The State of California is broke.
This is not really news to anyone, unless you're like most of the rest of the country and couldn't give a rat's ass about California, its fruits and nuts, and its problems. And God bless you if you don't care, I wish I couldn't.
But I live here - for now - and the massive budget shortfall has sparked some drastic measures to try to make up that revenue. I'm talking specifically about the terrifically monstrous increases in traffic fines effective this year.
For instance, if you got caught talking on a cell phone last year, the fine was $25. Arguably not a deterrent and almost laughable. This year, however, the fine is.... wait for it... $148. That is a TIMES SIX increase in the penalty. In-freaking-sane. Failure to notify the DMV of an address change? $214. Park in a handicapped spot and you're not actually handicapped? $1000. Run a red light? $436. Which is also in-freaking-sane because running a red light is the only way to make a left in most of LA.
Aside from pure shock value, raising the traffic fines this much has to be the stupidest thing I've ever seen California do. And I've lived here nine years (sheesh).
Let me 'splain...
I wasn't there, but I know how this came about. Some nimrod bureaucrat was told to find revenue that is not subject to legislative oversight or voter approval. They came up with traffic fines. Some douchebag MBA in Sacramento then looked at the number of, say, cell phone citations and came up with a number. We'll call it 10,000. They said to themselves 'self, if there are 10,000 cell phone violations at $25 each, that's $250,000 to the state. Hmm... what if we raised the fine to, I don't know, $148? Wow! We'd get almost $1.5 million! Hokey smokes! Let's do that!"
And so they raised the rates, assuming that the number of violations would at least remain constant. It won't, but let's give them that one, let's assume that 10,000 citations last year will mean 10,000 citations this year. That doesn't mean they're actually going to get $1.5 million dollars, though.
This flawed bureaucratic thinking ignores one fundamental part of this equation. Nobody has that kind of money.* The state can write all the citations it wants, but with the fines raised this much people just aren't going to pay. Really. It happened with overpriced mortgages and it's going to happen with this.
Think about it. If you make $50,000 a year gross, that means you'll net about $40,000 after taxes, at least in California, or about $3300 a month. You're in a hurry to get into Wal-Mart (for some reason) and you park in the handicapped spot. You come out to find a ticket for ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS on your windshield, or 2.5% of your ANNUAL take-home pay.
Would you pay it? Of course not. Nobody else will either.
So then what? The state is counting on that $1.5 million from cell phone citations to cover their other gross incompetence in other areas. But they're going to collect an even lower percentage of citations this year than ever before. Which means they'll have to spend money to hire people to go after the money they're owed. Which they're not going to get. And California goes deeper into the crapper, waiting for home prices to come back, which is also not going to happen.
You couldn't mismanage this worse if you'd planned it out ahead of time.
* Unless you're an investment banker, and if you are your time against the wall is coming, trust me. I'm serious.
Showing posts with label Los Angeles. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Los Angeles. Show all posts
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
It's Still Funny
I'm not eleven years old any more, haven't been for some time. But inside me there's an eleven-year-old who still laughs at the wrong time and at the wrong thing. At least wrong for an adult.
It's raining in LA today, and rain is a rare commodity in SoCal if you didn't already know. That means Angelenos don't know how to deal with wet pavement of any kind, in a car, on a bike, or on foot. Especially on foot.
I saw three people fall down today, and - God help me - it was hilarious every time.
The first was at lunch. Today is Taco Tuesday, which means the building where I work (Ugh...) allows a local taqueria to set up a catering line and cook tacos to order out on the lawn. Evidently it was a half-day at some local school - or the kids were cutting class - and about ten students were availing themselves of the low-price tacos. One kid was harrassing another, slapping him on the back of the head, that kind of thing, and when the other kid had enough and was about to fight back the first kid ran. He hit some wet tiles and SLAP! down he went. It looked like it hurt, but it was also a really good fall, laid out like he was taking a nap. Too funny.
Driving home through Echo Park I saw a guy in what I thought was a trench coat running for the bus. Turns out it was a bath robe and he was wearing Crocs. In the rain. One wrong step and WHOOOP! down he goes, with the bathrobe belt just dangling in mid-air and one of his purple Crocs sailing over his head. Also hi-larious.
Finally, I stopped at Trader Joe's for food. As I was leaving I saw a lady quickly approaching the (extremely) slick tiles by the elevator. Before I could think to myself 'Self, she ought to slow down...' she puts a foot on the slick tiles - in baby blue Crocs to match her scrubs - and SLAM! hits the ground like a sack of lead potatoes. Other people were there to help her up and ask her if she was okay, so I just passed her by and tried to hide my smile.
There are two lessons here. One, it's funny when people fall down. It's probably always been funny and it'll probably always be funny.
The second lesson is 'don't wear Crocs in the rain, dumb ass.' I would extend that to 'don't ever wear Crocs at all, dumb ass,' but I'll settle for the first one.
It's raining in LA today, and rain is a rare commodity in SoCal if you didn't already know. That means Angelenos don't know how to deal with wet pavement of any kind, in a car, on a bike, or on foot. Especially on foot.
I saw three people fall down today, and - God help me - it was hilarious every time.
The first was at lunch. Today is Taco Tuesday, which means the building where I work (Ugh...) allows a local taqueria to set up a catering line and cook tacos to order out on the lawn. Evidently it was a half-day at some local school - or the kids were cutting class - and about ten students were availing themselves of the low-price tacos. One kid was harrassing another, slapping him on the back of the head, that kind of thing, and when the other kid had enough and was about to fight back the first kid ran. He hit some wet tiles and SLAP! down he went. It looked like it hurt, but it was also a really good fall, laid out like he was taking a nap. Too funny.
Driving home through Echo Park I saw a guy in what I thought was a trench coat running for the bus. Turns out it was a bath robe and he was wearing Crocs. In the rain. One wrong step and WHOOOP! down he goes, with the bathrobe belt just dangling in mid-air and one of his purple Crocs sailing over his head. Also hi-larious.
Finally, I stopped at Trader Joe's for food. As I was leaving I saw a lady quickly approaching the (extremely) slick tiles by the elevator. Before I could think to myself 'Self, she ought to slow down...' she puts a foot on the slick tiles - in baby blue Crocs to match her scrubs - and SLAM! hits the ground like a sack of lead potatoes. Other people were there to help her up and ask her if she was okay, so I just passed her by and tried to hide my smile.
There are two lessons here. One, it's funny when people fall down. It's probably always been funny and it'll probably always be funny.
The second lesson is 'don't wear Crocs in the rain, dumb ass.' I would extend that to 'don't ever wear Crocs at all, dumb ass,' but I'll settle for the first one.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Le Danse Macabre - LA Style
It's raining in LA today. If you live here, or you have lived here, then
'nuff said, you can go on about your business, no need to read further. For the rest of you, however, let me 'splain...
Rain in Los Angeles means 'drizzle' or 'mist' in other parts of the country.
Rain in Los Angeles increases your commute time by 50%, at the very least.
Rain in Los Angeles prompts people to drive too fast on the freeway or not fast enough.
Rain in Los Angeles leads people carrying umbrellas to believe they're invulnerable, and that it's okay to walk out into traffic.
Rain in Los Angeles makes otherwise level-headed people lose their minds.
Driving in LA in the rain is this insane ballet of aggression, caution, fear, and outrage that is enough to put wrinkles in a baby's face. If you're on the highway traffic slows for no reason, backing up for miles. When it finally starts going again you expect you're going to see a wreck, or the remains of one, but no - there's nothing. You've been stuck for forty-five minutes because the pavement is moist. If you're on city streets you have to contend with people who either don't believe rain changes the handling characteristics of their car, or people who think rain means their car is in imminent danger of exploding at any second. No middle ground. One moment some jackass rockets past you like the sun is shining and there's no one else on the road, and the next you're crawling like an inchworm behind a guy who believes slow and steady for everyone wins the race.
And we're all in it together. Rain and traffic and insanity get every single one of us. So you'd think we'd pull together - one for all and all for one - and try to make the best of a clearly bad situation.
But there's where you'd be wrong. Out there, in the naked city (on the naked highway?), when the heavens have opened up, it's every man for himself. You have no friends, no allies, no family, it's you against everybody else.
Kind of like at the buffet line in Vegas, come to think of it.
'nuff said, you can go on about your business, no need to read further. For the rest of you, however, let me 'splain...
Rain in Los Angeles means 'drizzle' or 'mist' in other parts of the country.
Rain in Los Angeles increases your commute time by 50%, at the very least.
Rain in Los Angeles prompts people to drive too fast on the freeway or not fast enough.
Rain in Los Angeles leads people carrying umbrellas to believe they're invulnerable, and that it's okay to walk out into traffic.
Rain in Los Angeles makes otherwise level-headed people lose their minds.
Driving in LA in the rain is this insane ballet of aggression, caution, fear, and outrage that is enough to put wrinkles in a baby's face. If you're on the highway traffic slows for no reason, backing up for miles. When it finally starts going again you expect you're going to see a wreck, or the remains of one, but no - there's nothing. You've been stuck for forty-five minutes because the pavement is moist. If you're on city streets you have to contend with people who either don't believe rain changes the handling characteristics of their car, or people who think rain means their car is in imminent danger of exploding at any second. No middle ground. One moment some jackass rockets past you like the sun is shining and there's no one else on the road, and the next you're crawling like an inchworm behind a guy who believes slow and steady for everyone wins the race.
And we're all in it together. Rain and traffic and insanity get every single one of us. So you'd think we'd pull together - one for all and all for one - and try to make the best of a clearly bad situation.
But there's where you'd be wrong. Out there, in the naked city (on the naked highway?), when the heavens have opened up, it's every man for himself. You have no friends, no allies, no family, it's you against everybody else.
Kind of like at the buffet line in Vegas, come to think of it.
Friday, April 16, 2010
An Argument Like Music
So I'm driving to work today... yeah, sounds weird to me too...and I'd just made it through Koreatown with my windows down because it was a nice, cool morning. I heard what I thought was someone's car stereo, blaring some terrible rap.
But I was oh so wrong.
A white car pulled alongside me - between Crenshaw and Rossmore if you're familiar with the area - which was the source of the music. Except it wasn't music, it was an EXTREMELY angry woman berating the man in the passenger seat.
As traffic moved along it was like listening to the ocean waves, I would pull ahead and the argument would fade. We'd reach a stop light (lots of those) and the argument would grow louder as the car pulled alongside me. The light would change and the argument would lull into the background again. Over and over and over.
I expected at some point the woman would stop yelling, or at least take a breath, but she just kept going. I tried to hear the actual words she was saying, but the only thing I could tell was the man - husband, boyfriend, son, brother? I don't know - had been late for something. Perhaps the first in his long line of infractions that earned him the most serious tongue-lashing I've witnessed in a long time.
At least it kept my morning commute entertaining. I'm still pissed off that I have a commute, but that's nothing I can fix for now.
-- Oh, and I saw a guy smoking a pipe today too. That's odd because the last person I knew who smoked a pipe was my father and he quit smoking back when I was a freshman in college. You just don't see that any more. And, yes, the guy smoking the pipe was old.
COMMUTE: there - 35 minutes back - 40 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 85 days
But I was oh so wrong.
A white car pulled alongside me - between Crenshaw and Rossmore if you're familiar with the area - which was the source of the music. Except it wasn't music, it was an EXTREMELY angry woman berating the man in the passenger seat.
As traffic moved along it was like listening to the ocean waves, I would pull ahead and the argument would fade. We'd reach a stop light (lots of those) and the argument would grow louder as the car pulled alongside me. The light would change and the argument would lull into the background again. Over and over and over.
I expected at some point the woman would stop yelling, or at least take a breath, but she just kept going. I tried to hear the actual words she was saying, but the only thing I could tell was the man - husband, boyfriend, son, brother? I don't know - had been late for something. Perhaps the first in his long line of infractions that earned him the most serious tongue-lashing I've witnessed in a long time.
At least it kept my morning commute entertaining. I'm still pissed off that I have a commute, but that's nothing I can fix for now.
-- Oh, and I saw a guy smoking a pipe today too. That's odd because the last person I knew who smoked a pipe was my father and he quit smoking back when I was a freshman in college. You just don't see that any more. And, yes, the guy smoking the pipe was old.
COMMUTE: there - 35 minutes back - 40 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 85 days
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Super-Dog
I was dog-sitting this afternoon, about 40 miles North of Pasadena, when I became witness to an incredible phenomenon. It's common enough, but this is the first time I've seen it in person.
I was watching TV, with the dogs laying on the floor in the living room, when one of them grumbled, then she sat up and barked loudly. This dog almost never barks, at least not when I've been dog-sitting. She whined to get out, and when she was in the back yard she barked some more and then looked in every direction, like there was something to see that she was missing.
My first thought was 'earthquake' but I didn't feel anything, and nothing in the house was moving or swaying.
Fast forward to a few hours later, when I made it back to my place. I turned on the news, and I found out there had been a huge earthquake in Mexico, 7.2 (this is really big). Guess when that earthquake rumbled? 3:40 PM, right when the doggies started barking.
Amazing. Incredible. The coolest thing I've seen in a long time, and I didn't even know what was going on at the time. The dogs heard/felt/sensed the earthquake hundreds of miles away, and knew enough to realize that it was something they needed to tell me about. Just... astonishing. Like you needed another reason to love dogs.
I was watching TV, with the dogs laying on the floor in the living room, when one of them grumbled, then she sat up and barked loudly. This dog almost never barks, at least not when I've been dog-sitting. She whined to get out, and when she was in the back yard she barked some more and then looked in every direction, like there was something to see that she was missing.
My first thought was 'earthquake' but I didn't feel anything, and nothing in the house was moving or swaying.
Fast forward to a few hours later, when I made it back to my place. I turned on the news, and I found out there had been a huge earthquake in Mexico, 7.2 (this is really big). Guess when that earthquake rumbled? 3:40 PM, right when the doggies started barking.
Amazing. Incredible. The coolest thing I've seen in a long time, and I didn't even know what was going on at the time. The dogs heard/felt/sensed the earthquake hundreds of miles away, and knew enough to realize that it was something they needed to tell me about. Just... astonishing. Like you needed another reason to love dogs.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Ode To The Streets Of LA
O, potholed asphalt 'neath my wheels,
Rough in the best of times when dry
Winds howl and morons teem your way,
How much a week's rains doth destroy.
Water from heaven takes your stones
And erodes your oily binding,
Leaving you crack'd, warp'd, and broken,
Vengeful traps for my truck to trip.
Ev'ry mile a painful adventure,
Now I pick my way with care lest
Mine axle do snap asunder like
A stale churro left long outside.
O, potholed asphalt 'neath my wheels,
The weather knave doth say more rain
Shall fall hence. Could'st a favor
For me do? Stop falling apart.
'Tis a small thing I beg of you,
Fight the dictates of entropy
And crumble not into foul ruin.
Do this and I shall tread lightly.
Pray, but keep thyself in one piece,
Expose not pipes and wires below,
And I will pledge to drive well as
Many have not the fortitude.
O, potholed asphalt 'neath my wheels,
You are my true friend, have I told
You that anon? Just let me get
Where I need to go and not die.
Rough in the best of times when dry
Winds howl and morons teem your way,
How much a week's rains doth destroy.
Water from heaven takes your stones
And erodes your oily binding,
Leaving you crack'd, warp'd, and broken,
Vengeful traps for my truck to trip.
Ev'ry mile a painful adventure,
Now I pick my way with care lest
Mine axle do snap asunder like
A stale churro left long outside.
O, potholed asphalt 'neath my wheels,
The weather knave doth say more rain
Shall fall hence. Could'st a favor
For me do? Stop falling apart.
'Tis a small thing I beg of you,
Fight the dictates of entropy
And crumble not into foul ruin.
Do this and I shall tread lightly.
Pray, but keep thyself in one piece,
Expose not pipes and wires below,
And I will pledge to drive well as
Many have not the fortitude.
O, potholed asphalt 'neath my wheels,
You are my true friend, have I told
You that anon? Just let me get
Where I need to go and not die.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
I Thought It Would Be Different
I just turned 100,000 miles in my truck. And I do mean just, less than an hour ago, right on Colorado Blvd. on my way to the grocery store.
Here's a picture of the odometer, just in case you don't know what 100,000 looks like already.
I bought the truck brand-new, and with the exception of about 800 miles when my brother-in-law and I drove from San Antonio to Pasadena, every one of those miles was under my foot. My truck and I have been through one accident (not my fault), one severe blowout, four flat tires, one replacement water pump, one replacement power steering pump, one replacement master cylinder, and several burnt-out taillight bulbs. That's not a lot of maintenance, honestly, for quite a few miles.
Make no mistake, I've turned 100,000 miles in a car before, but never have all those miles been mine.
Kind of anti-climactic, to tell you the truth. I did pull over to the side of the road and snap the picture with my cell phone, but... no big deal.
I expected the heavens to open, light to shine down, and a rich baritone voice to tell me 'Job well done, young man.' Didn't happen. Nobody ambushed me with a huge novelty check, no dancing girls celebrated my arrival at the grocery store, no ribbons, no glitter, no clouds of confetti. I was at 99,999 miles in the gas station parking lot, then a mile away the odometer rolled over.
That's it.
I feel cheated out of some sort of celebration. Maybe I'll go to Chuck E. Cheese and crash some kid's birthday party. With my truck.
Here's a picture of the odometer, just in case you don't know what 100,000 looks like already.
I bought the truck brand-new, and with the exception of about 800 miles when my brother-in-law and I drove from San Antonio to Pasadena, every one of those miles was under my foot. My truck and I have been through one accident (not my fault), one severe blowout, four flat tires, one replacement water pump, one replacement power steering pump, one replacement master cylinder, and several burnt-out taillight bulbs. That's not a lot of maintenance, honestly, for quite a few miles.
Make no mistake, I've turned 100,000 miles in a car before, but never have all those miles been mine.
Kind of anti-climactic, to tell you the truth. I did pull over to the side of the road and snap the picture with my cell phone, but... no big deal.
I expected the heavens to open, light to shine down, and a rich baritone voice to tell me 'Job well done, young man.' Didn't happen. Nobody ambushed me with a huge novelty check, no dancing girls celebrated my arrival at the grocery store, no ribbons, no glitter, no clouds of confetti. I was at 99,999 miles in the gas station parking lot, then a mile away the odometer rolled over.
That's it.
I feel cheated out of some sort of celebration. Maybe I'll go to Chuck E. Cheese and crash some kid's birthday party. With my truck.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Maybe It's Me?
I think I'm giving off an odd vibe. Odder than normal, I mean. Usually I'm a magnet for strange people, crazy people, people with an agenda. I'm used to that, it's been that way for me for as long as I can remember. But I was just walking back from the gym now, and I had something odder than usual happen.
A guy tried to sell me groceries from the back of his car.
Seriously. On Colorado Blvd, a major thoroughfare in Pasadena. I was minding my own business, just going home, and I saw this guy messing around in the back of his little beater car. He had a collection of grocery bags - plastic not paper - and he just seemed to be rearranging them. As I approached he turned around, eased forward like Lefty the Salesman from Sesame Street, and asked me if I needed any apples or milk. I declined and moved on. It was like a very bad film noir, especially since it was 9 AM and I was wearing shorts and a sweaty shirt.
But I got to thinking, setting aside his rank amateurism - how did he know I wasn't a cop? - this guy has to be desperate, things for him have to have gotten very, very serious. Bad enough that it became a good idea to sell stolen groceries. (And I have no doubt that they were, in fact, stolen.) Economic recovery? Maybe it's not as close as the media wants us to believe.
And what is it about me that I look like the kind of guy who would buy a gallon of milk out of the back of a Yugo?
A guy tried to sell me groceries from the back of his car.
Seriously. On Colorado Blvd, a major thoroughfare in Pasadena. I was minding my own business, just going home, and I saw this guy messing around in the back of his little beater car. He had a collection of grocery bags - plastic not paper - and he just seemed to be rearranging them. As I approached he turned around, eased forward like Lefty the Salesman from Sesame Street, and asked me if I needed any apples or milk. I declined and moved on. It was like a very bad film noir, especially since it was 9 AM and I was wearing shorts and a sweaty shirt.
But I got to thinking, setting aside his rank amateurism - how did he know I wasn't a cop? - this guy has to be desperate, things for him have to have gotten very, very serious. Bad enough that it became a good idea to sell stolen groceries. (And I have no doubt that they were, in fact, stolen.) Economic recovery? Maybe it's not as close as the media wants us to believe.
And what is it about me that I look like the kind of guy who would buy a gallon of milk out of the back of a Yugo?
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Where's My Giant Pineapple?
When I moved out to Pasadena a few years ago, I expected several things. Warmer winters, for one, which I got. A few celebrity sightings, which I got. An earthquake or two, which I got. And I expected to see lots of buildings in the shape of food. This one I did not get, and I'm still kind of miffed.
When you think about Los Angeles you think about buildings shaped like food. You also think about rampant police corruption, plastic surgery, and Ponch from CHiPs, but mostly you think of gargantuan food-shaped buildings. At least I did. But Los Angeles has lost its only cultural roots, the food-shaped buildings aren't here any more. They're all gone, the Brown Derby, Tail O' The Pup, that one shaped like a hamburger. The only one left is Randy's Donuts, and that's waaaay down by LAX, not a drive I'm willing to make, even for doughnuts.
Without a big hat, or a huge milkshake, or a colossal apple every few blocks or so, Los Angeles lounges in the California sun like what it is, mile after mile of urban blight. Just like the allure of 'Hollywood' disguises the terrible truth of the entertainment business, LA needs the architectural distraction provided by a hot-dog-shaped building to keep people from noticing how desperately ugly the rest of the city actually is.
And even though I'm picking on LA, most cities in the US are ugly too. Especially with the highway-adjacent sameness you find everywhere, Wal-Mart and Target and TGIFridays with Borders and Home Depot and vacant shells of Circuit City. Our highways are sad, homely conduits leading us to buy more things at an outlet mall just like the one thirty miles away. It's depressing. But we can fix it.
We should all tell President Obama that even though he's working hard on other stuff, he needs to put forward the Food-Shaped Building Act of 2009. We need more buildings shaped like something else, and it's time we started demanding them.
When you think about Los Angeles you think about buildings shaped like food. You also think about rampant police corruption, plastic surgery, and Ponch from CHiPs, but mostly you think of gargantuan food-shaped buildings. At least I did. But Los Angeles has lost its only cultural roots, the food-shaped buildings aren't here any more. They're all gone, the Brown Derby, Tail O' The Pup, that one shaped like a hamburger. The only one left is Randy's Donuts, and that's waaaay down by LAX, not a drive I'm willing to make, even for doughnuts.
Without a big hat, or a huge milkshake, or a colossal apple every few blocks or so, Los Angeles lounges in the California sun like what it is, mile after mile of urban blight. Just like the allure of 'Hollywood' disguises the terrible truth of the entertainment business, LA needs the architectural distraction provided by a hot-dog-shaped building to keep people from noticing how desperately ugly the rest of the city actually is.
And even though I'm picking on LA, most cities in the US are ugly too. Especially with the highway-adjacent sameness you find everywhere, Wal-Mart and Target and TGIFridays with Borders and Home Depot and vacant shells of Circuit City. Our highways are sad, homely conduits leading us to buy more things at an outlet mall just like the one thirty miles away. It's depressing. But we can fix it.
We should all tell President Obama that even though he's working hard on other stuff, he needs to put forward the Food-Shaped Building Act of 2009. We need more buildings shaped like something else, and it's time we started demanding them.
Monday, September 14, 2009
'Share The Road' My Ass...
I didn't want to do this. Really. I don't need the hassle, and I almost resent the time I have to spend complaining about it, but they've forced my hand. They made me do it, chipping away at my resolve like a tiny drip of water against a boulder, wearing it away until it's no longer the monolith it once was. Who could do this? you ask. Who could insinuate themselves into my attention and practically force me to comment on them?
Damned bicyclists, that's who.
I'm sure you've seen them, no matter what part of the country you live in; they're everywhere, like roaches. With their little shorts and their saddlebags - oh, sorry, panniers, like using a French word makes it any less sissy- and their helmets perched preciously on their heads like they're mushroom people from Mario World... hold on, I'm getting enraged just thinking about it. Deep breath... in... out... in... out...
Yeah, I get it, share the road, it's a green alternative, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. The problem with bicyclists taking up a traffic lane - aside from their crass presumption - is that they want to play in a sandbox that's just too big for them. It's dangerous because they move too slow, and they're unprotected by US DOT regs cars must follow, and even the most well-meaning bicyclists constantly flout traffic laws by blowing past lights and stop signs, riding against traffic, that kind of thing. It's like your little sister wanting to play football with the guys: it's cute, but she's going to get hurt if she insists on playing for real.
So bicyclists of the United States, here's the deal: if you obey all the same traffic laws as I do - all the time - you can share my lane. If you can ride your bicycle as fast as I can drive my car, you can share my lane. If your fifteen pound bicycle can survive a crash with my 3500 pound truck without being mangled into tin foil, you can share my lane. Until you can do those things, get the hell out of the way.
Whew... sometimes it's good to vent.
Damned bicyclists, that's who.
I'm sure you've seen them, no matter what part of the country you live in; they're everywhere, like roaches. With their little shorts and their saddlebags - oh, sorry, panniers, like using a French word makes it any less sissy- and their helmets perched preciously on their heads like they're mushroom people from Mario World... hold on, I'm getting enraged just thinking about it. Deep breath... in... out... in... out...
Yeah, I get it, share the road, it's a green alternative, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. The problem with bicyclists taking up a traffic lane - aside from their crass presumption - is that they want to play in a sandbox that's just too big for them. It's dangerous because they move too slow, and they're unprotected by US DOT regs cars must follow, and even the most well-meaning bicyclists constantly flout traffic laws by blowing past lights and stop signs, riding against traffic, that kind of thing. It's like your little sister wanting to play football with the guys: it's cute, but she's going to get hurt if she insists on playing for real.
So bicyclists of the United States, here's the deal: if you obey all the same traffic laws as I do - all the time - you can share my lane. If you can ride your bicycle as fast as I can drive my car, you can share my lane. If your fifteen pound bicycle can survive a crash with my 3500 pound truck without being mangled into tin foil, you can share my lane. Until you can do those things, get the hell out of the way.
Whew... sometimes it's good to vent.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Texas vs. California - Restaurants
The examples below are real. Only the names have been changed to protect the clueless.
Texas Restaurant
Hi, are ya'll ready to order?
I'll have the brisket plate.
Cole slaw or potato salad?
Cole slaw.
Anything to drink?
Iced tea.
Thanks, that'll be right out.
California Restaurant
Bonus day, ain't it bro? Can I tell you our specials? We have a great ahi tuna salad.
Actually, I think I'm in the mood for salmon.
Oh... bad news... we don't have salmon on the menu.
I know, but I wonder if you have any in the back?
I'm pretty sure we don't.
Could you make actually sure? I'm in a salmon mood.
~~ time passes ~~
I asked my manager and we've never had salmon, like, ever.
Oh, I was just holding out hope. How is your salad prepared?
Tossed.
Could I get a... hmm... so tough to choose... grilled chicken salad?
Excellent choice.
I'd like to have the chicken with no grill marks, though. Is that possible?
So, grilled chicken with no grill marks... you're trying to blow my mind, right?
Would your manager know?
~~ time passes ~~
Okay, we can do that, he's pretty sure. Workin' some of his manager voodoo. The salad comes with grilled vegetables, is it okay if those have grill marks?
That's fine. But are they marinated?
It's a totally righteous marinade, man.
Could I get that on the side? I prefer to marinate myself.
Sure, okay.
And could I have the dressing on the side? And an extra little ramekin of barbeque sauce. I don't want a bowl, that's too much, a ramekin is just perfect. When the salad comes I'm going to need some fresh black pepper, some slices of limes - NOT lemons, limes, if you don't have them I don't want anything else - and a few tiny shavings of Parmigiano Reggiano. Some balsamic vinegar, too. Oh, and artichoke hearts, I'm sure you have those in the back.
(writing furiously) Okay... got it. Anything else?
No, that's it. I don't want to be any trouble.
Texas Restaurant
Hi, are ya'll ready to order?
I'll have the brisket plate.
Cole slaw or potato salad?
Cole slaw.
Anything to drink?
Iced tea.
Thanks, that'll be right out.
California Restaurant
Bonus day, ain't it bro? Can I tell you our specials? We have a great ahi tuna salad.
Actually, I think I'm in the mood for salmon.
Oh... bad news... we don't have salmon on the menu.
I know, but I wonder if you have any in the back?
I'm pretty sure we don't.
Could you make actually sure? I'm in a salmon mood.
~~ time passes ~~
I asked my manager and we've never had salmon, like, ever.
Oh, I was just holding out hope. How is your salad prepared?
Tossed.
Could I get a... hmm... so tough to choose... grilled chicken salad?
Excellent choice.
I'd like to have the chicken with no grill marks, though. Is that possible?
So, grilled chicken with no grill marks... you're trying to blow my mind, right?
Would your manager know?
~~ time passes ~~
Okay, we can do that, he's pretty sure. Workin' some of his manager voodoo. The salad comes with grilled vegetables, is it okay if those have grill marks?
That's fine. But are they marinated?
It's a totally righteous marinade, man.
Could I get that on the side? I prefer to marinate myself.
Sure, okay.
And could I have the dressing on the side? And an extra little ramekin of barbeque sauce. I don't want a bowl, that's too much, a ramekin is just perfect. When the salad comes I'm going to need some fresh black pepper, some slices of limes - NOT lemons, limes, if you don't have them I don't want anything else - and a few tiny shavings of Parmigiano Reggiano. Some balsamic vinegar, too. Oh, and artichoke hearts, I'm sure you have those in the back.
(writing furiously) Okay... got it. Anything else?
No, that's it. I don't want to be any trouble.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
'Splain This One
So I'm driving in Burbank last night, and I smell cigarette smoke. While undeniably vile it's not unusual, when people can't smoke anywhere else they're going to do it in their cars. I clicked the AC up to 'High' and cracked the windows to drive the stench out, but it just got worse. I looked around to see which of the jackasses driving next to me was smoking, and I found him.
Driving a Prius.
Yup, a guy driving a partial-zero-emission hybrid electric vehicle had his window cranked down all the way and was puffing savagely, almost desperately. Looked like he was keeping a dragon in there with all the noxious fumes billowing out. He's trying to save the environment by driving a very homely electric car but he's gassing out everyone else on Victory Blvd. with his Marlboros.
Gotta love LA.
Driving a Prius.
Yup, a guy driving a partial-zero-emission hybrid electric vehicle had his window cranked down all the way and was puffing savagely, almost desperately. Looked like he was keeping a dragon in there with all the noxious fumes billowing out. He's trying to save the environment by driving a very homely electric car but he's gassing out everyone else on Victory Blvd. with his Marlboros.
Gotta love LA.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Earthquake Munchies
Like many residents of Southern California, I have an earthquake kit. It's similar to a tornado kit if you live in North Texas, or a hurricane kit if you live in Florida, or C.H.U.D. kit if you live in New York City. It's just a backpack with a lot of emergency supplies in it. I check mine once every six months or so (sometimes longer, I admit), to make sure nothing's ruptured or broken, and that remember what all I have. The coolest thing has to be a hand-crank flashlight. Sweet.
There's toilet paper, and emergency water, and a first aid kit, and a survival whistle with a compass that doesn't quite point North all the time. There's rope and road flares and ponchos and light sticks and some 'emergency tool' that looks positively Medieval.
There are also blocks of emergency food. These are survival food bars, intended for lifeboats and liferafts. They come six to a pack and it's recommended that an adult eat two bars a day. But I want to know if they're any good. I mean, if all I'm going to have while I wait for FEMA to come to my rescue are these bars that offer 'maximum survival capability' I need to know if I'm going to be eating carboard. Just because I'm in life-or-death circumstances doesn't mean I need to skimp on flavor.
So I'm thinking about cracking one open for a taste.
The only problem is, they might actually be good. In which case I would keep going back to the emergency backpack for 'one more bite.' You know, like when you have an open bag of chocolate chips in the pantry and you have to make sure they're still acceptable to bake with? So you go back once in a while for a nibble and eventually you have a bag in the pantry with no chocolate chips left. That's what I'm afraid of.
Freaky update: I just found out the company that makes the food bars has its West Coast plant about a mile and a half from my house. I may go by today and see if they have any samples, like they do at Costco.
There's toilet paper, and emergency water, and a first aid kit, and a survival whistle with a compass that doesn't quite point North all the time. There's rope and road flares and ponchos and light sticks and some 'emergency tool' that looks positively Medieval.
There are also blocks of emergency food. These are survival food bars, intended for lifeboats and liferafts. They come six to a pack and it's recommended that an adult eat two bars a day. But I want to know if they're any good. I mean, if all I'm going to have while I wait for FEMA to come to my rescue are these bars that offer 'maximum survival capability' I need to know if I'm going to be eating carboard. Just because I'm in life-or-death circumstances doesn't mean I need to skimp on flavor.
So I'm thinking about cracking one open for a taste.
The only problem is, they might actually be good. In which case I would keep going back to the emergency backpack for 'one more bite.' You know, like when you have an open bag of chocolate chips in the pantry and you have to make sure they're still acceptable to bake with? So you go back once in a while for a nibble and eventually you have a bag in the pantry with no chocolate chips left. That's what I'm afraid of.
Freaky update: I just found out the company that makes the food bars has its West Coast plant about a mile and a half from my house. I may go by today and see if they have any samples, like they do at Costco.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Guerilla Fireworks
The Fourth of July is always interesting in Pasadena, because from my apartment I can usually see five different fireworks shows. There's the big one at the Rose Bowl, and then some of the nearby communities have their own displays, surrounding me with glowing, exploding sparkles. This year, however, because of the bad economy most of the non-Rose-Bowl shows were canceled. I did still get to see the best show, however, and that is the pirate fireworks hustle going on in Altadena.
Altadena sits adjacent to Pasadena but to the North, into the foothills. It's got its good parts and bad parts, but evidently the area is home to a merry band of scofflaws/ fireworks enthusiasts. Every Fourth, about 9 PM-ish, I can stand on my balcony and look North to Altadena and see mini-rockets going off. These are the kind you can buy on an Indian reservation, big-ass tubes of gunpowder straight from China; they don't go up as high as the ones at the Rose Bowl, but they're loud and bright and every bit as beautiful.
You'll see a rocket on the East side of Altadena, maybe two in a row, gold and red or maybe greenish blue. Then nothing. Then another rocket or two about a mile West of the first ones. Then nothing. Then another rocket or two even further West. Then nothing. Then some more rockets a little South.
Then you'll hear the police sirens. And the rockets stop for a few minutes while the band of ne'er do wells lay low. Then the whole thing starts up again, launch and run, launch and run. Guerilla fireworks.
While I feel for the people of Altadena - it's got to be unnerving having huge fireworks go off over your head unexpectedly - the fourteen-year-old inside me relishes the notion of shooting off great big rockets then having to run from the police to do it again. And again. And again.
I tell you, it's a good thing I don't use my powers for evil, you'd all be in a lot of trouble...
Altadena sits adjacent to Pasadena but to the North, into the foothills. It's got its good parts and bad parts, but evidently the area is home to a merry band of scofflaws/ fireworks enthusiasts. Every Fourth, about 9 PM-ish, I can stand on my balcony and look North to Altadena and see mini-rockets going off. These are the kind you can buy on an Indian reservation, big-ass tubes of gunpowder straight from China; they don't go up as high as the ones at the Rose Bowl, but they're loud and bright and every bit as beautiful.
You'll see a rocket on the East side of Altadena, maybe two in a row, gold and red or maybe greenish blue. Then nothing. Then another rocket or two about a mile West of the first ones. Then nothing. Then another rocket or two even further West. Then nothing. Then some more rockets a little South.
Then you'll hear the police sirens. And the rockets stop for a few minutes while the band of ne'er do wells lay low. Then the whole thing starts up again, launch and run, launch and run. Guerilla fireworks.
While I feel for the people of Altadena - it's got to be unnerving having huge fireworks go off over your head unexpectedly - the fourteen-year-old inside me relishes the notion of shooting off great big rockets then having to run from the police to do it again. And again. And again.
I tell you, it's a good thing I don't use my powers for evil, you'd all be in a lot of trouble...
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
And Get Off My Lawn!
If I had any doubts about my impending old-man-ness I don't now. I'm well on my way to inch-thick glasses, a combover, and black socks with white tennis shoes. Why do I say this with such certainty?
I involved myself with local government last night.
My district - our district, I suppose, since I don't own it... yet - had a meeting about beginning re-work on Pasadena's General Plan. Since I'm 'between assignments' I decided to attend. Good way to kill a Tuesday night, if nothing else. Not only was I the only one wearing shorts, I was easily the youngest person in the auditorium by twenty years, not counting the city staffers.
The attendees were not nearly as uniformly caucasian as I assumed they would be, but they were as old as I suspected they might be. I got more than one quizzical glance, then a second glance, and usually a third because I was wearing a t-shirt that had words on it. And you could see my sexy knees. Many of the 'community' knew one another by name and obviously from other city government functions, further cementing my iconoclasm.
During the course of the hour-long meeting I was thoroughly impressed with those elected and appointed to our city government (go Councilman Tournak!!), people who are clearly not doing it for the money. But I realized during the inevitable 'question and answer' period that the main problem with community involvement is that it involves the community.
Out of the twenty or so questions posed, only four of them were really questions rather than rambling manifestoes spouted by people who couldn't take the hint to shut the hell up. Our councilman and the city planner running the meeting were nothing but polite and deferential, which was a mistake in my opinion. Maybe I was just cranky - I really, really needed to cut one and couldn't in an auditorium full of geezers - but I felt like tearing my eyes out when some of the public were droning on and on and on and on without getting to the point. There are no stupid questions, just stupid people.
Besides, if someone wants to make their point repeatedly and without interruption or consideration for others, they should start a blog.
I involved myself with local government last night.
My district - our district, I suppose, since I don't own it... yet - had a meeting about beginning re-work on Pasadena's General Plan. Since I'm 'between assignments' I decided to attend. Good way to kill a Tuesday night, if nothing else. Not only was I the only one wearing shorts, I was easily the youngest person in the auditorium by twenty years, not counting the city staffers.
The attendees were not nearly as uniformly caucasian as I assumed they would be, but they were as old as I suspected they might be. I got more than one quizzical glance, then a second glance, and usually a third because I was wearing a t-shirt that had words on it. And you could see my sexy knees. Many of the 'community' knew one another by name and obviously from other city government functions, further cementing my iconoclasm.
During the course of the hour-long meeting I was thoroughly impressed with those elected and appointed to our city government (go Councilman Tournak!!), people who are clearly not doing it for the money. But I realized during the inevitable 'question and answer' period that the main problem with community involvement is that it involves the community.
Out of the twenty or so questions posed, only four of them were really questions rather than rambling manifestoes spouted by people who couldn't take the hint to shut the hell up. Our councilman and the city planner running the meeting were nothing but polite and deferential, which was a mistake in my opinion. Maybe I was just cranky - I really, really needed to cut one and couldn't in an auditorium full of geezers - but I felt like tearing my eyes out when some of the public were droning on and on and on and on without getting to the point. There are no stupid questions, just stupid people.
Besides, if someone wants to make their point repeatedly and without interruption or consideration for others, they should start a blog.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Lebowski Fest - Part 2
Let's back up a moment, and pretend that the show hasn't started yet, that I'm still standing at the corner of Wilshire and Western waiting for my friend. What might that street scene look like?
There would probably be an awful lot of traffic, cars going every which way. And there were. But there might also be a surprising amount of foot traffic. Not only is this because the Los Angeles Metro 'Purple Line' terminates at that intersection (used to be part of the Red Line if you've never heard of the Purple Line) and because of the many LA Metro bus stops, but it's also because people in that part of LA tend to be pedestrians, surprisingly enough. So what might one have seen on a Thursday afternoon, anything of note?
How about two Mormon guys who looked about 14 years old, complete in their short-sleeved white shirts, black pants, carrying their bicycle helmets, and looking as out of place as... well, as Mormon missionaries at Wilshire and Western. Even better, how about the heavily tattooed pregnant woman who crossed the street with them, chatting on her phone? Or the Mexican ice cream vendor with his homemade cart and barely-audible tinkling bell?
It's a pageant of humanity, I tell you.
To complete the Lebowski Fest story, after the killer set by the little 9-year-old Japanese guitar god (he did, like six or seven songs, didn't miss a note as far as I could tell... I'm still flabbergasted), and a taped fake-satellite appearance by Jeff Bridges, they finally - FINALLY - started the movie. As I mentioned before, there were surprisingly few people dressed in costume. But there were many, many people who could quote the movie line for line. And they did. And quite a few of them snuck out from time to time to indulge in a little herbage, if you know what I mean. Smelled like the art teachers' lounge in high school. Which is why they have the time to spend on a Thursday night going to Lebowski Fest. It was, actually, very fun to have people recite the best lines with the film.
On the way out, the panoply of humanity continued. What might you have seen? Glad you asked. You might have seen a very enterprising young immigrant woman who didn't speak a lot of English but knew enough to set up her hot dog stand on the sidewalk right outside the theater exit. Stoned moviegoers can eat a lot of hot dogs, I saw it with my own eyes. You might also have seen another entrepreneur who dressed in a tattered hospital gown and held a pitifully hand-printed sign advising that 'they dropped me off from the syke ward' (yes, he misspelled 'psych' ward). This is actually a problem in LA, but about three miles East, in Skid Row downtown, so the guy would have been better off selling hot dogs. Or, perhaps, putting on a bright blue sombrero and playing the trumpet. Badly. As the guy hanging out by the parking garage did.
Lebowski Fest hasn't been in LA for three years, and this was very fun. Aside from the attendees mostly being men 'of a certain age' - as old as I am, and who had probably seen the movie in theaters originally - it was a great time. I'd do it again, as long as that little Japanese kid was going to play again.
There would probably be an awful lot of traffic, cars going every which way. And there were. But there might also be a surprising amount of foot traffic. Not only is this because the Los Angeles Metro 'Purple Line' terminates at that intersection (used to be part of the Red Line if you've never heard of the Purple Line) and because of the many LA Metro bus stops, but it's also because people in that part of LA tend to be pedestrians, surprisingly enough. So what might one have seen on a Thursday afternoon, anything of note?
How about two Mormon guys who looked about 14 years old, complete in their short-sleeved white shirts, black pants, carrying their bicycle helmets, and looking as out of place as... well, as Mormon missionaries at Wilshire and Western. Even better, how about the heavily tattooed pregnant woman who crossed the street with them, chatting on her phone? Or the Mexican ice cream vendor with his homemade cart and barely-audible tinkling bell?
It's a pageant of humanity, I tell you.
To complete the Lebowski Fest story, after the killer set by the little 9-year-old Japanese guitar god (he did, like six or seven songs, didn't miss a note as far as I could tell... I'm still flabbergasted), and a taped fake-satellite appearance by Jeff Bridges, they finally - FINALLY - started the movie. As I mentioned before, there were surprisingly few people dressed in costume. But there were many, many people who could quote the movie line for line. And they did. And quite a few of them snuck out from time to time to indulge in a little herbage, if you know what I mean. Smelled like the art teachers' lounge in high school. Which is why they have the time to spend on a Thursday night going to Lebowski Fest. It was, actually, very fun to have people recite the best lines with the film.
On the way out, the panoply of humanity continued. What might you have seen? Glad you asked. You might have seen a very enterprising young immigrant woman who didn't speak a lot of English but knew enough to set up her hot dog stand on the sidewalk right outside the theater exit. Stoned moviegoers can eat a lot of hot dogs, I saw it with my own eyes. You might also have seen another entrepreneur who dressed in a tattered hospital gown and held a pitifully hand-printed sign advising that 'they dropped me off from the syke ward' (yes, he misspelled 'psych' ward). This is actually a problem in LA, but about three miles East, in Skid Row downtown, so the guy would have been better off selling hot dogs. Or, perhaps, putting on a bright blue sombrero and playing the trumpet. Badly. As the guy hanging out by the parking garage did.
Lebowski Fest hasn't been in LA for three years, and this was very fun. Aside from the attendees mostly being men 'of a certain age' - as old as I am, and who had probably seen the movie in theaters originally - it was a great time. I'd do it again, as long as that little Japanese kid was going to play again.
Lebowski Fest - Part 1
I went to the LA Lebowski Fest last night, and it was AWESOME! Much better than I thought it would be. But there's more to the tale...
First, as with any LA story, is the trip there. The Lebowski Fest was held at the Wiltern Theater, which is at the corner of Wilshire and Western (duh), deep in the heart of Koreatown. Unless you live or work within a few miles of it, there's no easy way to get to this part of LA from any other part. Especially at 5:30 PM. So I knew what I was getting into. At least I thought I did.
It took 45 minutes to go fourteen miles or so, but that's pretty much par for the course in LA, not unusual. However, as I traveled down Western, I saw some examples of the worst driving LA has to offer, and that's saying something. People driving the wrong way down the street just to make a left turn into the parking lot for a pizza place (must be good pie), buses plowing through red lights at top speed, one gentleman walking down the center stripe - he wasn't begging for money, just trying to get somewhere with his rolling luggage and thought the double-yellow was a good place to do that. An amazing display of impatience, incompetence, and rudeness, even for LA.
After I got the tickets, my friend and I had Korean BBQ - naturally - a few blocks down Wilshire. After the security purse-screening we got in the theater and she got a White Russian (see the movie if you don't get it); it's a real theater, not a movie theater, they serve booze. We expected more people dressed as the Dude or Walter or Jesus than we saw.
There were a few introductions of bit players, people from the movie who had 5 lines or less, and the inspiration for the Dude, Jeff Dowd, who was, honestly, kind of incoherent.
But then, ah... but then... they introduced 9-year-old Yuto Miazawa. He's a little kid from Japan, who totally, completely shreds a rock guitar. Unbelieveable. He ROCKS!!! His set consisted of great guitar-melting old-school American rock like 'Highway Star' by Deep Purple, 'Crazy Train' by Ozzy, 'National Anthem' by Jimi Hendrix (the kid did it right), and even 'Freebird' by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Funny/tragic note: one of the LA 20-somethings actually leaned over and asked me - during the opening riffs - 'is this Freebird?' Douchebag. The best part of it all was listening to this amazing guitar virtuosity, backed by a 9-year-old Japanese kid's voice. Like listening to Pikachu rock out with his... you know what I'm saying. You have to listen to this kid play.
More about the screening and after the show in another post.
First, as with any LA story, is the trip there. The Lebowski Fest was held at the Wiltern Theater, which is at the corner of Wilshire and Western (duh), deep in the heart of Koreatown. Unless you live or work within a few miles of it, there's no easy way to get to this part of LA from any other part. Especially at 5:30 PM. So I knew what I was getting into. At least I thought I did.
It took 45 minutes to go fourteen miles or so, but that's pretty much par for the course in LA, not unusual. However, as I traveled down Western, I saw some examples of the worst driving LA has to offer, and that's saying something. People driving the wrong way down the street just to make a left turn into the parking lot for a pizza place (must be good pie), buses plowing through red lights at top speed, one gentleman walking down the center stripe - he wasn't begging for money, just trying to get somewhere with his rolling luggage and thought the double-yellow was a good place to do that. An amazing display of impatience, incompetence, and rudeness, even for LA.
After I got the tickets, my friend and I had Korean BBQ - naturally - a few blocks down Wilshire. After the security purse-screening we got in the theater and she got a White Russian (see the movie if you don't get it); it's a real theater, not a movie theater, they serve booze. We expected more people dressed as the Dude or Walter or Jesus than we saw.
There were a few introductions of bit players, people from the movie who had 5 lines or less, and the inspiration for the Dude, Jeff Dowd, who was, honestly, kind of incoherent.
But then, ah... but then... they introduced 9-year-old Yuto Miazawa. He's a little kid from Japan, who totally, completely shreds a rock guitar. Unbelieveable. He ROCKS!!! His set consisted of great guitar-melting old-school American rock like 'Highway Star' by Deep Purple, 'Crazy Train' by Ozzy, 'National Anthem' by Jimi Hendrix (the kid did it right), and even 'Freebird' by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Funny/tragic note: one of the LA 20-somethings actually leaned over and asked me - during the opening riffs - 'is this Freebird?' Douchebag. The best part of it all was listening to this amazing guitar virtuosity, backed by a 9-year-old Japanese kid's voice. Like listening to Pikachu rock out with his... you know what I'm saying. You have to listen to this kid play.
More about the screening and after the show in another post.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Termed With Pay
I am one of the several million people terminated as a result of the economic corrections going on. I’ve been unemployed for a day and I’m already going insane, so I decided to start this blog to keep the crazy down. Don’t know if anybody’s going to read it except me, but what the hell.
Let’s start with my monkey-spank severance letter and the manner by which I received it. My impending severance wasn’t a surprise, I did know about it months in advance, so I’m fortunate in that regard. I still needed ‘official’ notice, though, a formal handing over of the appropriate paperwork. I live in Pasadena, CA, and the person giving me the pink slip lives and works in Calabasas, CA. So, on 04 Mar 2009, I got to drive from Pasadena to Calabasas to get my severance paperwork at 8 AM.
You read that right, I was the one making the trip. At 8 AM. On the 101 through the Valley. Did I mention that it was raining too?
If you’ve never been on LA highways in the rain a) count yourself lucky, and b) imagine giving car keys to a million eight-year-olds and letting them just go have fun.
The trip takes half an hour in the best circumstances, and that morning it took over an hour. Man, I hate the West Valley. Bastards. To be fair, there’s no manual for this kind of thing, but if I were delivering the bad news, I would have been the one to make the drive. The fact that I - the terminee - had to make the trip speaks volumes about the priorities of corporate America that mere words cannot convey.
I spent two hours in traffic, there and back, to get a brief letter that states in perfect Corporate Monkey-Spankese : ‘...the Company must undergo a job elimination and reduction in workforce. We regret that as part of the necessary reduction in force, your employment with the company will be terminated...’ and blah, and blah, and blah.
So now I’m terminated with pay, at least for a few weeks. It’s only been two days now, like a sick day, but it’s not like calling in sick when you’re not really sick. If you call in sick you know there’s always work to get back to. Now I got nowhere else to go. And that’s what’s making me crazy.
Let’s start with my monkey-spank severance letter and the manner by which I received it. My impending severance wasn’t a surprise, I did know about it months in advance, so I’m fortunate in that regard. I still needed ‘official’ notice, though, a formal handing over of the appropriate paperwork. I live in Pasadena, CA, and the person giving me the pink slip lives and works in Calabasas, CA. So, on 04 Mar 2009, I got to drive from Pasadena to Calabasas to get my severance paperwork at 8 AM.
You read that right, I was the one making the trip. At 8 AM. On the 101 through the Valley. Did I mention that it was raining too?
If you’ve never been on LA highways in the rain a) count yourself lucky, and b) imagine giving car keys to a million eight-year-olds and letting them just go have fun.
The trip takes half an hour in the best circumstances, and that morning it took over an hour. Man, I hate the West Valley. Bastards. To be fair, there’s no manual for this kind of thing, but if I were delivering the bad news, I would have been the one to make the drive. The fact that I - the terminee - had to make the trip speaks volumes about the priorities of corporate America that mere words cannot convey.
I spent two hours in traffic, there and back, to get a brief letter that states in perfect Corporate Monkey-Spankese : ‘...the Company must undergo a job elimination and reduction in workforce. We regret that as part of the necessary reduction in force, your employment with the company will be terminated...’ and blah, and blah, and blah.
So now I’m terminated with pay, at least for a few weeks. It’s only been two days now, like a sick day, but it’s not like calling in sick when you’re not really sick. If you call in sick you know there’s always work to get back to. Now I got nowhere else to go. And that’s what’s making me crazy.
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