have experiences that only that kind of money can bring? The thing that separates me from Bill Gates is not his multi-billions of dollars, it's what that kind of cash can do. He's got waaaaay more options than I do, nothing but the freedom to go crazy. Which is why he's out there right now trying to guilt other billionaires into giving away most of their money to charity. Bill Gates realized that he'd much rather be remembered as Andrew Carnegie* than J.P. Morgan**.
I think it's good to be comfortable, meaning you have enough to live on, to provide a few amenities or possibly luxuries, provide for your family appropriately, that sort of thing. But too much money becomes a prison, a situation in which you spend most of your time and energy trying to maintain your wealth rather than enjoying what that wealth can provide. And if you're not extremely careful, your kids turn into privileged little bastards.
Lots of money, from the lottery or from deceptive, borderline-fraudulent business practices, should be funneled into arts and sciences. DaVinci was a genius without parallel, but he still had to go to the Italian nobility with his hat in his hand, asking for florins to keep doing what he loved. It seems to me that sort of noblesse oblige is lacking today; there are a lot of people expending a lot of effort to make a lot of money for no other reason than to have it before the next guy. Doesn't seem right to me.
I'll keep playing the lottery, but I'll need to think about what I'd do when I finally win it. Be careful what you wish for and all that.
First things first, though. I'd install those fur-lined sinks.
* now known for his Carnegie endowment and libraries instead of his social Darwinism and cutthroat business practices
** now known largely for being the focus of the fierce anti-trust legislation of the early 20th Century
Big surprise, I know, but congratulations to those who did, that's a lot of money. Which got me to thinking, how much is enough? Certainly when someone wins $300 million, they're probably not going to have to work again. Ever. Unless they turn into one of those lottery winners for whom the money becomes abstract and meaningless, so they spend it like it's never going to run out. Which it does, of course, leaving them millions of dollars in debt instead of mere hundreds.
But assume you won the lottery, and further assume you were astute enough, or had astute enough friends, family and advisors around you, that you don't become a cautionary tale and you actually invest your money wisely and spend thriftily enough that you'll die before you run out of funds.
How much do you need?
And I don't mean just cash, I mean stuff. You'd splurge at first, of course, fur-lined sinks, electric dog polishers, that kind of thing, but once you have a house full of junk you'll never use again, then what? Once you've eaten at every restaurant in town once a week for a year, then what?
Wouldn't it be better to use your money to go places, to see things, to do things - or have them done to you - and to have experiences that only that kind of money can bring? The thing that separates me from Bill Gates is not his multi-billions of dollars, it's what that kind of cash can do. He's got waaaaay more options than I do, nothing but the freedom to go crazy. Which is why he's out there right now trying to guilt other billionaires into giving away most of their money to charity. Bill Gates realized that he'd much rather be remembered as Andrew Carnegie* than J.P. Morgan**.
I think it's good to be comfortable, meaning you have enough to live on, to provide a few amenities or possibly luxuries, provide for your family appropriately, that sort of thing. But too much money becomes a prison, a situation in which you spend most of your time and energy trying to maintain your wealth rather than enjoying what that wealth can provide. And if you're not extremely careful, your kids turn into privileged little bastards.
Lots of money, from the lottery or from deceptive, borderline-fraudulent business practices, should be funneled into arts and sciences. DaVinci was a genius without parallel, but he still had to go to the Italian nobility with his hat in his hand, asking for florins to keep doing what he loved. It seems to me that sort of noblesse oblige is lacking today; there are a lot of people expending a lot of effort to make a lot of money for no other reason than to have it before the next guy. Doesn't seem right to me.
I'll keep playing the lottery, but I'll need to think about what I'd do when I finally win it. Be careful what you wish for and all that.
First things first, though. I'd install those fur-lined sinks.
* now known for his Carnegie endowment and libraries instead of his social Darwinism and cutthroat business practices
** now known largely for being the focus of the fierce anti-trust legislation of the early 20th Century
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Face Me
I've been dreaming faces lately.
Normally I dream situations, like a surreal sitcom in my head or some kind of action/adventure vignette. For instance, I remember a creepy twilight town that looked like a 50's film noir set where the backgrounds are half-lit and the pavement is always wet, or a cartoon desert like the one Wile E. Coyote chases the Roadrunner through, or a wind-swept promontory as a thunderstorm approaches. Sure, there are people in these dreams, but I only recognize them as archetypes, or as representations of friends or family or celebrities. There aren't really any faces, at least not stark, immediate, foreign faces.
But now... if I'm in that twilight between sleeping and waking, either falling asleep or waking up, I'll see faces. No situation, the setting is a hazy gray nowhere, but the faces are all over. Little kids and old people and everything in between. Nothing but faces. No talking, no events, just people coming up to me and looking me in the eye. No one I recognize either, no family, no celebrities. And it's never the same face twice.
Kind of creepy, huh? Makes me wonder what's going on in my head that I see this kind of thing. Or maybe I dream this all the time and it's only now that I'm remembering it? And if that's the case, why do I not have recognizable faces in my other dreams, and why am I only remembering these faces now?
Or... maybe when I'm in that half-sleep state I'm open to the netherworld, and the faces I see don't come from my imagination... maybe they're visitations from beyond, the departed trying to make themselves understood... ooooh, spooky....
Maybe next time I'll try talking to them, see what happens. It could be that my next career is as a non-douchebag version of John Edward. 'I see someone in your family, whose name started with b, no c, no d, no p... Paul, yeah, p, I meant p. Now give me money.'
Normally I dream situations, like a surreal sitcom in my head or some kind of action/adventure vignette. For instance, I remember a creepy twilight town that looked like a 50's film noir set where the backgrounds are half-lit and the pavement is always wet, or a cartoon desert like the one Wile E. Coyote chases the Roadrunner through, or a wind-swept promontory as a thunderstorm approaches. Sure, there are people in these dreams, but I only recognize them as archetypes, or as representations of friends or family or celebrities. There aren't really any faces, at least not stark, immediate, foreign faces.
But now... if I'm in that twilight between sleeping and waking, either falling asleep or waking up, I'll see faces. No situation, the setting is a hazy gray nowhere, but the faces are all over. Little kids and old people and everything in between. Nothing but faces. No talking, no events, just people coming up to me and looking me in the eye. No one I recognize either, no family, no celebrities. And it's never the same face twice.
Kind of creepy, huh? Makes me wonder what's going on in my head that I see this kind of thing. Or maybe I dream this all the time and it's only now that I'm remembering it? And if that's the case, why do I not have recognizable faces in my other dreams, and why am I only remembering these faces now?
Or... maybe when I'm in that half-sleep state I'm open to the netherworld, and the faces I see don't come from my imagination... maybe they're visitations from beyond, the departed trying to make themselves understood... ooooh, spooky....
Maybe next time I'll try talking to them, see what happens. It could be that my next career is as a non-douchebag version of John Edward. 'I see someone in your family, whose name started with b, no c, no d, no p... Paul, yeah, p, I meant p. Now give me money.'
Monday, January 3, 2011
Clean Up, Clean Up
I'm back in Pasadena today, and I was out driving around to re-stock the pantry, to buy my lotto tickets (you can't win if you don't play) and to try to get my truck out into the rain to knock some of the dust off it. It's two days after the Rose Parade - which I'd kind of forgotten about since Saturday to tell you the truth - and the guys are out in the rain and cold tearing down the bleachers they put up just weeks ago. It's a sight I'd seen before, I've lived here a while. But something struck me as I drove down Colorado Blvd.
The streets aren't nearly as trashed as they have been in years past.
Immediately after the Rose Parade, when people either go home, go to a local restaurant, or head for the Rose Bowl, Colorado Blvd. looks like someone drove by and dumped a city's worth of garbage on every street corner. Most of the littering is not malicious (except for the silly string and tortillas), merely careless and the result of packing over a million people along a 5 mile parade route. And the litter usually lingers for days, even though city crews make the effort to clean up quickly.
This year, though, the streets are almost spotless. For streets, anyway. The sidewalks still have some of the taped-off squares people use to reserve their spots, but I don't see a lot of silly string debris, or the tiny scraps from sugar or ketchup packets, or the paper wrapped around straws... It's almost like people suddenly became more courteous and conscientious.
Sure, the city crews could just be very efficient and cleaning like demons, but I prefer to think that people are thinking about others and behaving themselves better. Maybe it's misguided, but it makes me feel better about humanity.
The streets aren't nearly as trashed as they have been in years past.
Immediately after the Rose Parade, when people either go home, go to a local restaurant, or head for the Rose Bowl, Colorado Blvd. looks like someone drove by and dumped a city's worth of garbage on every street corner. Most of the littering is not malicious (except for the silly string and tortillas), merely careless and the result of packing over a million people along a 5 mile parade route. And the litter usually lingers for days, even though city crews make the effort to clean up quickly.
This year, though, the streets are almost spotless. For streets, anyway. The sidewalks still have some of the taped-off squares people use to reserve their spots, but I don't see a lot of silly string debris, or the tiny scraps from sugar or ketchup packets, or the paper wrapped around straws... It's almost like people suddenly became more courteous and conscientious.
Sure, the city crews could just be very efficient and cleaning like demons, but I prefer to think that people are thinking about others and behaving themselves better. Maybe it's misguided, but it makes me feel better about humanity.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
