If I were in charge of a charity event, I think I'd like to see us raise money by needlessly endangering the participant's lives. I mean, we've seen all sort of fun runs, and awareness walks, and pancake breakfasts, and wine tastings, and... well, you name it. Nothing very memorable and certainly nothing very dangerous.
But think of the 'awareness' and notoriety you could get your cause if you put people in jeopardy on purpose. As far as local news is concerned 'if it bleeds it leads,' so why not play into that? Here are my suggestions for charity fund raising events that are guaranteed to end in tragedy and TONS of publicity.
MDA Bear-baiting
United Way Dirty Needle Tatto-fest
Doctors Without Borders Semi-Annual Train Trestle Dare
Red Cross Cinderblock Swim
American Cancer Society 10K Scissors Run
Gates Foundation Rabid Possum Catch
Susan G. Komen No-Parachute Jump
Habitat For Humanity Nail Gun Dodge-Em
Greenpeace Medical Clinic Dumpster Dive
PBS 'Startle Our Oldest Donors' a-thon
March of Dimes Untrained Lumberjack Week
World Wildlife Fund Maximum Security Prison Experience
Amnesty International 'Is This Really Poisonous?' Night
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Friday, February 25, 2011
When Tom Sings You Listen
Years ago I gave my younger niece a CD of Tom Jones hits. She loved it, especially the chorus of 'What's New, Pussycat?'* She amazed and delighted my sister's friends who had no idea a little kid could know all the words to any song, let alone Tom Jones. My younger niece is now an accomplished musician and I like to believe that Tom Jones had a very large part in making that happen.
So I was re-listening to my copy of that Tom Jones greatest hits CD - on iTunes, natch, who handles CDs these days? - and I realized that some of his songs don't make a whole lot of sense. I mean, they're undeniably catchy and I can listen to them over and over, but only if I don't pay a whole lot of attention.
To wit, 'Thunderball':
He knows the meaning of success.
His needs are more, so he gives less.
They call him the winner who takes all.
And he strikes, like Thunderball.
Get away from the groovy 60's theatrical score and just listen, and the song doesn't really hold together. Never mind that it was the theme for a James Bond picture.
Or how about 'Help Yourself'
Love is like candy on a shelf
You want to taste and help yourself
The sweetest things are there for you
Help yourself take a few
That's what I want you to do
Or 'Puppet Man'
Baby, Baby, I'm your sweet pet
I'm just your personal marionette
Wind me up and let me go
Don't you know I'm a one man show?
I think I've made my point.
However, the fact that some of Mr. Jones' lyrics approach dadaist meaninglessness makes absolutely no difference. At. All. I want to strike like Thunderball, even though I have no idea what that means. And I want my love to wind me up, even though marionettes aren't wind-up dolls. And I want my love like candy on a shelf, even though candy goes in jars. When I listen to Tom Jones I just sit back and enjoy, and turn my brain off. I leave myself in his tender care, because I know he won't do me wrong.
When Tom Jones sings, you listen.
* whoa-whoa-whoa
So I was re-listening to my copy of that Tom Jones greatest hits CD - on iTunes, natch, who handles CDs these days? - and I realized that some of his songs don't make a whole lot of sense. I mean, they're undeniably catchy and I can listen to them over and over, but only if I don't pay a whole lot of attention.
To wit, 'Thunderball':
He knows the meaning of success.
His needs are more, so he gives less.
They call him the winner who takes all.
And he strikes, like Thunderball.
Get away from the groovy 60's theatrical score and just listen, and the song doesn't really hold together. Never mind that it was the theme for a James Bond picture.
Or how about 'Help Yourself'
Love is like candy on a shelf
You want to taste and help yourself
The sweetest things are there for you
Help yourself take a few
That's what I want you to do
Or 'Puppet Man'
Baby, Baby, I'm your sweet pet
I'm just your personal marionette
Wind me up and let me go
Don't you know I'm a one man show?
I think I've made my point.
However, the fact that some of Mr. Jones' lyrics approach dadaist meaninglessness makes absolutely no difference. At. All. I want to strike like Thunderball, even though I have no idea what that means. And I want my love to wind me up, even though marionettes aren't wind-up dolls. And I want my love like candy on a shelf, even though candy goes in jars. When I listen to Tom Jones I just sit back and enjoy, and turn my brain off. I leave myself in his tender care, because I know he won't do me wrong.
When Tom Jones sings, you listen.
* whoa-whoa-whoa
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Free Research
I've been thinking lately, and here are some topics that would make really good Master's theses or even PhD dissertations. I provide them free of charge, just mention my name when they award you the Nobel.
What is the correlation between the rise of religious fundamentalism in US society as a whole and the rise of originalism in the Supreme Court's interpretation of the Constitution? Can both these things be traced back to a single source, be it social movement or world event?
What is an electron, precisely? If you measure an electron one way it's a particle, if you measure it another way it's a wave, which means that an electron is actually neither of those things but something else entirely. What is that thing? Same goes for the other elementary particles. And don't tell me it's a vibrating string, that's just another barely-suitable model.
Why do people become so eager for McRib sandwiches and Shamrock Shakes? The idea is that rarity breeds desire, no secret there, or the principle of intermittent reward. But neither of those things fully explains the fan base these horrible food items have. If you can unlock the secret to why people love these two things so much you'd go a long way towards predicting human behavior.
Why are yawns contagious? Ignore for a moment the question of why we yawn at all, I want to know why yawns are contagious across species. If I yawn in front of my dog he's probably going to yawn too. Same thing if I had a monkey, which - God willing - I will one day. What's the deal? Why does it happen?
To what extent does the media shape and inform political discourse? And I'm not just talking about drug addict right-wingers on AM radio, I mean broadcast television, the AP, Reuters, all of them. If the media doesn't tell us about it we don't care, so how does news coverage affect our impression of the political landscape?
What are the ethics of complete sequencing of a person's genome? I don't mean the first time scientists finished the job, I mean what are the ethical implications for sequencing mine specifically? Or yours? Or the President's? We'll be able to tell a lot more about a person from their genes in the coming years, for instance if someone has a tendency towards being a serial killer. Do we pre-emptively treat someone for being a serial killer if they have shown absolutely no tendency towards that? What are the social stigmas attached to having a serial killer gene? And if we suppress that serial killer gene - we don't allow that person to breed - what are the implications for the human genome as a whole?
I swear, I should work for a think tank. Anybody have any idea how to go about getting hired by a think tank? Maybe creating one of my own? For that matter, how did they come up with the term 'think tank' in the first place?
So many questions...
What is the correlation between the rise of religious fundamentalism in US society as a whole and the rise of originalism in the Supreme Court's interpretation of the Constitution? Can both these things be traced back to a single source, be it social movement or world event?
What is an electron, precisely? If you measure an electron one way it's a particle, if you measure it another way it's a wave, which means that an electron is actually neither of those things but something else entirely. What is that thing? Same goes for the other elementary particles. And don't tell me it's a vibrating string, that's just another barely-suitable model.
Why do people become so eager for McRib sandwiches and Shamrock Shakes? The idea is that rarity breeds desire, no secret there, or the principle of intermittent reward. But neither of those things fully explains the fan base these horrible food items have. If you can unlock the secret to why people love these two things so much you'd go a long way towards predicting human behavior.
Why are yawns contagious? Ignore for a moment the question of why we yawn at all, I want to know why yawns are contagious across species. If I yawn in front of my dog he's probably going to yawn too. Same thing if I had a monkey, which - God willing - I will one day. What's the deal? Why does it happen?
To what extent does the media shape and inform political discourse? And I'm not just talking about drug addict right-wingers on AM radio, I mean broadcast television, the AP, Reuters, all of them. If the media doesn't tell us about it we don't care, so how does news coverage affect our impression of the political landscape?
What are the ethics of complete sequencing of a person's genome? I don't mean the first time scientists finished the job, I mean what are the ethical implications for sequencing mine specifically? Or yours? Or the President's? We'll be able to tell a lot more about a person from their genes in the coming years, for instance if someone has a tendency towards being a serial killer. Do we pre-emptively treat someone for being a serial killer if they have shown absolutely no tendency towards that? What are the social stigmas attached to having a serial killer gene? And if we suppress that serial killer gene - we don't allow that person to breed - what are the implications for the human genome as a whole?
I swear, I should work for a think tank. Anybody have any idea how to go about getting hired by a think tank? Maybe creating one of my own? For that matter, how did they come up with the term 'think tank' in the first place?
So many questions...
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Stuffed Limo
The place where I fence is in Burbank, in a tiny little industrial area which is all that remains of what had once been a big non-office-building area in that part of town. These days just across the street is a big mall, and over one street is another big mall, but right by the fencing salle there are several car repair places, one hot rod shop, a furniture store, a vacant place that smells like solvent but otherwise is completely anonymous, and a taxidermy shop.
That's right, smack in the heart of Burbank is a place that will stuff your coyote. And that's not a double-entendre, they really will stuff your coyote. Or your monkey, or your rattlesnake, what have you. There is a great white shark above their door, which certainly looks real, but since it's LA you never quite know.
Last week as I was - literally - yards away from fencing practice, I was thwarted in my attempts to park by a stretch limo. Not a town car, this was one of those huge, long limos, the kind they bring stars to the Oscars in, the kind with two moon roofs and a fully-stocked wet bar. That kind. It was backing into the taxidermy place.
Yeah. Figure that one out.
I'm used to seeing these behemoth cars, they're all over LA. But I am absolutely not used to seeing one laboring to back into the taxidermy shop's parking lot.
I tried to make up a story about this, like maybe Joan Rivers had exhausted all her plastic surgery options so now she needed to go to a taxidermist, something like that. But nothing could match the completely surreal experience of waiting while the stretch limo tried to park under the stuffed shark. That's odd enough that anything else you might make up is only gilding the lily.
I wanted to wait and see who got out, or maybe ask the driver precisely what he was doing and who he was driving around, but once the limo had backed in they closed the gate.
Now I'll never get closure on that anecdote.
That's right, smack in the heart of Burbank is a place that will stuff your coyote. And that's not a double-entendre, they really will stuff your coyote. Or your monkey, or your rattlesnake, what have you. There is a great white shark above their door, which certainly looks real, but since it's LA you never quite know.
Last week as I was - literally - yards away from fencing practice, I was thwarted in my attempts to park by a stretch limo. Not a town car, this was one of those huge, long limos, the kind they bring stars to the Oscars in, the kind with two moon roofs and a fully-stocked wet bar. That kind. It was backing into the taxidermy place.
Yeah. Figure that one out.
I'm used to seeing these behemoth cars, they're all over LA. But I am absolutely not used to seeing one laboring to back into the taxidermy shop's parking lot.
I tried to make up a story about this, like maybe Joan Rivers had exhausted all her plastic surgery options so now she needed to go to a taxidermist, something like that. But nothing could match the completely surreal experience of waiting while the stretch limo tried to park under the stuffed shark. That's odd enough that anything else you might make up is only gilding the lily.
I wanted to wait and see who got out, or maybe ask the driver precisely what he was doing and who he was driving around, but once the limo had backed in they closed the gate.
Now I'll never get closure on that anecdote.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
You Know What This Town Needs?
I went on a long walk today instead of going to the gym. Where they want to take my fingerprints. And I had a few thoughts about how to improve the city.
Moving sidewalks. I'm walking for my health, but I do get a little tired now and then. If we had Jetsons-style moving sidewalks I could take a breather when I needed and still make progress to my destination.
Refreshments. Just like they have for marathon runners, only good. Not cups of warm water, mugs of ice cold beer. And bowls of pretzels. Maybe some Cheeze-Its if that's in the budget.
A ban on creepy people. No hard-bitten strung-out broads driving beat up panel vans, no extra-hefty gentlemen carrying tiny little dogs, no Eurotrash holding cigarettes the wrong way and giggling in their mother tongue, all those people are up to no good and they should be prohibited. Possibly flogged.
Conversely, we need more crazy conspiracy people. The kind who will hold an earnest conversation with you about just why the aliens are coming for Jesus and give you a pamphlet to prove their point. But we need to put them all in one place, maybe right by the pawn shop. They can fight it out in a cage match to see whose nonsense wins.
More big, goofy dogs. The kind who knock things over with their tails and don't realize it. We should be able to pet at least one big friendly dog every block.
Street food. I noticed a definite lack of hot dogs, churros, and pretzels on every corner. Sure, the local restaurants would object, but if you're buying a hot dog from a cart you weren't going into Cheesecake Factory in the first place.
Street performers. They could move from block to block every half hour, so they wouldn't totally block foot traffic or screw up any single business for too long. Jugglers and fire eaters draw crowds.
See? Seven great ideas just from an hour of wandering around. If the Pasadena City Council would implement just a few of these suggestions Old Town would be a much more fun place to be. They should hire me as their Idea Man. I could totally do that.
Moving sidewalks. I'm walking for my health, but I do get a little tired now and then. If we had Jetsons-style moving sidewalks I could take a breather when I needed and still make progress to my destination.
Refreshments. Just like they have for marathon runners, only good. Not cups of warm water, mugs of ice cold beer. And bowls of pretzels. Maybe some Cheeze-Its if that's in the budget.
A ban on creepy people. No hard-bitten strung-out broads driving beat up panel vans, no extra-hefty gentlemen carrying tiny little dogs, no Eurotrash holding cigarettes the wrong way and giggling in their mother tongue, all those people are up to no good and they should be prohibited. Possibly flogged.
Conversely, we need more crazy conspiracy people. The kind who will hold an earnest conversation with you about just why the aliens are coming for Jesus and give you a pamphlet to prove their point. But we need to put them all in one place, maybe right by the pawn shop. They can fight it out in a cage match to see whose nonsense wins.
More big, goofy dogs. The kind who knock things over with their tails and don't realize it. We should be able to pet at least one big friendly dog every block.
Street food. I noticed a definite lack of hot dogs, churros, and pretzels on every corner. Sure, the local restaurants would object, but if you're buying a hot dog from a cart you weren't going into Cheesecake Factory in the first place.
Street performers. They could move from block to block every half hour, so they wouldn't totally block foot traffic or screw up any single business for too long. Jugglers and fire eaters draw crowds.
See? Seven great ideas just from an hour of wandering around. If the Pasadena City Council would implement just a few of these suggestions Old Town would be a much more fun place to be. They should hire me as their Idea Man. I could totally do that.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Monstrous
I settled in for the night, snuggling down in my covers, shivering as I waited for my body heat to warm the sheets and pillow.
Borzes cleared his throat, the sound rattling around the room. Borzes is the monster who lives under my bed.
"Hey, sport," he called out. He calls me 'sport' because he can't remember my name. He drinks. "You gonna have a nightmare tonight?"
"I don't think so," I murmured as my eyes closed. "Not much going on to have a nightmare about."
Borzes grumbled, and I heard a few other squeaks and bubbles from his digestive system. He eats dreams, and finds nightmares particularly tasty. "Nothing? What about the state of the economy? Global warming? Your stalled career?"
"Nope," I yawned, "all of that stuff is so far beyond my control there's no point in worrying, let alone having bad dreams."
"Really? Not even your career?" my monster sounded both disappointed and angry. "That's firmly in your control."
I laughed. "Hardly. Settle down, Borzes, maybe I'll have some sort of surreal Hieronymous Bosch kind of dream you can eat. You like the weird ones, don't you?"
"I like nightmares better..." he groused. "What about serial killers? One could sneak in here and gut you like a fish."
"Stop talking," I said.
For a long time Borzes said nothing and I drifted down into slumber.
"I could show you my true form." He sounded a little timid, almost frightened.
"I've seen you," I said. "Remember, when I thought you were a mouse? Chased you with a flashlight? Honestly, you're not that scary. You're small enough to fit under a bed."
Another long pause.
"You're going to die alone and unloved."
I sat up. "Seriously? You're trotting that one out? That's more a psychiatrist's couch thing than a nightmare. And it's not true anyway."
"Ohhh..." I could hear the smile in his voice. "I got it. Something to wake you screaming at 3 AM."
"You got nothing," I challenged, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
"Marriage. Commitment. Kids. A house in the suburbs. Real responsibility to someone other than yourself. More debt than you have income to take care of. No more time to yourself..."
"All right, cut it out!" I snapped as visions of kids and mortgages and college bills flew through my head.
"Hit a nerve, didn't I?" Borzes chuckled. "Ah, I still got it. Still got it."
"Shut up," I mumbled. I dug further into the covers. "I'm not going to have a nightmare, so you can just starve."
"Sweet dreams," Borzes whispered as my eyes closed.
Borzes cleared his throat, the sound rattling around the room. Borzes is the monster who lives under my bed.
"Hey, sport," he called out. He calls me 'sport' because he can't remember my name. He drinks. "You gonna have a nightmare tonight?"
"I don't think so," I murmured as my eyes closed. "Not much going on to have a nightmare about."
Borzes grumbled, and I heard a few other squeaks and bubbles from his digestive system. He eats dreams, and finds nightmares particularly tasty. "Nothing? What about the state of the economy? Global warming? Your stalled career?"
"Nope," I yawned, "all of that stuff is so far beyond my control there's no point in worrying, let alone having bad dreams."
"Really? Not even your career?" my monster sounded both disappointed and angry. "That's firmly in your control."
I laughed. "Hardly. Settle down, Borzes, maybe I'll have some sort of surreal Hieronymous Bosch kind of dream you can eat. You like the weird ones, don't you?"
"I like nightmares better..." he groused. "What about serial killers? One could sneak in here and gut you like a fish."
"Stop talking," I said.
For a long time Borzes said nothing and I drifted down into slumber.
"I could show you my true form." He sounded a little timid, almost frightened.
"I've seen you," I said. "Remember, when I thought you were a mouse? Chased you with a flashlight? Honestly, you're not that scary. You're small enough to fit under a bed."
Another long pause.
"You're going to die alone and unloved."
I sat up. "Seriously? You're trotting that one out? That's more a psychiatrist's couch thing than a nightmare. And it's not true anyway."
"Ohhh..." I could hear the smile in his voice. "I got it. Something to wake you screaming at 3 AM."
"You got nothing," I challenged, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
"Marriage. Commitment. Kids. A house in the suburbs. Real responsibility to someone other than yourself. More debt than you have income to take care of. No more time to yourself..."
"All right, cut it out!" I snapped as visions of kids and mortgages and college bills flew through my head.
"Hit a nerve, didn't I?" Borzes chuckled. "Ah, I still got it. Still got it."
"Shut up," I mumbled. I dug further into the covers. "I'm not going to have a nightmare, so you can just starve."
"Sweet dreams," Borzes whispered as my eyes closed.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Next Stop... Skynet
I've been going to my local gym for years. It's in the basement of the old Pasadena Star News building, in the area once occupied by the printing presses, when those things were two-story-tall monster machines. It's a pretty cool space, three-level and very open. But lately things have been kind of not cool.
For most of the time I've been going I just hand over my gym ID card, the person behind the counter scans it, and I get to go in. Bada-bing, bada-boom, easy peasy lemon squeezy.
No more. The company has gone to a fingerprint reader. You key in a ten-digit number - probably people use their phone number - and then scan your right index finger. Up until now I have steadfastly refused to let them scan my fingerprints, I stick with the ID card. Except now they're not using the ID cards. If you don't want to use the fingerprint scanner you have to fork over a driver's license and let them look it up that way.
So now I'm on the horns of a dilemma. I don't want to use my driver's license - which is for driving not venue admission - yet I steadfastly object to letting a gym, of all businesses, take a record of my fingerprint so they can provide a service I've paid for. What the hell? The only reason they want my fingerprint is to make their extremely easy job - keeping the gate - even easier. Other than the company being lazy, there is absolutely no Goddamned reason they need a record of my fingerprints. AT. ALL. They're a fucking GYM!! I go there to sweat, not to create the next Manhattan Project. Biometric security should be the least of their concerns. How about working this hard to keep soap in the dispensers by the sink?
I can hear you asking 'What's the big deal, Don? It's just a gym.'
Which is my point exactly. It's just a gym. I don't want to come across as some crazy conspiracy theorist, but this is where the abrogation of our civil liberties starts. It's just a gym. So why do they want my fingerprint? That's the one definite personal identifier I can never change. And if I give it to them, they'll have a way to tie that biometric data to my name, my address, my phone number, and my credit records, all of which that gym also has.
Where does it stop? How much personal privacy do I have to give up just keep my heart from giving out on me when I'm 70?
If I want to keep working out there my choices now are down to two: fork over my driver's license every time, which is also none of their Goddamned business, or let them scan my fingerprint.
I'm going for the driver's license. Fuckers.
For most of the time I've been going I just hand over my gym ID card, the person behind the counter scans it, and I get to go in. Bada-bing, bada-boom, easy peasy lemon squeezy.
No more. The company has gone to a fingerprint reader. You key in a ten-digit number - probably people use their phone number - and then scan your right index finger. Up until now I have steadfastly refused to let them scan my fingerprints, I stick with the ID card. Except now they're not using the ID cards. If you don't want to use the fingerprint scanner you have to fork over a driver's license and let them look it up that way.
So now I'm on the horns of a dilemma. I don't want to use my driver's license - which is for driving not venue admission - yet I steadfastly object to letting a gym, of all businesses, take a record of my fingerprint so they can provide a service I've paid for. What the hell? The only reason they want my fingerprint is to make their extremely easy job - keeping the gate - even easier. Other than the company being lazy, there is absolutely no Goddamned reason they need a record of my fingerprints. AT. ALL. They're a fucking GYM!! I go there to sweat, not to create the next Manhattan Project. Biometric security should be the least of their concerns. How about working this hard to keep soap in the dispensers by the sink?
I can hear you asking 'What's the big deal, Don? It's just a gym.'
Which is my point exactly. It's just a gym. I don't want to come across as some crazy conspiracy theorist, but this is where the abrogation of our civil liberties starts. It's just a gym. So why do they want my fingerprint? That's the one definite personal identifier I can never change. And if I give it to them, they'll have a way to tie that biometric data to my name, my address, my phone number, and my credit records, all of which that gym also has.
Where does it stop? How much personal privacy do I have to give up just keep my heart from giving out on me when I'm 70?
If I want to keep working out there my choices now are down to two: fork over my driver's license every time, which is also none of their Goddamned business, or let them scan my fingerprint.
I'm going for the driver's license. Fuckers.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Tales From My Past - Vegas, Baby
Back when I worked for the government I spent three weeks at Nellis Air Force Base. Which is in Las Vegas. I'd been to Vegas several times before, and my enthusiasm for the place is what led the powers-that-be to send me there again. But, if you were wondering, three weeks in Vegas is exactly three weeks too long.
After two weeks of just me and Earnest, the trainers showed up. One of them was Doris, who was hilarious and just the right combination of naive and very worldly to make for a good dinner companion. So I took her to the MGM Grand buffet. This was back when buffets in Vegas were excellent - most of them - and the one at the MGM was astounding. We stuffed our faces and I learned that Doris was from Branson, MO, and had never even played bingo, let alone gambled for real, with real money.
I took her through the casino, explaining the games to her. Craps was a mystery, twenty-one was too much strategy, and pai gow was just witchcraft. But roulette caught her eye, with its spinning wheel and bouncing ball and the numbers on the big board out front.
I explained to Doris that roulette was the worst sucker game on the casino floor, the max payout was 35:1 and there were 38 spaces on the wheel, which gave the house about an 8% advantage right off the bat. She was still mesmerized by the red and black spaces and the green zeros. The game we happened to be watching had lots of chips on the table. As a matter of fact, one lady had a huge stack of chips on 14.
I then explained to Doris that we were going to watch that lady lose at least $200, and that was only if the chips in her stack were all $5 chips. She could be risking a lot more.
Spin-spin-spin.
The ball landed on 14.
If that was $200, at 35:1 odds the roulette lady collected at least $7000. Doris's eyes lit up.
The lady who won said 'press.' Meaning let it ride, keep the money on the table. On 14.
I explained to Doris that we were now going to witness a woman lose $7000. It was madness to win $7000 and then risk it all on the exact same number the very next roll. The croupier spun the wheel and flicked the ball into play.
Spin-spin-spin.
The ball landed on 14. For the second time in a row. Against all common sense that lady had let her $7000 ride and had come up to the good. That's why they call it gambling, I suppose. If the lady only had $7000 on 14, at 35:1 odds she had just won about $250,000. She took her chips, colored up, and ran for the cashier's booth.
Doris looked up at me with dollar signs in her eyes. "I like roulette."
After two weeks of just me and Earnest, the trainers showed up. One of them was Doris, who was hilarious and just the right combination of naive and very worldly to make for a good dinner companion. So I took her to the MGM Grand buffet. This was back when buffets in Vegas were excellent - most of them - and the one at the MGM was astounding. We stuffed our faces and I learned that Doris was from Branson, MO, and had never even played bingo, let alone gambled for real, with real money.
I took her through the casino, explaining the games to her. Craps was a mystery, twenty-one was too much strategy, and pai gow was just witchcraft. But roulette caught her eye, with its spinning wheel and bouncing ball and the numbers on the big board out front.
I explained to Doris that roulette was the worst sucker game on the casino floor, the max payout was 35:1 and there were 38 spaces on the wheel, which gave the house about an 8% advantage right off the bat. She was still mesmerized by the red and black spaces and the green zeros. The game we happened to be watching had lots of chips on the table. As a matter of fact, one lady had a huge stack of chips on 14.
I then explained to Doris that we were going to watch that lady lose at least $200, and that was only if the chips in her stack were all $5 chips. She could be risking a lot more.
Spin-spin-spin.
The ball landed on 14.
If that was $200, at 35:1 odds the roulette lady collected at least $7000. Doris's eyes lit up.
The lady who won said 'press.' Meaning let it ride, keep the money on the table. On 14.
I explained to Doris that we were now going to witness a woman lose $7000. It was madness to win $7000 and then risk it all on the exact same number the very next roll. The croupier spun the wheel and flicked the ball into play.
Spin-spin-spin.
The ball landed on 14. For the second time in a row. Against all common sense that lady had let her $7000 ride and had come up to the good. That's why they call it gambling, I suppose. If the lady only had $7000 on 14, at 35:1 odds she had just won about $250,000. She took her chips, colored up, and ran for the cashier's booth.
Doris looked up at me with dollar signs in her eyes. "I like roulette."
Friday, February 18, 2011
OMG
You ever have one of those days when you see one thing, and then all you see for the rest of the day is that same thing, over and over and over? It'll happen with numbers, for instance, you see 37 early in the morning and then it's nothing but 37 for the rest of the day. Or you see a lady with a yellow dress and then you see the same yellow on every third person. It's either some grand synchronicity or you just have that thing on the brain. I'm putting my money on synchronicity. Why? you ask. Well, I'll tell you...
This morning I got up early to work out. As I'm walking to the gym, what do I see but some distracted woman in a minivan parked in front of the driveway of the old folks' home across the street, texting. I suppose it's a saving grace that she wasn't driving, but she was blocking out the food delivery truck. How she missed that huge vehicle in her rear-view I don't know. Unless, of course, she wasn't paying attention. Which she wasn't.
Coming out of the gym, which is by the cooking school, I see another distracted woman, a student judging by her white coat and gray pants, texting while walking across the street. She was still in traffic when the light changed. She did not get run over, but only barely.
At the grocery store, a distracted woman was texting while parked so close to my truck that I couldn't squeeze between the two vehicles, let alone open my door to get in. I did not give her finger or take a crowbar to her rear window, though I desperately wanted to. Homey don't want to go to jail, after all.
While pumping gas what do I see but a distracted woman half-in half-out of a parking space, paused to finish texting. While she was taking care of business a line of three cars formed, all of them trying to get to the pumps, which she was blocking.
Just now, in the rain (which makes all Angelenos insane in the membrane) yet another distracted woman pulled over to the side of the road, texting. Problem is, she pulled over into a red-zone bus stop, and seemed genuinely surprised and upset when the bus driver honked at her repeatedly and flashed his lights. Maybe she wanted to give everyone waiting for the bus a ride in her Lexus?
Perhaps I'm just looking for it, maybe I'm sensitive to it, or maybe it's the rain. Or a full moon. But this is just stupid. There's no text you're receiving or sending that's worth risking your life, let alone mine. Especially mine.
Kind of makes me wonder what's coming up tomorrow. Chimney sweeps? That would be cool, to see chimney sweeps everywhere. Or C.H.U.D.S. Or monkeys with tin cups full of $100 bills, ready for me to collect. That would be especially cool. Let's make that last one happen, Universe.
This morning I got up early to work out. As I'm walking to the gym, what do I see but some distracted woman in a minivan parked in front of the driveway of the old folks' home across the street, texting. I suppose it's a saving grace that she wasn't driving, but she was blocking out the food delivery truck. How she missed that huge vehicle in her rear-view I don't know. Unless, of course, she wasn't paying attention. Which she wasn't.
Coming out of the gym, which is by the cooking school, I see another distracted woman, a student judging by her white coat and gray pants, texting while walking across the street. She was still in traffic when the light changed. She did not get run over, but only barely.
At the grocery store, a distracted woman was texting while parked so close to my truck that I couldn't squeeze between the two vehicles, let alone open my door to get in. I did not give her finger or take a crowbar to her rear window, though I desperately wanted to. Homey don't want to go to jail, after all.
While pumping gas what do I see but a distracted woman half-in half-out of a parking space, paused to finish texting. While she was taking care of business a line of three cars formed, all of them trying to get to the pumps, which she was blocking.
Just now, in the rain (which makes all Angelenos insane in the membrane) yet another distracted woman pulled over to the side of the road, texting. Problem is, she pulled over into a red-zone bus stop, and seemed genuinely surprised and upset when the bus driver honked at her repeatedly and flashed his lights. Maybe she wanted to give everyone waiting for the bus a ride in her Lexus?
Perhaps I'm just looking for it, maybe I'm sensitive to it, or maybe it's the rain. Or a full moon. But this is just stupid. There's no text you're receiving or sending that's worth risking your life, let alone mine. Especially mine.
Kind of makes me wonder what's coming up tomorrow. Chimney sweeps? That would be cool, to see chimney sweeps everywhere. Or C.H.U.D.S. Or monkeys with tin cups full of $100 bills, ready for me to collect. That would be especially cool. Let's make that last one happen, Universe.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
It's The Little Things
I was minding my own business when I got hit by the shrink ray.
It must have been some fight between costumed superheroes and a bad guy. I don't know which one had the shrink ray - probably the bad guy - all I know is one minute I'm at Starbuck's 'enjoying' a $5 cup of coffee when BAM!! I'm suddenly three inches tall. About the size of a shot glass, give or take.
There was all the commotion that usually accompanies a fight between people who wear their underwear on the outside, lots of explosions and smoke and debris and property damage. Me? I was just concerned that someone would sit on me. Or step on me.
What are you supposed to do when you're shrunk to 5% of your former height? There's no manual for this sort of thing, we didn't cover it in Boy Scout first aid training, we didn't have 'shrink drills' in elementary school. So I was at a loss. My first priority, as I mentioned, was not getting killed accidentally by people panicking. It was pretty much my only priority, to tell you the truth. So I stayed put on the chair, wondering if one of the people racing around was going to knock the furniture over and put an end to me.
Then I saw her. Slender and dark-haired, and about three inches tall, just like me. Only she was on the floor. Where people were running around. I saw her almost get creamed three or four times, but she wasn't frightened. She was pissed. I could see her screaming at people, giving them the finger with her tiny little right hand, but they couldn't hear her any more than I could. And to see her they'd have to be expecting a three-inch tall woman on the floor of Starbuck's, and, let's be honest, even the most baked stoner wouldn't expect to see that.
She was moments away from getting trampled, so I did the only thing I could. I slid down the chair leg and ran for her. I tackled her and we rolled under the pre-packaged coffee display, where we hid with the dust bunnies and the dessicated corpse of a cockroach until the commotion died down.
Of course the superheroes realized what happened and went looking for shrunk-down people. Turns out there were quite a few of us. Like over a thousand. And, long story short, no one can figure out a way to un-shrink us. So we're stuck like this.
My grandmother always told me there was no use crying over spilt milk, and I agree. If I'm stuck being three inches tall, I might as well make the best of it. So the girl I rescued, Lois, and I are getting married, and I'm running for Mayor of Tiny Town - what else were we going to call it? - and trying to build up an outsourcing industry. On the phone no one can tell how tall you are.
Not the best thing that's ever happened to me, but not entirely the worst, either. I did get the girl.
It must have been some fight between costumed superheroes and a bad guy. I don't know which one had the shrink ray - probably the bad guy - all I know is one minute I'm at Starbuck's 'enjoying' a $5 cup of coffee when BAM!! I'm suddenly three inches tall. About the size of a shot glass, give or take.
There was all the commotion that usually accompanies a fight between people who wear their underwear on the outside, lots of explosions and smoke and debris and property damage. Me? I was just concerned that someone would sit on me. Or step on me.
What are you supposed to do when you're shrunk to 5% of your former height? There's no manual for this sort of thing, we didn't cover it in Boy Scout first aid training, we didn't have 'shrink drills' in elementary school. So I was at a loss. My first priority, as I mentioned, was not getting killed accidentally by people panicking. It was pretty much my only priority, to tell you the truth. So I stayed put on the chair, wondering if one of the people racing around was going to knock the furniture over and put an end to me.
Then I saw her. Slender and dark-haired, and about three inches tall, just like me. Only she was on the floor. Where people were running around. I saw her almost get creamed three or four times, but she wasn't frightened. She was pissed. I could see her screaming at people, giving them the finger with her tiny little right hand, but they couldn't hear her any more than I could. And to see her they'd have to be expecting a three-inch tall woman on the floor of Starbuck's, and, let's be honest, even the most baked stoner wouldn't expect to see that.
She was moments away from getting trampled, so I did the only thing I could. I slid down the chair leg and ran for her. I tackled her and we rolled under the pre-packaged coffee display, where we hid with the dust bunnies and the dessicated corpse of a cockroach until the commotion died down.
Of course the superheroes realized what happened and went looking for shrunk-down people. Turns out there were quite a few of us. Like over a thousand. And, long story short, no one can figure out a way to un-shrink us. So we're stuck like this.
My grandmother always told me there was no use crying over spilt milk, and I agree. If I'm stuck being three inches tall, I might as well make the best of it. So the girl I rescued, Lois, and I are getting married, and I'm running for Mayor of Tiny Town - what else were we going to call it? - and trying to build up an outsourcing industry. On the phone no one can tell how tall you are.
Not the best thing that's ever happened to me, but not entirely the worst, either. I did get the girl.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
She Looks Chinese-ier
I swear by all that I hold sacred this story is 100% true. Even I couldn't make this up.
I was in the post office this morning, mailing queries for a kid's book my writing partner and I are trying to sell. I was standing in line, minding my own business, inching forward as the clerks took the next people up.
The lady in front of me, an older white woman, well past retirement age, tapped me on the arm and said - and I quote verbatim - 'You can go next, I want to talk to this person, she looks Chinese-ier than the others.'
Chinese-ier.
I guessed in an instant what her problem was, she had something to mail to China had couldn't make heads or tails of the non-English characters. But still... Chinese-ier? How do you measure that? Is it a ratio from 0 to 1, with Seal at 0 and Kim Jong Il at 1 and everyone else somewhere in between?
She then proceeded to gesture at the other postal clerks, Asians all, and tell me 'Those other ones don't look as Chinese as she does.'
So now I had a definition of Chinese-ier. Kind of. But, honestly, the clerk this woman was pointing to looked Korean to me. And, sure enough, when the older lady stepped up, the first thing the Chinese-ier clerk said was 'I don't speak Chinese' with absolutely no trace of an accent. So that's one big srike against the theory of Chinese-ier-ness the older lady subscribed to. And I'm still mystified by how she decided one particular clerk looked Chinese-ier than the others, none of whom were probably Chinese at all.
But this got me wondering: do older Asian people look at me and see a 'white-breadier' version of other white guys? That I'm somehow even less funky than decidedly non-funky frat boys? That I keep pink plastic flamingos in the weedy front yard of my run-down trailer home? That I can't afford to pay my meager rent but somehow I'm always mullet-deep in cigarettes, Jack Daniels and lotto tickets? I'd like to think not, but I know in reality they probably do. I mean, I do watch NASCAR, maybe they can tell somehow...
I was in the post office this morning, mailing queries for a kid's book my writing partner and I are trying to sell. I was standing in line, minding my own business, inching forward as the clerks took the next people up.
The lady in front of me, an older white woman, well past retirement age, tapped me on the arm and said - and I quote verbatim - 'You can go next, I want to talk to this person, she looks Chinese-ier than the others.'
Chinese-ier.
I guessed in an instant what her problem was, she had something to mail to China had couldn't make heads or tails of the non-English characters. But still... Chinese-ier? How do you measure that? Is it a ratio from 0 to 1, with Seal at 0 and Kim Jong Il at 1 and everyone else somewhere in between?
She then proceeded to gesture at the other postal clerks, Asians all, and tell me 'Those other ones don't look as Chinese as she does.'
So now I had a definition of Chinese-ier. Kind of. But, honestly, the clerk this woman was pointing to looked Korean to me. And, sure enough, when the older lady stepped up, the first thing the Chinese-ier clerk said was 'I don't speak Chinese' with absolutely no trace of an accent. So that's one big srike against the theory of Chinese-ier-ness the older lady subscribed to. And I'm still mystified by how she decided one particular clerk looked Chinese-ier than the others, none of whom were probably Chinese at all.
But this got me wondering: do older Asian people look at me and see a 'white-breadier' version of other white guys? That I'm somehow even less funky than decidedly non-funky frat boys? That I keep pink plastic flamingos in the weedy front yard of my run-down trailer home? That I can't afford to pay my meager rent but somehow I'm always mullet-deep in cigarettes, Jack Daniels and lotto tickets? I'd like to think not, but I know in reality they probably do. I mean, I do watch NASCAR, maybe they can tell somehow...
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
The Underwear Dance
I danced in my underwear this past weekend.
Well, I guess, technically speaking, any time you dance you're dancing in your underwear. As long as you're wearing underwear, that is. I mean this past weekend I took off my pants and danced in my mother's living room in my underwear. So did my brother-in-law. And, no, before you ask, there are no dark secrets between the two of us. We did it because my 2 1/2 year-old nephew asked us to.
See, he had his pants off for some reason - probably some potty reason - and he was running around the house in his undies. Pull-ups, I believe, though my sister would know for sure. I told him that he should do the underwear dance, which he did, and I joined in. Then he told me I needed to take off my pants. Which I did, what kind of fool does the underwear dance while wearing jeans? My underwear dance was more a twist, with some funk elements thrown in, coupled to a healthy dose of white-man-overbite dancing. But it was great fun.
I made a few New Year's resolutions a while back, and to tell you the truth I haven't accomplished one of them. But the day of the underwear dance I resolved to be more honest, like a two-year old. My nephew is delighted by the smallest things, surprises to him really are a surprise, and disappointments, while bitter, are short-lived. I should model myself on him.
I need to take more delight in things. I need to stop being so jaded. I need to have faith in people. I need to enjoy the moments I have. I need to let go of being an adult. I need to assume a position of weakness from time to time. I need to let other people take care of me. I need to trust more. I need to laugh when things are funny and cry when they're sad. I need to hug dogs more. I need to dance when the mood strikes me. I need to run when I get the urge. I need to get a reward when I go potty.
We'll see how things work out. Seems to me that we all need to let the two-year-old inside us loose a little now and then.
Well, I guess, technically speaking, any time you dance you're dancing in your underwear. As long as you're wearing underwear, that is. I mean this past weekend I took off my pants and danced in my mother's living room in my underwear. So did my brother-in-law. And, no, before you ask, there are no dark secrets between the two of us. We did it because my 2 1/2 year-old nephew asked us to.
See, he had his pants off for some reason - probably some potty reason - and he was running around the house in his undies. Pull-ups, I believe, though my sister would know for sure. I told him that he should do the underwear dance, which he did, and I joined in. Then he told me I needed to take off my pants. Which I did, what kind of fool does the underwear dance while wearing jeans? My underwear dance was more a twist, with some funk elements thrown in, coupled to a healthy dose of white-man-overbite dancing. But it was great fun.
I made a few New Year's resolutions a while back, and to tell you the truth I haven't accomplished one of them. But the day of the underwear dance I resolved to be more honest, like a two-year old. My nephew is delighted by the smallest things, surprises to him really are a surprise, and disappointments, while bitter, are short-lived. I should model myself on him.
I need to take more delight in things. I need to stop being so jaded. I need to have faith in people. I need to enjoy the moments I have. I need to let go of being an adult. I need to assume a position of weakness from time to time. I need to let other people take care of me. I need to trust more. I need to laugh when things are funny and cry when they're sad. I need to hug dogs more. I need to dance when the mood strikes me. I need to run when I get the urge. I need to get a reward when I go potty.
We'll see how things work out. Seems to me that we all need to let the two-year-old inside us loose a little now and then.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Candy Day
Why is it that Valentine's Day gets terrible candy? I'm not talking about the waxy, grainy chocolates in the shiny red box, which are bad enough. I'm talking about those heart-shaped Necco wafery things. The ones with 'Be Mine' and 'Kiss Me' and 'Hugs' printed across them.
Am I the only one who thinks these are horrible?*
They're not just horrible tasting, either - though they are that - they're horrible presents. 'Here honey, I'd like you to have a box of mass-produced chalky heart-shaped candies that will break your teeth and make you choke. Remember to pretend to smile while you read them and consume them.' Back in elementary school, when people kept tabs on popularity by how many Valentine's cards you got in your paper-bag mailbox, if someone really, really liked you they'd slip you a few of those candy hearts. I always took the misshapen, misprinted ones and slipped them to people I didn't like, because I knew the message was mixed. They got candy, but it was ugly candy. I don't know of any other holiday that would make such vandalism possible.
I mean, come on. Easter has Peeps - which can be gross, I'll admit - and Mother's Day has all kinds of chocoloate, and Christmas has candy canes, and Halloween has candy corn, all of which are edible and delicious. Why does Valentine's Day get stuck with something that could be used as paving stones?
* They remind me of candy cigarettes, which you can't get in the US any more. But I like candy cigarettes. They make me seem mature.
Am I the only one who thinks these are horrible?*
They're not just horrible tasting, either - though they are that - they're horrible presents. 'Here honey, I'd like you to have a box of mass-produced chalky heart-shaped candies that will break your teeth and make you choke. Remember to pretend to smile while you read them and consume them.' Back in elementary school, when people kept tabs on popularity by how many Valentine's cards you got in your paper-bag mailbox, if someone really, really liked you they'd slip you a few of those candy hearts. I always took the misshapen, misprinted ones and slipped them to people I didn't like, because I knew the message was mixed. They got candy, but it was ugly candy. I don't know of any other holiday that would make such vandalism possible.
I mean, come on. Easter has Peeps - which can be gross, I'll admit - and Mother's Day has all kinds of chocoloate, and Christmas has candy canes, and Halloween has candy corn, all of which are edible and delicious. Why does Valentine's Day get stuck with something that could be used as paving stones?
* They remind me of candy cigarettes, which you can't get in the US any more. But I like candy cigarettes. They make me seem mature.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Idaho Grandpa
I learned something today. Several things, as a matter of fact.
First I learned that public libraries are thriving and vital and relevant even in today's insane economic times. Good to know since I spent my college work study in the library. Or libary, if you wanted to drive my boss nuts.
Second, I learned that the information age, with all its time wasting and Facebook and Twitter and self-important bloggers like me, actually produced some things of value. For instance, you can search past census records online. And that's actually pretty cool.
Third, I learned that my grandfather - my father's father - was born in Idaho. This was, evidently, not news to my mother but I had always assumed he was born in Kansas. I also learned that his stepmother was born in Russia, and yet her native language was German. More than likely she lied to the census man about where she was born, since we were looking at the 1920 census, two years after the end of the Great War. Germans weren't real popular in America at that time.
While I'm glad to know more about my family history, this only leads to more questions. Like what about my grandfather's biological mother, who evidently died or was out of the picture in 1920, when he was five. Where was she from? Who were her people?
As cool as finding out more about my family history is, I am much more impressed with the fact that the census records are online. That's a lot - a LOT - of manual data entry. And there's no real value to it, at least from an MBA point of view. If you had taken the proposition to Wharton that someone start a business that involved data entry from reading 70+ year-old census entries, you'd probably be laughed out of the school.
But there's much more than monetary value to this. In the space of five minutes I went from 'knowing' wrong information about my grandfather's childhood to having irrefutable proof of where he was born and where he was living in 1920. Can I take that knowledge and make any profit from it? Of course not. Would any self-respecting business person have funded census data entry as a private enterprise? Of course not. But does knowing the truth enrich my existence? I can tell you it does, almost immeasurably.
Think about the library itself. They're non-profit government entities. No money to be made there at all. But even on a Saturday morning, I saw all sorts of people coming in to use the facility. I was tremendously impressed with the number and kind of community services that library makes available, and I know it's not unique. More than ever I see libaries becoming social centers for the community, despite the fact that there's not a single dime to be made from doing so.
So screw you, MBA holders, for all your 'immediate monetization.' There are things in life that matter way more than filthy lucre. Like family and social connectedness. And libraries. Especially libaries.
I have hope again. And all it took was twenty minutes in my local library. That's a great investment, don't you think?
First I learned that public libraries are thriving and vital and relevant even in today's insane economic times. Good to know since I spent my college work study in the library. Or libary, if you wanted to drive my boss nuts.
Second, I learned that the information age, with all its time wasting and Facebook and Twitter and self-important bloggers like me, actually produced some things of value. For instance, you can search past census records online. And that's actually pretty cool.
Third, I learned that my grandfather - my father's father - was born in Idaho. This was, evidently, not news to my mother but I had always assumed he was born in Kansas. I also learned that his stepmother was born in Russia, and yet her native language was German. More than likely she lied to the census man about where she was born, since we were looking at the 1920 census, two years after the end of the Great War. Germans weren't real popular in America at that time.
While I'm glad to know more about my family history, this only leads to more questions. Like what about my grandfather's biological mother, who evidently died or was out of the picture in 1920, when he was five. Where was she from? Who were her people?
As cool as finding out more about my family history is, I am much more impressed with the fact that the census records are online. That's a lot - a LOT - of manual data entry. And there's no real value to it, at least from an MBA point of view. If you had taken the proposition to Wharton that someone start a business that involved data entry from reading 70+ year-old census entries, you'd probably be laughed out of the school.
But there's much more than monetary value to this. In the space of five minutes I went from 'knowing' wrong information about my grandfather's childhood to having irrefutable proof of where he was born and where he was living in 1920. Can I take that knowledge and make any profit from it? Of course not. Would any self-respecting business person have funded census data entry as a private enterprise? Of course not. But does knowing the truth enrich my existence? I can tell you it does, almost immeasurably.
Think about the library itself. They're non-profit government entities. No money to be made there at all. But even on a Saturday morning, I saw all sorts of people coming in to use the facility. I was tremendously impressed with the number and kind of community services that library makes available, and I know it's not unique. More than ever I see libaries becoming social centers for the community, despite the fact that there's not a single dime to be made from doing so.
So screw you, MBA holders, for all your 'immediate monetization.' There are things in life that matter way more than filthy lucre. Like family and social connectedness. And libraries. Especially libaries.
I have hope again. And all it took was twenty minutes in my local library. That's a great investment, don't you think?
Friday, February 11, 2011
Creep Repellent
You know how you have mosquito repellent? Slather some on your arms and legs on a summer night and you might not get bitten and thus might not get malaria. There are those little electronic things you plug in that keep roaches and vermin out of your house. There are plastic owls you hang in your trees to keep bothersome birds away. We can buy all sorts of stuff designed to keep away things we don't want near us.
And yet creepy people still manage to get all up your grill, don't they?
I'm not talking about people with clipboards and an agenda, or homeless people, or those guys who set up a card table outside the grocery store. I don't mind those people, they want to accomplish something. I mean the guy with the obnoxious laugh and the big cowboy hat who sits right in front of you in the movie theater. Or the tipsy office gals who take the booth beside you at the restaurant and talk waaaaaay too loudly about their lady business. Or the guy in the grocery store who isn't following you around but just happens to be on every aisle you are. Or the guy who parks his beat-up white panel van just a little too close to the elementary school.
Wouldn't it be great if you could just whip out a can of something, spray it in the air, and these people would find somewhere else to be? You could watch your movie in peace, enjoy your meal, and even get your shopping done unmolested. Literally.
Only thing is, what if you were out and about and someone sprayed something in the air, and then you had an overwhelming urge to run away? How would you explain that one?
And yet creepy people still manage to get all up your grill, don't they?
I'm not talking about people with clipboards and an agenda, or homeless people, or those guys who set up a card table outside the grocery store. I don't mind those people, they want to accomplish something. I mean the guy with the obnoxious laugh and the big cowboy hat who sits right in front of you in the movie theater. Or the tipsy office gals who take the booth beside you at the restaurant and talk waaaaaay too loudly about their lady business. Or the guy in the grocery store who isn't following you around but just happens to be on every aisle you are. Or the guy who parks his beat-up white panel van just a little too close to the elementary school.
Wouldn't it be great if you could just whip out a can of something, spray it in the air, and these people would find somewhere else to be? You could watch your movie in peace, enjoy your meal, and even get your shopping done unmolested. Literally.
Only thing is, what if you were out and about and someone sprayed something in the air, and then you had an overwhelming urge to run away? How would you explain that one?
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Banana-Eating Cat
My mother's horrible cat eats bananas.
This is the same little bastard who bites ankles and only behaves himself because of the threat of a water-bottle soaking. The same one who hisses at everyone, including my mother, for no reason that we can determine. The same one who has a losing record of fights with every other cat in the neighborhood, yet who comes back for more over and over again. The same pugnacious, nasty, combative, horrible cat eats bananas.
He only started recently, like with the new year. Maybe he made a resolution to eat more fruit? At first my mother thought that she might have a rat or mouse or possum or something, except when she checked there was nothing else amiss. No other food on the counter touched and the food in the cat's bowl was unmolested. Rats and mice and possums wouldn't get in the house only to eat the inside out of a banana, they'd snarf everything they could get ahold of. So it had to be the cat.
Even though dogs are technically 'carnivores' they're really just stomachs with legs. Dogs can and do eat anything they think might be tasty, including their own vomit. Not picky. Cats, on the other hand, really are carnivores. They're adapted to eat meat and nothing else. Not bean and cheese tacos, not layer cake, not split pea soup, and certainly not bananas. Except for my mother's horrible cat. He gnaws right through the skin and chows down on the inside. It's like someone just scooped it out with a spoon.
I'm wondering what's next. Is he going to start whipping up a batch of crepes? How about some pumpkin bread? Maybe a pot of chili? I just know my mother's going to come home one day and find him at the stove with a little cat-sized chef's hat and tiny chef's apron, slaving away over some chicken piccatta. He'll hiss at her when she tries to get a plate for herself.
This is the same little bastard who bites ankles and only behaves himself because of the threat of a water-bottle soaking. The same one who hisses at everyone, including my mother, for no reason that we can determine. The same one who has a losing record of fights with every other cat in the neighborhood, yet who comes back for more over and over again. The same pugnacious, nasty, combative, horrible cat eats bananas.
He only started recently, like with the new year. Maybe he made a resolution to eat more fruit? At first my mother thought that she might have a rat or mouse or possum or something, except when she checked there was nothing else amiss. No other food on the counter touched and the food in the cat's bowl was unmolested. Rats and mice and possums wouldn't get in the house only to eat the inside out of a banana, they'd snarf everything they could get ahold of. So it had to be the cat.
Even though dogs are technically 'carnivores' they're really just stomachs with legs. Dogs can and do eat anything they think might be tasty, including their own vomit. Not picky. Cats, on the other hand, really are carnivores. They're adapted to eat meat and nothing else. Not bean and cheese tacos, not layer cake, not split pea soup, and certainly not bananas. Except for my mother's horrible cat. He gnaws right through the skin and chows down on the inside. It's like someone just scooped it out with a spoon.
I'm wondering what's next. Is he going to start whipping up a batch of crepes? How about some pumpkin bread? Maybe a pot of chili? I just know my mother's going to come home one day and find him at the stove with a little cat-sized chef's hat and tiny chef's apron, slaving away over some chicken piccatta. He'll hiss at her when she tries to get a plate for herself.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Time's Arrow
I've written a bit about this before, but I'm still baffled by time. And I don't mean how you can lose an entire evening watching COPS, that part of time I understand perfectly. I mean what is time, why do we experience it, and why - from our perspective at least - does time only flow in one direction.
Since we're embedded in time, I suppose you could think of it as being a fish in a stream. If you asked the fish to explain the current, why it always flowed downhill, and why they were in the stream in the first place the fish would probably have no explanation. They would probably not have given it a second thought prior to you bringing it up, since they wouldn't know any other way. Being in the center of a phenomenon doesn't make for the best observation point to explain that phenomenon.
But that prompts the next question. If you and I and everyone else on this planet, solar system, galaxy and universe are stuck in the one-way stream of time, is there some other vantage point? Can someone or something be outside of time? And if there were something or someone outside of time, how would we be able to tell that, seeing as how we're stuck in the center of it?
I know there are various philosophical and epistemological discussions about the arrow of time, about the Second Law of Thermodynamics and increasing entropy, blah blah blah blah blah. This is all talking around the subject and ignoring the 800 pound gorilla of a problem: we don't know what time is.*
We experience time - or, perhaps more accurately, the effects of time - but we can't explain it like we can a smell or a sensation or a sight. We can see the minute hand marching forward on the clock but we can't explain what that is or why we can't make the minute hand go backwards.
And then let's consider the concept of time for animals. We're kind of bound to the clock and the hours of the day. Dogs can't read a clock (I suppose), so what is their concept of time? They're stuck in the middle of it like we are, but is their experience of it different? What about tortoises? Or giraffes? Or zooplankton? Or mosquitoes?
It seems to me that time is experiential, in that it moves subjectively faster or slower depending on what you're doing. Time flies when you're having fun, after all. But why should that be? If we're stuck in the one-way arrow of time, why does our experience of it vary? What does that mean? Could we have a sufficiently sublime experience that stops time altogether, at least for a little while?
This is the kind of stuff that keeps me up at night. Really.
* not what time it is, we already know what time it is. It's time to get ill.
Since we're embedded in time, I suppose you could think of it as being a fish in a stream. If you asked the fish to explain the current, why it always flowed downhill, and why they were in the stream in the first place the fish would probably have no explanation. They would probably not have given it a second thought prior to you bringing it up, since they wouldn't know any other way. Being in the center of a phenomenon doesn't make for the best observation point to explain that phenomenon.
But that prompts the next question. If you and I and everyone else on this planet, solar system, galaxy and universe are stuck in the one-way stream of time, is there some other vantage point? Can someone or something be outside of time? And if there were something or someone outside of time, how would we be able to tell that, seeing as how we're stuck in the center of it?
I know there are various philosophical and epistemological discussions about the arrow of time, about the Second Law of Thermodynamics and increasing entropy, blah blah blah blah blah. This is all talking around the subject and ignoring the 800 pound gorilla of a problem: we don't know what time is.*
We experience time - or, perhaps more accurately, the effects of time - but we can't explain it like we can a smell or a sensation or a sight. We can see the minute hand marching forward on the clock but we can't explain what that is or why we can't make the minute hand go backwards.
And then let's consider the concept of time for animals. We're kind of bound to the clock and the hours of the day. Dogs can't read a clock (I suppose), so what is their concept of time? They're stuck in the middle of it like we are, but is their experience of it different? What about tortoises? Or giraffes? Or zooplankton? Or mosquitoes?
It seems to me that time is experiential, in that it moves subjectively faster or slower depending on what you're doing. Time flies when you're having fun, after all. But why should that be? If we're stuck in the one-way arrow of time, why does our experience of it vary? What does that mean? Could we have a sufficiently sublime experience that stops time altogether, at least for a little while?
This is the kind of stuff that keeps me up at night. Really.
* not what time it is, we already know what time it is. It's time to get ill.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm very concerned that the waistcoat will come back in style.
We're already seeing the resurgence of the sweater vest, thanks to Mr. Schuester in Glee, can the formal waistcoat be far behind?
I don't want to look like my grandfather's grandfather. I don't own a pocket watch... hold on, I think I do... regardless, I don't own spats or a celluloid collar or pomade or any of the other things that go along with proudly wearing a waistcoat. I like my t-shirt and jeans, thank you very much, and I'm perfectly fine dressing in business casual where it's appropriate. I don't want a return to 'business formal.'
I do not want to look like Scrooge McDuck. Though I wouldn't mind having a money bin, to tell you the truth.
You know how these things go, once a trend starts, it goes all the way. If waistcoats come back in style, then inevitably will come ruffled shirts, pants gathered at the knee, and great big powdered wigs. I look terrible in a powdered wig - don't ask how I know that, trust me that I do. I really don't want to end up looking like a Restoration-era dandy. White face powder makes me look terrible too. Though a beauty mark on my cheek might just bring the ladies a-runnin'.
We're already seeing the resurgence of the sweater vest, thanks to Mr. Schuester in Glee, can the formal waistcoat be far behind?
I don't want to look like my grandfather's grandfather. I don't own a pocket watch... hold on, I think I do... regardless, I don't own spats or a celluloid collar or pomade or any of the other things that go along with proudly wearing a waistcoat. I like my t-shirt and jeans, thank you very much, and I'm perfectly fine dressing in business casual where it's appropriate. I don't want a return to 'business formal.'
I do not want to look like Scrooge McDuck. Though I wouldn't mind having a money bin, to tell you the truth.
You know how these things go, once a trend starts, it goes all the way. If waistcoats come back in style, then inevitably will come ruffled shirts, pants gathered at the knee, and great big powdered wigs. I look terrible in a powdered wig - don't ask how I know that, trust me that I do. I really don't want to end up looking like a Restoration-era dandy. White face powder makes me look terrible too. Though a beauty mark on my cheek might just bring the ladies a-runnin'.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Yeah, I Still Don't Care
Last year I wrote about how much I don't care about the SuperBowl.
Nothing's changed.
I decided to give it a try this year. Maybe I'm the one who's turned around on the subject, maybe the rest of the world is tuned into the zeitgeist and I'm just flopping around like a fish suffocating on a dock.
Nope.
I've been watching two hours worth of pre-game show so far, and it's two hours I will never get back. There's been a lot - a LOT - of self-congratulatory back slapping, reminiscing, and blatant pandering. There's a red carpet now, which is clearly calculated to bring the ladies to the TV and keep them there. There are celebrities who have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the game like Keith Urban and Hugh Jackman (both Australian), and, God help me, celebrity douchebag chef Guy Fieri. I defy anyone to explain to me what Guy Fieri has to do with the SuperBowl, aside from shilling Ritz crackers and inspiring my apoplectic rage.
So far it's been one big EXTREMELY commercial waste of time. Give me NASCAR, where at least they're honest enough about sponsorship to wear the product names on their uniforms.
Instead of a brief list of crap I don't care about, this year I decided to compile a brief list of things that should occupy more of your attention than the SuperBowl:
Political unrest in the Middle East - when long-standing dictatorships are toppled, we all need to take notice. Especially when the toppling takes place in a part of the world prone to prideful displays of nationalism. This isn't going to end well, no matter which side comes out on top.
Squalor in Haiti - a year later and they're even worse off than right after the earthquake. At least a year ago Americans were paying attention. Kind of. Now cholera is making the rounds of the shantytowns on the island. Cholera makes you shit yourself to death. Yeah. 600 miles from the US.
Wall Street and Big Bank bonuses - with all the money paid this year to evil, evil, detestable people who aren't worth the hollow-point bullet it takes to solve their problem, the country is moving closer and closer to an hereditary aristocracy. Do we want our nation to turn into Mexico where you're either very very rich or very very not?
Google, Facebook, and many others wiping their asses with your personal privacy. If you use gmail or have an Android phone, I hope you're comfortable with Google reading your mail and monitoring your calls, because they are. Why people take this sitting down instead of rising up in revolt I'll never understand. Or, jeez, just don't use the service or buy the damn phone.
Anti-immigrant politics in Europe - we like to think of Europe as full of quaint, polite old-worlders, but there's rising right-wing sentiment that demonizes immigrants. Europe was never the melting pot America claims to be, but when European countries start to pick one group as a scapegoat for all their problems, we all need to take notice. And, yes, I'm talking about the mass execution of Jews during World War II. It wouldn't take all that much for that horror to happen again. And if you don't believe me, read some of the rhetoric.
Not that I'm trying to destroy your SuperBowl experience...
Yeah, okay, maybe I am.
Nothing's changed.
I decided to give it a try this year. Maybe I'm the one who's turned around on the subject, maybe the rest of the world is tuned into the zeitgeist and I'm just flopping around like a fish suffocating on a dock.
Nope.
I've been watching two hours worth of pre-game show so far, and it's two hours I will never get back. There's been a lot - a LOT - of self-congratulatory back slapping, reminiscing, and blatant pandering. There's a red carpet now, which is clearly calculated to bring the ladies to the TV and keep them there. There are celebrities who have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the game like Keith Urban and Hugh Jackman (both Australian), and, God help me, celebrity douchebag chef Guy Fieri. I defy anyone to explain to me what Guy Fieri has to do with the SuperBowl, aside from shilling Ritz crackers and inspiring my apoplectic rage.
So far it's been one big EXTREMELY commercial waste of time. Give me NASCAR, where at least they're honest enough about sponsorship to wear the product names on their uniforms.
Instead of a brief list of crap I don't care about, this year I decided to compile a brief list of things that should occupy more of your attention than the SuperBowl:
Political unrest in the Middle East - when long-standing dictatorships are toppled, we all need to take notice. Especially when the toppling takes place in a part of the world prone to prideful displays of nationalism. This isn't going to end well, no matter which side comes out on top.
Squalor in Haiti - a year later and they're even worse off than right after the earthquake. At least a year ago Americans were paying attention. Kind of. Now cholera is making the rounds of the shantytowns on the island. Cholera makes you shit yourself to death. Yeah. 600 miles from the US.
Wall Street and Big Bank bonuses - with all the money paid this year to evil, evil, detestable people who aren't worth the hollow-point bullet it takes to solve their problem, the country is moving closer and closer to an hereditary aristocracy. Do we want our nation to turn into Mexico where you're either very very rich or very very not?
Google, Facebook, and many others wiping their asses with your personal privacy. If you use gmail or have an Android phone, I hope you're comfortable with Google reading your mail and monitoring your calls, because they are. Why people take this sitting down instead of rising up in revolt I'll never understand. Or, jeez, just don't use the service or buy the damn phone.
Anti-immigrant politics in Europe - we like to think of Europe as full of quaint, polite old-worlders, but there's rising right-wing sentiment that demonizes immigrants. Europe was never the melting pot America claims to be, but when European countries start to pick one group as a scapegoat for all their problems, we all need to take notice. And, yes, I'm talking about the mass execution of Jews during World War II. It wouldn't take all that much for that horror to happen again. And if you don't believe me, read some of the rhetoric.
Not that I'm trying to destroy your SuperBowl experience...
Yeah, okay, maybe I am.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Saturday Mourning
Time was, back in the olden days when there were only three broadcast networks and PBS, Saturday morning was the time for children's programming. Some cartoons, some live action, some educational, some purely for entertainment. Not that the TV stations did this out of the goodness of their missing hearts, they did it because the FCC mandated it. Still, when I was a kid we'd plan our Saturday mornings around what was on TV. If my sister and I disagreed we'd have to alternate days or she'd get half an hour I'd get the next half hour, like that. Saturday morning was for kids.
Now Saturday morning is a vast wasteland the like of which Newton Minow could never have imagined. The big four networks have completely abandoned any original programming and now they farm their Saturday mornings out to horrible toy-placement companies. I've written about who does what on Saturday morning before. They've all surrendered to Nickelodeon and Disney. Shameful.
Why the FCC has chosen to ignore its long-standing community service requirements is beyond me, but the upshot of their negligence is the broadcast networks get away with commercials disguised as worthwhile children's television.*
Kids these days don't know how bad they have it. They think that horrible Disney programs are the way kids' TV has always been, and that's just not true. Kids' TV used to be good, something to look forward to, with programs like these:
Kukla, Fran, and Ollie - puppets and a role-model adult who talked to kids like they were people instead of representatives of their demographic band. Imagine that.
Captain Kangaroo - Mr. Moose and Bunny Rabbit, and a talking grandfather clock
Little Rascals - from generations before mine, but still excellent
Super Friends - DC Comics characters are the best
'The Batman' - theme song by The Edge, this was a particularly good version
Warner Bros cartoons - this is cultural literacy, how are kids going to know about Acme products if they don't watch the Roadrunner? How will they learn about opera if Bugs Bunny isn't torturing Elmer Fudd with Wagner?
Shazam - live action... okay, not the best show, but still better than Yu-Gi-Oh
Electra Woman and Dyna Girl - a soap star was also a super-hero
Thundarr the Barbarian - not a toy line first, the best part was armageddon in 1994
I could go on with the Smurfs, Scooby Doo, GI Joe, Speed Buggy, Liddsville, etc. etc. etc. Even when these were kind of bad they were good, and nowadays kids' TV is just terrible, insulting and juvenile. We need to get back to good, old-fashioned kids' programming. FCC... where are you?
* actually, now that I think about it, the FCC has become a home for toothless bureaucrats more interested in putting in their time until retirement than enforcing the will of the people. Pretty much like every other government agency.
Now Saturday morning is a vast wasteland the like of which Newton Minow could never have imagined. The big four networks have completely abandoned any original programming and now they farm their Saturday mornings out to horrible toy-placement companies. I've written about who does what on Saturday morning before. They've all surrendered to Nickelodeon and Disney. Shameful.
Why the FCC has chosen to ignore its long-standing community service requirements is beyond me, but the upshot of their negligence is the broadcast networks get away with commercials disguised as worthwhile children's television.*
Kids these days don't know how bad they have it. They think that horrible Disney programs are the way kids' TV has always been, and that's just not true. Kids' TV used to be good, something to look forward to, with programs like these:
Kukla, Fran, and Ollie - puppets and a role-model adult who talked to kids like they were people instead of representatives of their demographic band. Imagine that.
Captain Kangaroo - Mr. Moose and Bunny Rabbit, and a talking grandfather clock
Little Rascals - from generations before mine, but still excellent
Super Friends - DC Comics characters are the best
'The Batman' - theme song by The Edge, this was a particularly good version
Warner Bros cartoons - this is cultural literacy, how are kids going to know about Acme products if they don't watch the Roadrunner? How will they learn about opera if Bugs Bunny isn't torturing Elmer Fudd with Wagner?
Shazam - live action... okay, not the best show, but still better than Yu-Gi-Oh
Electra Woman and Dyna Girl - a soap star was also a super-hero
Thundarr the Barbarian - not a toy line first, the best part was armageddon in 1994
I could go on with the Smurfs, Scooby Doo, GI Joe, Speed Buggy, Liddsville, etc. etc. etc. Even when these were kind of bad they were good, and nowadays kids' TV is just terrible, insulting and juvenile. We need to get back to good, old-fashioned kids' programming. FCC... where are you?
* actually, now that I think about it, the FCC has become a home for toothless bureaucrats more interested in putting in their time until retirement than enforcing the will of the people. Pretty much like every other government agency.
Friday, February 4, 2011
A Big Joke
I think I've uncovered the biggest prank played in the history of mankind. A joke so all-encompassing and pervasive that the originators have even forgotten that it's supposed to be funny.
Sushi.
Think about it. Raw fish. That you're supposed to eat raw. Not like ceviche, which is pickled by the citrus juice in it, no, sushi is supposed to be consumed the way they serve it to you. Pink and glistening and oh-so uncooked. What bigger joke could there be?
People claim to like sushi, but I think it's the same thing as people claiming to like gin. Or broccoli. Anything that's an 'acquired taste' is something you're not supposed to consume in the first place. We're human beings, we have thumbs, we've mastered fire. We're not seals or sharks, for God's sake, we cook our food.
I'm convinced that not even Japanese people like sushi, they're just used to it. Imagine, if you will, a cold, wet Japanese winter. Food is running low, and firewood is running even lower. The men go out on the fishing boat to try to find anything to feed their families. They catch a few small fish, but they're feeling weak. They can't build a fire in the boat, but they need to eat right then. One fisherman dares the other 'bet you won't eat it raw...' and, after a few moments of hesitation, the other fisherman guts and skins a fish and eats it right then and there.
A fraternity hazing prank becomes a national dish.
I have friends who love love love sushi. But what I think they love is the ritual of it, and the slightly-forbidden notion of eating raw meat. And then paying $50 a pound for the privilege. 'Cause it sure isn't a taste treat you'd want to repeat, if you follow me.
All I know is that every time I see sushi I think that somebody should put some fire under that and cook it up right. But that would ruin the joke.
Sushi.
Think about it. Raw fish. That you're supposed to eat raw. Not like ceviche, which is pickled by the citrus juice in it, no, sushi is supposed to be consumed the way they serve it to you. Pink and glistening and oh-so uncooked. What bigger joke could there be?
People claim to like sushi, but I think it's the same thing as people claiming to like gin. Or broccoli. Anything that's an 'acquired taste' is something you're not supposed to consume in the first place. We're human beings, we have thumbs, we've mastered fire. We're not seals or sharks, for God's sake, we cook our food.
I'm convinced that not even Japanese people like sushi, they're just used to it. Imagine, if you will, a cold, wet Japanese winter. Food is running low, and firewood is running even lower. The men go out on the fishing boat to try to find anything to feed their families. They catch a few small fish, but they're feeling weak. They can't build a fire in the boat, but they need to eat right then. One fisherman dares the other 'bet you won't eat it raw...' and, after a few moments of hesitation, the other fisherman guts and skins a fish and eats it right then and there.
A fraternity hazing prank becomes a national dish.
I have friends who love love love sushi. But what I think they love is the ritual of it, and the slightly-forbidden notion of eating raw meat. And then paying $50 a pound for the privilege. 'Cause it sure isn't a taste treat you'd want to repeat, if you follow me.
All I know is that every time I see sushi I think that somebody should put some fire under that and cook it up right. But that would ruin the joke.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Indebted
You know what's been bothering me lately? The amount of personal debt people are racking up. It's not good short-term and it's really not good long-term. This is aside from the billions of dollars of overvalued home loans that banks still need to write down, and the commercial property that's foundering with no new businesses to occupy the space. It's bad out there, and it's not going to get better any time soon.
When I was in college tuition was low, $4 a semester hour. This was, partly, holdover from the Great Society decades before, but it was also because that's what the market would bear. Tuition was largely determined by the maximum amount students could pay, which itself was determined by the dollar amount of student loans the government would guarantee. Which, at the time, was $2,500 a semester (I think). With scholarships and grants I got out of college with about $18,000 in debt. About the same amount as if I'd bought a car, only the interest rate was crazy low and the monthly payments were minuscule. Back then education was good debt to have, because it greatly increased your earning potential with a relatively cheap outlay of funds.
Fast forward a few years, and Congress decided to allow banks to make non-guaranteed loans to students, and the banks were only too happy to shovel cash out the door. And tuition went up. Dramatically. So instead of college costing essentially $5,000 a year, it went to $20,000 or more a semester.
At that rate, education is no longer good debt. A friend of mine - or 'friend' since he's kind of a tool - was on the seven-year program at the University, and he came out of it with over $100,000 worth of private, non-guaranteed debt, which he has never been able to make a single payment on. This is an insane amount of debt, and does not in any way cover the increase in earning potential conferred by a college degree. It's equivalent of a new house, for God's sake, the single largest purchase most Americans will make, and students have this money anvil hanging over them from the moment they take their diploma.
And don't get me started on the for-profit schools, like the cooking school up the street. They're charging $50,000 a year for a two-year program, and these kids who go into the program with visions of being Bobby Flay are going to graduate to a job at iHop. They're never, ever, ever going to be able to pay back that $100,000. Ever.
Unemployment is high, but it's even higher among recent college graduates. Kids who absolutely need to find a decent job to start paying down their insane debt load are going a year, two years, three years without a job. Or working as a waiter or other dead-end entry-level job and not advancing their careers at all. And their debt goes unpaid. Even worse, being saddled with this burden means they'll come later to other American milestones in life, like getting married, which costs money, and having kids, which costs tons of money.
This private debt burden is killing our society. And what's worse, it's stratifying our classes like never before. We're going to have an upper class of wealthy people who don't have unmanageable debt obligations and who will only get wealthier as a result, and we'll have indentured servants who are working to pay bills they'll never see the end of as long as they live.
We gotta do something about this, and we gotta do something about it now.
When I was in college tuition was low, $4 a semester hour. This was, partly, holdover from the Great Society decades before, but it was also because that's what the market would bear. Tuition was largely determined by the maximum amount students could pay, which itself was determined by the dollar amount of student loans the government would guarantee. Which, at the time, was $2,500 a semester (I think). With scholarships and grants I got out of college with about $18,000 in debt. About the same amount as if I'd bought a car, only the interest rate was crazy low and the monthly payments were minuscule. Back then education was good debt to have, because it greatly increased your earning potential with a relatively cheap outlay of funds.
Fast forward a few years, and Congress decided to allow banks to make non-guaranteed loans to students, and the banks were only too happy to shovel cash out the door. And tuition went up. Dramatically. So instead of college costing essentially $5,000 a year, it went to $20,000 or more a semester.
At that rate, education is no longer good debt. A friend of mine - or 'friend' since he's kind of a tool - was on the seven-year program at the University, and he came out of it with over $100,000 worth of private, non-guaranteed debt, which he has never been able to make a single payment on. This is an insane amount of debt, and does not in any way cover the increase in earning potential conferred by a college degree. It's equivalent of a new house, for God's sake, the single largest purchase most Americans will make, and students have this money anvil hanging over them from the moment they take their diploma.
And don't get me started on the for-profit schools, like the cooking school up the street. They're charging $50,000 a year for a two-year program, and these kids who go into the program with visions of being Bobby Flay are going to graduate to a job at iHop. They're never, ever, ever going to be able to pay back that $100,000. Ever.
Unemployment is high, but it's even higher among recent college graduates. Kids who absolutely need to find a decent job to start paying down their insane debt load are going a year, two years, three years without a job. Or working as a waiter or other dead-end entry-level job and not advancing their careers at all. And their debt goes unpaid. Even worse, being saddled with this burden means they'll come later to other American milestones in life, like getting married, which costs money, and having kids, which costs tons of money.
This private debt burden is killing our society. And what's worse, it's stratifying our classes like never before. We're going to have an upper class of wealthy people who don't have unmanageable debt obligations and who will only get wealthier as a result, and we'll have indentured servants who are working to pay bills they'll never see the end of as long as they live.
We gotta do something about this, and we gotta do something about it now.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Eeek!
I like to think I'm a pretty progressive guy. I try to think before I speak, I give people a fair shake, I realize that if I have a problem with someone the real problem might be me not them, all that kind of stuff. My parents brought me up with the proper values. But there's one thing that still raises my hackles of prejudice.
Tattoos.
I don't mean one or two pieces of decoration, that's no big deal. My father had several tattoos from his time in the Coast Guard, so growing up I was plenty used to seeing them. I do get squeamish, however, when I see full-body tattoos. Just doesn't sit right with me, it feels like Americans co-opting something reserved for another culture. Plus, they're usually juvenile and gross.
This morning, for instance, I was working out. Getting my sweat on. A tall dark-haired woman climbed onto the treadmill in front of me. She was slender, young, and bouncy in the best way. Gave me something to watch to make the day easier if you know what I mean.* Then she took off her zippered hoodie, revealing both arms covered shoulder-to-wrist in writhing, full-colored body art.
Talk about destroying a fantasy. Before she took off her jacket I was watching Wonder Woman, and after I saw her arms all I could think was 'junkie.'
Was that assumption wrong of me? Probably. For all I know she could be a multi-millionaire investment banker. Which might be how she could pay for all that ink, which definitely ain't cheap. But it's off-putting seeing that. Like she's in the Yakuza or something. Maybe it's just because I can't understand why an otherwise attractive young lady would want to 'improve' her look with barbed wire, flames, and skulls stuck permanently into her skin. Doesn't make any sense at all to me.
For that matter, what's the deal with face and neck tattoos? That's the mark of a felon, prison tats, but douchebag hipsters are getting them now. It used to be illegal to tattoo above the neck or below the wrist, but not any longer, it seems. What kind of job can you get if you have tribal bands snaking out above your collar? Better be a self-employed tattoo artist. Seriously, what are people thinking?
I may have shared this before, but if I were to get a tattoo, it would be a tattoo of a butt with a butt tattoo... on my butt. Like one of those 'infinite mirror' things. Or maybe I'd get eyes tattooed on my eyelids, so hyenas won't sneak up on me when I'm sleeping in the middle of the Serengeti.
* nice ass, if you hadn't figured it out already
Tattoos.
I don't mean one or two pieces of decoration, that's no big deal. My father had several tattoos from his time in the Coast Guard, so growing up I was plenty used to seeing them. I do get squeamish, however, when I see full-body tattoos. Just doesn't sit right with me, it feels like Americans co-opting something reserved for another culture. Plus, they're usually juvenile and gross.
This morning, for instance, I was working out. Getting my sweat on. A tall dark-haired woman climbed onto the treadmill in front of me. She was slender, young, and bouncy in the best way. Gave me something to watch to make the day easier if you know what I mean.* Then she took off her zippered hoodie, revealing both arms covered shoulder-to-wrist in writhing, full-colored body art.
Talk about destroying a fantasy. Before she took off her jacket I was watching Wonder Woman, and after I saw her arms all I could think was 'junkie.'
Was that assumption wrong of me? Probably. For all I know she could be a multi-millionaire investment banker. Which might be how she could pay for all that ink, which definitely ain't cheap. But it's off-putting seeing that. Like she's in the Yakuza or something. Maybe it's just because I can't understand why an otherwise attractive young lady would want to 'improve' her look with barbed wire, flames, and skulls stuck permanently into her skin. Doesn't make any sense at all to me.
For that matter, what's the deal with face and neck tattoos? That's the mark of a felon, prison tats, but douchebag hipsters are getting them now. It used to be illegal to tattoo above the neck or below the wrist, but not any longer, it seems. What kind of job can you get if you have tribal bands snaking out above your collar? Better be a self-employed tattoo artist. Seriously, what are people thinking?
I may have shared this before, but if I were to get a tattoo, it would be a tattoo of a butt with a butt tattoo... on my butt. Like one of those 'infinite mirror' things. Or maybe I'd get eyes tattooed on my eyelids, so hyenas won't sneak up on me when I'm sleeping in the middle of the Serengeti.
* nice ass, if you hadn't figured it out already
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
If I Had A Robot...
We're through the first decade of the Twenty-First Century. Jeez... already... We're supposed to have flying cars and jet packs and friendly robots. So far, though, the only robots like the kind I expected are small and made by the Japanese, who no doubt have some sort of deviance planned for them. I want my robot, dammit.
If I had a robot:
He would have vacuum cleaners on his feet so that the carpets would always be clean. At least the spots where he walked.
He would have a semi-British accent, like he grew up in England but spent most of his life over here. He would pretend to drink tea at 4 PM.
He could fold himself up into a briefcase so I could take him into places where I wasn't supposed to have a robot. Of course it would be a four-hundred-pound briefcase, but I figure there'd be some sort of anti-gravity too.
On Fridays he would wear a Hawaiian shirt, because robots tend to get wacky on Fridays.
He'd have flame throwers. In his arms or out his butt, I haven't decided yet.
He'd have more book learning than me, kind of like a walking Wikipedia, but he would lack human compassion and creativity.
He'd tell his robot friends about how great his boss - me - was. His robot friends would be so jealous they would all scheme ways to become my robot, and have misadventures as a result. Like a robot Three's Company.
If I fell asleep at my desk or on the couch he'd carry me to my bed and tuck me in. Because robots are strong and he would be able to lift me easily.
I would tell him what to buy at the grocery store and he'd do the shopping on his own. He'd get exactly what I tell him but he'd always bring back something new for me to try. Which I probably wouldn't like, because robots don't understand taste, but still, it's the thought that counts.
I could get on his shoulders and ride him on errands around town. People would wave at me like was in the Rose Parade.
When we played poker he'd always let me win.
If I had a robot:
He would have vacuum cleaners on his feet so that the carpets would always be clean. At least the spots where he walked.
He would have a semi-British accent, like he grew up in England but spent most of his life over here. He would pretend to drink tea at 4 PM.
He could fold himself up into a briefcase so I could take him into places where I wasn't supposed to have a robot. Of course it would be a four-hundred-pound briefcase, but I figure there'd be some sort of anti-gravity too.
On Fridays he would wear a Hawaiian shirt, because robots tend to get wacky on Fridays.
He'd have flame throwers. In his arms or out his butt, I haven't decided yet.
He'd have more book learning than me, kind of like a walking Wikipedia, but he would lack human compassion and creativity.
He'd tell his robot friends about how great his boss - me - was. His robot friends would be so jealous they would all scheme ways to become my robot, and have misadventures as a result. Like a robot Three's Company.
If I fell asleep at my desk or on the couch he'd carry me to my bed and tuck me in. Because robots are strong and he would be able to lift me easily.
I would tell him what to buy at the grocery store and he'd do the shopping on his own. He'd get exactly what I tell him but he'd always bring back something new for me to try. Which I probably wouldn't like, because robots don't understand taste, but still, it's the thought that counts.
I could get on his shoulders and ride him on errands around town. People would wave at me like was in the Rose Parade.
When we played poker he'd always let me win.
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