I'm writing a story 140 words at a time and posting the results here
daily. Can I sustain interest? Will I lose the narrative thread? Find
out in this next installment of Bullets Ain't Cheap
guys are with Telrik or Burton.”
“What if there’s no difference?” I asked. “What if Telrik is using Burton to get the money back?”
The idea took Kelly a moment to process. “I never thought of that.”
Hugging the wall, Kelly moved for the other end of the alley, pistol in hand. I followed with my own pistol drawn, scanning above and behind us. It was like the old days, me and Kelly against the world.
“Can you still hotwire a car?” Kelly asked softly.
“Older models are better,” I said, “quicker. But, yeah, pretty much.”
Crouching, he eased one eye around the corner. Turning back, he had a smile on his face. “Suppose I found you one with the keys still in it?”
We both concealed our weapons and emerged from the alley. Not thirty feet away some kid,
Showing posts with label bacon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bacon. Show all posts
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
The Haircut Indeterminacy
I may have complained about this before, but it's been a while - probably a long while - since I mentioned it. My cross to bear. My public shame. The thing that keeps me awake at night as I silently sob. What could get me as emotional as a spinster watching Brian's Song?
I cannot get a good hair cut.
Which is not entirely true. I have gotten good hair cuts once in a great while, which is how I know that a good hair cut and my head can exist in the same place at the same time. What I mean is I cannot usually get a good hair cut most of the time. Like right now, if you could see me you'd see a mushroom-y sort of thing, where the top is disproportionately longer than the sides so my head looks like I'm sprouting a Portobello above my eyebrows.
Other times, when I've been subject to the tender mercies of a different butcher with scissors it can look like I've sprouted wings above my ears or like I've got the beginnings of a mullet working on my neck.
I don't get it. These guys go to barber school. They're licensed. They've been in business for years, decades even. And yet when I sit in their chairs I know that no matter what I say my hair cut is going to look good for a day or two, maybe inside of a week, before it all goes to shaggy Hell.
There was one barber who never gave me a bad hair cut. JB. Had his own shop down on Austin Highway. He used to cut my father's hair when my father was in high school, no lie. When I started going to see him JB had largely retired, so I had to choose my days carefully. Now he's almost certainly retired, maybe passed on to that Great Barbershop in the Sky. And with him goes my chance of ever getting a good hair cut regularly.
This is why some guys shave their heads, I'm convinced. My problem is that if I shaved my head I'd look like a mental patient or a serial killer. Or a serial-killing mental patient. I have a lumpy head underneath my mushroom hair.
Which, now that I think of it, might be the problem.
I cannot get a good hair cut.
Which is not entirely true. I have gotten good hair cuts once in a great while, which is how I know that a good hair cut and my head can exist in the same place at the same time. What I mean is I cannot usually get a good hair cut most of the time. Like right now, if you could see me you'd see a mushroom-y sort of thing, where the top is disproportionately longer than the sides so my head looks like I'm sprouting a Portobello above my eyebrows.
Other times, when I've been subject to the tender mercies of a different butcher with scissors it can look like I've sprouted wings above my ears or like I've got the beginnings of a mullet working on my neck.
I don't get it. These guys go to barber school. They're licensed. They've been in business for years, decades even. And yet when I sit in their chairs I know that no matter what I say my hair cut is going to look good for a day or two, maybe inside of a week, before it all goes to shaggy Hell.
There was one barber who never gave me a bad hair cut. JB. Had his own shop down on Austin Highway. He used to cut my father's hair when my father was in high school, no lie. When I started going to see him JB had largely retired, so I had to choose my days carefully. Now he's almost certainly retired, maybe passed on to that Great Barbershop in the Sky. And with him goes my chance of ever getting a good hair cut regularly.
This is why some guys shave their heads, I'm convinced. My problem is that if I shaved my head I'd look like a mental patient or a serial killer. Or a serial-killing mental patient. I have a lumpy head underneath my mushroom hair.
Which, now that I think of it, might be the problem.
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...
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.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Bait-N-Switch
I've mentioned before about advice my grandfather gave me that I didn't understand at the time but which turned out to be useful later. Like his admonition to 'spend a little extra, get nice shoes that fit.' Brilliant. My grandfather was a bit of a scam artist, to tell the truth, and I really wish I had discovered more about his upbringing before he died, I'm sure it was a sordid tale full of human drama.
Anyway... one of the many things he warned me about was the old 'bait and switch' sales method. It used to happen all the time, especially with car sales. A dealer would advertise a '54 Chrysler Imperial for, say $500. Except they didn't have a Chrysler Imperial on the lot, let alone one for $500. So when you went to the lot to test drive the Imperial, they'd tell you of your bad luck ('someone just drove it off') and then try to sell you the 55 Chrysler New Yorker for $1500. Bait - cheap car - and switch - present you with a more expensive one.
Bait and switch is illegal. If a vendor advertises a certain item, they'd better have that item on-hand or they'll get fined or shut down, possibly both.
Well, let's look at Facebook's advertising rates. I have a page on Facebook for this very blog, and I have a budget each day for FB to place that ad on pages. I bid a certain amount, say 60 cents, for each click. This amount is far lower than the 'suggested' bid of 70 cents, and so my ad does not get served out because the rate never gets down to 60 cents. I left it like that for a very long time because I just didn't care to play the game I knew was coming. This past week I decided to play.
The 'suggested' rate was 70 cents. So I raised my bid to 70 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' rate went up to 79 cents.
Hmmm....
I raised my bid to 80 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' bid went up to 90 cents. My mama didn't raise no fool, but I decided to play along, to establish a pattern. I raised my bid to 91 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' bid went up to $1.03
Classic bait and switch. You couldn't do it better if you were a car dealer in 1965. You want us to serve your ad? That'll be 70 cents a click. Oh, hold on a moment, that 70 cents is no longer valid. But, just for you, we can do 80 cents a click, are you interested in that one? Ooooh... sorry, but that 80 cents a click isn't right either, the price just went up. We could put you in a very nice ad for just 90 cents a click, though...
Rat bastard sons of bitches. We need to get some investigative journalists on this, start cracking heads.
My next step is to steadily decrease my bid and see how the rates follow. My guess is the 'suggested' bid stays just tantalizingly out of reach.
Anyway... one of the many things he warned me about was the old 'bait and switch' sales method. It used to happen all the time, especially with car sales. A dealer would advertise a '54 Chrysler Imperial for, say $500. Except they didn't have a Chrysler Imperial on the lot, let alone one for $500. So when you went to the lot to test drive the Imperial, they'd tell you of your bad luck ('someone just drove it off') and then try to sell you the 55 Chrysler New Yorker for $1500. Bait - cheap car - and switch - present you with a more expensive one.
Bait and switch is illegal. If a vendor advertises a certain item, they'd better have that item on-hand or they'll get fined or shut down, possibly both.
Well, let's look at Facebook's advertising rates. I have a page on Facebook for this very blog, and I have a budget each day for FB to place that ad on pages. I bid a certain amount, say 60 cents, for each click. This amount is far lower than the 'suggested' bid of 70 cents, and so my ad does not get served out because the rate never gets down to 60 cents. I left it like that for a very long time because I just didn't care to play the game I knew was coming. This past week I decided to play.
The 'suggested' rate was 70 cents. So I raised my bid to 70 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' rate went up to 79 cents.
Hmmm....
I raised my bid to 80 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' bid went up to 90 cents. My mama didn't raise no fool, but I decided to play along, to establish a pattern. I raised my bid to 91 cents. A few minutes later the 'suggested' bid went up to $1.03
Classic bait and switch. You couldn't do it better if you were a car dealer in 1965. You want us to serve your ad? That'll be 70 cents a click. Oh, hold on a moment, that 70 cents is no longer valid. But, just for you, we can do 80 cents a click, are you interested in that one? Ooooh... sorry, but that 80 cents a click isn't right either, the price just went up. We could put you in a very nice ad for just 90 cents a click, though...
Rat bastard sons of bitches. We need to get some investigative journalists on this, start cracking heads.
My next step is to steadily decrease my bid and see how the rates follow. My guess is the 'suggested' bid stays just tantalizingly out of reach.
Friday, May 21, 2010
This Is A Job?
Right now I'm working down on the Miracle Mile, Wilshire Boulevard, in the Variety Building. This is one of those places where they don't really have enough parking spaces for everyone in the building, so what they do is park two deep. You get there early enough in the morning and you pull into an extra-long parking space, leaving room for someone to pull in behind you.
This prompts the question: 'if someone parks behind me, how the hell do I get out?' Rather than waiting for someone to come down and move their car, the building employs several people whose job it is to take keys from the second-rank parkers and move those cars when the first-rank parkers want to get out. They come on at 9 AM and leave at 6 PM.
It was only today that I thought about how terrible that job must be. The guy on 'B' level, where I usually park, seems cheerful enough, but his job - for 9 hours a day - is to sit in a dank, exhaust-befumed parking garage and move cars around. That can't be pleasant, and it can't be fun. Sure, he's not stuck in a cube like the people in the 20+ stories above, and he doesn't bring his work home with him, but still.
There's always a way to earn a buck, and some ways are better than others, but it seems to me that parking-garage car-mover has to be on the lower end of the list. Construction work is harder, certainly, as would being a garbageman or a window cleaner, but at least those guys get outside, and their work provides them a sense of accomplishment. Hell, even a fast-food job seems like it would be more rewarding.
Maybe I'll get my 'B'-level guy something. A snack might work. Or a thank-you card.
COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes back - 36 minutes, got out early.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 50 days
This prompts the question: 'if someone parks behind me, how the hell do I get out?' Rather than waiting for someone to come down and move their car, the building employs several people whose job it is to take keys from the second-rank parkers and move those cars when the first-rank parkers want to get out. They come on at 9 AM and leave at 6 PM.
It was only today that I thought about how terrible that job must be. The guy on 'B' level, where I usually park, seems cheerful enough, but his job - for 9 hours a day - is to sit in a dank, exhaust-befumed parking garage and move cars around. That can't be pleasant, and it can't be fun. Sure, he's not stuck in a cube like the people in the 20+ stories above, and he doesn't bring his work home with him, but still.
There's always a way to earn a buck, and some ways are better than others, but it seems to me that parking-garage car-mover has to be on the lower end of the list. Construction work is harder, certainly, as would being a garbageman or a window cleaner, but at least those guys get outside, and their work provides them a sense of accomplishment. Hell, even a fast-food job seems like it would be more rewarding.
Maybe I'll get my 'B'-level guy something. A snack might work. Or a thank-you card.
COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes back - 36 minutes, got out early.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 50 days
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Stop Being Curious
I like to know stuff. Actually, I guess it's better to say that I like to find stuff out. When I was in college I worked in the library - I used to say 'libary' to make my boss angry - and I tried to learn something new every day, even if it was some completely random fact I learned off an out-of-date atlas. Like Zimbabwe used to be Rhosdesia, stuff like that.
Sometime, though, curiosity can be a bad thing. Ignorance really is bliss.
I got a thing in the mail for a local dry cleaner, I'm sure everyone gets them for their local dry cleaners too. Twenty dollars off an order of $70 or more, if you're interested and want to ship your clothes to Pasadena for some reason.
Anyway, I got to wondering what dry cleaners use to clean clothes. So I hit the internet and had a look. Mistake. Big mistake.
Dry cleaning fluid is tetrachloroethylene, which sounds like something crazy people in the Middle East use for chemical warfare. The best thing you can say for it is that it won't catch fire. Other than that, it's nothing good. It's a carcinogen and a degreaser for auto parts, for God's sake, why would I want my clothes put in that?
I should have just left well enough alone, but evidently I didn't learn my lesson from a couple of months ago, and I just had to go digging. I swear, if I find one more thing that's bad for me that I assumed was okay, I'm going to go live in a convent.
Yeah, you heard me.
COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes back - 50 minutes. Ride share Thursday my ass...
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 79 days
Sometime, though, curiosity can be a bad thing. Ignorance really is bliss.
I got a thing in the mail for a local dry cleaner, I'm sure everyone gets them for their local dry cleaners too. Twenty dollars off an order of $70 or more, if you're interested and want to ship your clothes to Pasadena for some reason.
Anyway, I got to wondering what dry cleaners use to clean clothes. So I hit the internet and had a look. Mistake. Big mistake.
Dry cleaning fluid is tetrachloroethylene, which sounds like something crazy people in the Middle East use for chemical warfare. The best thing you can say for it is that it won't catch fire. Other than that, it's nothing good. It's a carcinogen and a degreaser for auto parts, for God's sake, why would I want my clothes put in that?
I should have just left well enough alone, but evidently I didn't learn my lesson from a couple of months ago, and I just had to go digging. I swear, if I find one more thing that's bad for me that I assumed was okay, I'm going to go live in a convent.
Yeah, you heard me.
COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes back - 50 minutes. Ride share Thursday my ass...
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 79 days
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Wouldn't That Hurt?
I was at the gym today, gettin' my sweat on, and I saw a guy running on the treadmill. Nothing out of the ordinary, that's what treadmills are for. There was something wrong, though, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. He was running... funny. And I do mean ha-ha funny. Comical, in a you-have-to-be-embarrassed-for-him sort of way. So I looked at the other guys beside him, and it hit me. The first guy was running on his toes.
Normally you go heel-toe, heel-toe when you run. Like when you walk. But this guy had the speed cranked waaaaay up and he was prancing along on his toes like he was an antelope or something, and bobbing up and down like a piston. It was the oddest thing I've seen in that gym in a while.*
The only thing I could think was 'man, that's gotta hurt...'
Fast forward to thirty minutes later. I've finished with the cardio portion of my workout and I've moved on to strength and flexibility And who do I see but Prancer from the treadmill. And what was he doing? Groaning and moaning as he tried to stretch out his calves. You'd have thought he was having surgery with no anesthesia the way he was carrying on, wincing in pain and gritting his teeth.
For a moment I thought I should go over and explain to him what I saw him doing, but then I thought better of it. Not really my business in the first place, and he was making a big show of stretching so he liked the attention that running like a douchebag brought him. And who am I to get in the way of someone else's desperate cry for attention?
It does make me a little self-conscious, though. Am performing any exercises comically wrong? Am I in a glass house throwing stones here?
Nah...
* aside from Mr. Grunty Seven-Rep and his torn wardrobe, but I'm used to that annoying bastard now
Normally you go heel-toe, heel-toe when you run. Like when you walk. But this guy had the speed cranked waaaaay up and he was prancing along on his toes like he was an antelope or something, and bobbing up and down like a piston. It was the oddest thing I've seen in that gym in a while.*
The only thing I could think was 'man, that's gotta hurt...'
Fast forward to thirty minutes later. I've finished with the cardio portion of my workout and I've moved on to strength and flexibility And who do I see but Prancer from the treadmill. And what was he doing? Groaning and moaning as he tried to stretch out his calves. You'd have thought he was having surgery with no anesthesia the way he was carrying on, wincing in pain and gritting his teeth.
For a moment I thought I should go over and explain to him what I saw him doing, but then I thought better of it. Not really my business in the first place, and he was making a big show of stretching so he liked the attention that running like a douchebag brought him. And who am I to get in the way of someone else's desperate cry for attention?
It does make me a little self-conscious, though. Am performing any exercises comically wrong? Am I in a glass house throwing stones here?
Nah...
* aside from Mr. Grunty Seven-Rep and his torn wardrobe, but I'm used to that annoying bastard now
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Can You TP A Space Station?
In a few days there will be four women up in space. That's the largest number of women in orbit ever, and all of them are headed for the space station.
So which one of them is the mean girl? And which one is the target? You know it's gonna happen, whenever there are three women in the same room, two of them ostracize the third, and it gets even worse the more ladies there are. This is bound to hold true up in orbit, especially in the tight confines of a space shuttle or space station. And don't tell me I'm being sexist or perpetuating sterotypes, it's true and you know it. One of the four women astronauts is going to cry before it's all over, and wonder why the other three don't like her.
Maybe NASA will pipe down footage of the zero-g pillow fight they're going to have. I mean, seriously, isn't being on the space station like one freaky slumber party? They can get in their sleeping bags, pop popcorn and make cookies, play with a Ouija board, do each other's hair and talk about the boys back in Mission Control.
Okay, see? That was sexist, that last paragraph. I shouldn't have written that, I know. I feel ashamed. And ready for the YouTube footage of the pillow fight.
So which one of them is the mean girl? And which one is the target? You know it's gonna happen, whenever there are three women in the same room, two of them ostracize the third, and it gets even worse the more ladies there are. This is bound to hold true up in orbit, especially in the tight confines of a space shuttle or space station. And don't tell me I'm being sexist or perpetuating sterotypes, it's true and you know it. One of the four women astronauts is going to cry before it's all over, and wonder why the other three don't like her.
Maybe NASA will pipe down footage of the zero-g pillow fight they're going to have. I mean, seriously, isn't being on the space station like one freaky slumber party? They can get in their sleeping bags, pop popcorn and make cookies, play with a Ouija board, do each other's hair and talk about the boys back in Mission Control.
Okay, see? That was sexist, that last paragraph. I shouldn't have written that, I know. I feel ashamed. And ready for the YouTube footage of the pillow fight.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Tales From My Past - Truck Driver
A while back I worked on a military base, and not too far from that base was one of those truck driving schools. If you stay up late enough at night you see ads for them on TV, sometimes in them middle of the day when proper folks are holed up in their cubicles, slaving away for the Man.
Anyway, I had always wanted to learn how to drive an 18-wheeler, you never know when something like that is going to come in handy. You're at a party, for instance, and the host decides to pack up and move right then, and needs someone who knows how to drive a truck. I would be the only one to raise my hand when the frantic question comes 'anybody here know how to drive a big rig?'
I was interested enough to write the number down from the billboard as I drove in one morning, and I called them that afternoon. The guy on the other end was kind of disinterested, bored almost, when he answered the phone. I told him I wanted to learn how to drive a rig, and asked how much it cost to learn.
He asked me if I had a valid driver's license. I said I did. His voice perked up and he got a little interested.
He asked me how many moving violations I'd ever had. I told him none. He got more interested in the conversation.
He asked me how many misdemeanor offenses I'd been convicted of or plead guilty to. I told him none. He got far more interested.
He asked me how many felony convictions I'd ever had or plead guilty to. I told him none. He got downright excited.
I could almost see him dancing around his office as he explained to me that someone with my clean record could practically write his own ticket, that once I made it through truck driver's school I could find a gig with almost any major company in the nation. And if the stars aligned and everything worked out, I might be able to get that company to remit me the cost of school, assuming, of course, that I kept a clean record as a professional driver.
It was at this point that I became uncomfortable. I didn't want to become a professional driver, I'm happy with my Class C. All I ever wanted was to know how to drive a big rig, not to actually do it for a living. The guy on the other end of the phone was ready with career placement for a career I didn't want. Still, I was willing to play along, I said I still didn't know how much it cost, and that was the deciding factor. The wheels in my mind were turning, and I figured I could just pay for the classes and then not show up on test day or something.
The guy let the guillotine drop. Fifty-five hundred dollars. With no financial aid to speak of. Holy crap, I was thinking it was a couple hundred bucks, tops. Like driver's ed in high school or something. I told the guy I'd have to think about it, I didn't know if I could get my hands on that kind of money. At least I wasn't lying about that part. When he hung up I could feel his disappointment radiating out through the phone line.
To this day I still don't know how to drive an 18-wheeler. Maybe if I did I'd be employed right now.
Anyway, I had always wanted to learn how to drive an 18-wheeler, you never know when something like that is going to come in handy. You're at a party, for instance, and the host decides to pack up and move right then, and needs someone who knows how to drive a truck. I would be the only one to raise my hand when the frantic question comes 'anybody here know how to drive a big rig?'
I was interested enough to write the number down from the billboard as I drove in one morning, and I called them that afternoon. The guy on the other end was kind of disinterested, bored almost, when he answered the phone. I told him I wanted to learn how to drive a rig, and asked how much it cost to learn.
He asked me if I had a valid driver's license. I said I did. His voice perked up and he got a little interested.
He asked me how many moving violations I'd ever had. I told him none. He got more interested in the conversation.
He asked me how many misdemeanor offenses I'd been convicted of or plead guilty to. I told him none. He got far more interested.
He asked me how many felony convictions I'd ever had or plead guilty to. I told him none. He got downright excited.
I could almost see him dancing around his office as he explained to me that someone with my clean record could practically write his own ticket, that once I made it through truck driver's school I could find a gig with almost any major company in the nation. And if the stars aligned and everything worked out, I might be able to get that company to remit me the cost of school, assuming, of course, that I kept a clean record as a professional driver.
It was at this point that I became uncomfortable. I didn't want to become a professional driver, I'm happy with my Class C. All I ever wanted was to know how to drive a big rig, not to actually do it for a living. The guy on the other end of the phone was ready with career placement for a career I didn't want. Still, I was willing to play along, I said I still didn't know how much it cost, and that was the deciding factor. The wheels in my mind were turning, and I figured I could just pay for the classes and then not show up on test day or something.
The guy let the guillotine drop. Fifty-five hundred dollars. With no financial aid to speak of. Holy crap, I was thinking it was a couple hundred bucks, tops. Like driver's ed in high school or something. I told the guy I'd have to think about it, I didn't know if I could get my hands on that kind of money. At least I wasn't lying about that part. When he hung up I could feel his disappointment radiating out through the phone line.
To this day I still don't know how to drive an 18-wheeler. Maybe if I did I'd be employed right now.
Friday, March 26, 2010
A Beard And A Cigar
Okay, I'm going to admit it: I'm getting tired of being 'between assignments.' There, I've said it. The bloom is off the rose, the shine is off the new penny. I want to work, even if it means going back to a corporate amoeba and putting in my 40 from a cubicle.
But I still have dreams of something better.
I'm thinking that, if I play my cards right and have the proper backing, I could become dictator of my own banana republic. And I don't mean the clothing store (those still exist, right? I haven't been to a mall in a very long time).
I want to rule a blighted land with an iron fist, I want to take over from a corrupt regime and become even more corrupt, I want to grow a bushy beard and smoke a big cigar. I want my image plastered on every wall and have my statues in every public square. I want my citizens to publicly praise me yet privately condemn me. I want Google to cater to me, and then develop a conscience only when my state hackers try to crack their system. I want Wall Street vampires to admire me and wonder how they can duplicate my political success in their financial world.
Couldn't be worse than fighting LA traffic to work at a soulless corporation for defeated, sallow middle-managers who aren't good at their jobs and don't care to be. At least if I was Great Leader of my own banana republic I'd be the one abusing my power at the expense of others, instead of being the victim.
Of course, my regime is destined to fail. Eventually. They always do - Hugo Chavez, I'm looking at you here. But if I'm properly paranoid and ruthless I could make it last a good twenty, maybe thirty years. I'm gonna need a cadre of faithful believers in my 'cause,' who I will eventually and gradually betray until I become the very thing I was fighting against. Who's up for it?
But I still have dreams of something better.
I'm thinking that, if I play my cards right and have the proper backing, I could become dictator of my own banana republic. And I don't mean the clothing store (those still exist, right? I haven't been to a mall in a very long time).
I want to rule a blighted land with an iron fist, I want to take over from a corrupt regime and become even more corrupt, I want to grow a bushy beard and smoke a big cigar. I want my image plastered on every wall and have my statues in every public square. I want my citizens to publicly praise me yet privately condemn me. I want Google to cater to me, and then develop a conscience only when my state hackers try to crack their system. I want Wall Street vampires to admire me and wonder how they can duplicate my political success in their financial world.
Couldn't be worse than fighting LA traffic to work at a soulless corporation for defeated, sallow middle-managers who aren't good at their jobs and don't care to be. At least if I was Great Leader of my own banana republic I'd be the one abusing my power at the expense of others, instead of being the victim.
Of course, my regime is destined to fail. Eventually. They always do - Hugo Chavez, I'm looking at you here. But if I'm properly paranoid and ruthless I could make it last a good twenty, maybe thirty years. I'm gonna need a cadre of faithful believers in my 'cause,' who I will eventually and gradually betray until I become the very thing I was fighting against. Who's up for it?
Friday, January 29, 2010
Puppet Veracity
I don't think I'm alone when I say that ventriloquist's dummies kind of creep me out. Unless you're a ventriloquist yourself, I think it's a safe bet that almost everybody gets a little shiver when those lifeless doll's eyes turn your way.
Yet I am completely entranced by puppets. If I find the puppet section in a toy store, watch out, I'm trying on every one that will fit on my meaty mitts. Especially if it's a dinosaur. Unlike ventriloquist's dummies - which really will murder you in your sleep - puppets are friendly and plush and adorable. And Craig Ferguson likes them too, so that's an endorsement right there.
Puppets attract people, when you see someone with a puppet on their hand you want to go towards them; when you see someone with a ventriloquist's dummy you want to get as far away as possible. And when you have a puppet on your hand, you can get away with saying things you never could otherwise. 'You could stand to lose a few pounds, honey.' I didn't say it, the puppet did. 'Boy, this meatloaf is so dry it could choke a corpse.' Now, Mr. Dino, don't get sassy.
I think everybody should get a puppet alter-ego, that way you could say everything you're really thinking and yet claim the notions came from somewhere else.
To the scrawny white guy in Best Buy: 'Okay, Brandon or Cody or Jordan or whatever your name is, you get paid to know about the features of this TV, not to play Rock Band all day.'
To your boss: 'Yes, I do mind, and no, I'm not working late. Suck it.'
To the guy at the car wash: 'I know you're new to this country, but the car is supposed to come out cleaner than it went in.'
To the Post Office clerk: 'Hey bitch, don't walk away from the window when I'm next in line.'
See? It'll be like one great big therapy session, all the time. What could go wrong?
Yet I am completely entranced by puppets. If I find the puppet section in a toy store, watch out, I'm trying on every one that will fit on my meaty mitts. Especially if it's a dinosaur. Unlike ventriloquist's dummies - which really will murder you in your sleep - puppets are friendly and plush and adorable. And Craig Ferguson likes them too, so that's an endorsement right there.
Puppets attract people, when you see someone with a puppet on their hand you want to go towards them; when you see someone with a ventriloquist's dummy you want to get as far away as possible. And when you have a puppet on your hand, you can get away with saying things you never could otherwise. 'You could stand to lose a few pounds, honey.' I didn't say it, the puppet did. 'Boy, this meatloaf is so dry it could choke a corpse.' Now, Mr. Dino, don't get sassy.
I think everybody should get a puppet alter-ego, that way you could say everything you're really thinking and yet claim the notions came from somewhere else.
To the scrawny white guy in Best Buy: 'Okay, Brandon or Cody or Jordan or whatever your name is, you get paid to know about the features of this TV, not to play Rock Band all day.'
To your boss: 'Yes, I do mind, and no, I'm not working late. Suck it.'
To the guy at the car wash: 'I know you're new to this country, but the car is supposed to come out cleaner than it went in.'
To the Post Office clerk: 'Hey bitch, don't walk away from the window when I'm next in line.'
See? It'll be like one great big therapy session, all the time. What could go wrong?
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
iPod Hijinks
A few weeks back the owner of my apartment building decided that the time had come to replace some of the worn exterior wood bits. This meant that for about two weeks straight there were carpenters all over the place, with saws going, wrenches turning, hammers banging, the whole works. I got used to seeing the guys, and since I was one of the few people around during the day they got used to seeing me. We even had a few conversations about my car, and I got used to being around people once again.
Then they were gone, and I was alone. Bereft, as it were. No more racket interrupting my concentration, no more trucks blocking the entrance, no more Big Gulp cups on the stairs.
So this morning I was headed out to the gym, wearing my iPod. While I do wear it at the gym, I rarely wear it any other time, so this was unusual. I was walking down the stairs, iPod kicking it old school with a little Public Enemy, Flavor Flav with 'Can't Do Nuttin' for You Man', a jaunty little ditty if ever there was one. Like many people do when they think they're alone, I was singing along, which I thought was humming, or maybe whispering.
But I wasn't alone. I rounded the corner and came face-to-face with the plumber. He was coming up the stairs as I was going down and we met in the middle. Since he was the one with the toolbox I stepped out of the way and he kind of raised an eyebrow at me.
'Gotta love the Flavor,' he said as he climbed to the second floor.
Perfect. There's nothing like an extremely white guy like me getting caught rapping. Kind of pathetic and presumptuous at the same time. Guilty, as charged.
I turned the iPod off until I got to the gym.
Then they were gone, and I was alone. Bereft, as it were. No more racket interrupting my concentration, no more trucks blocking the entrance, no more Big Gulp cups on the stairs.
So this morning I was headed out to the gym, wearing my iPod. While I do wear it at the gym, I rarely wear it any other time, so this was unusual. I was walking down the stairs, iPod kicking it old school with a little Public Enemy, Flavor Flav with 'Can't Do Nuttin' for You Man', a jaunty little ditty if ever there was one. Like many people do when they think they're alone, I was singing along, which I thought was humming, or maybe whispering.
But I wasn't alone. I rounded the corner and came face-to-face with the plumber. He was coming up the stairs as I was going down and we met in the middle. Since he was the one with the toolbox I stepped out of the way and he kind of raised an eyebrow at me.
'Gotta love the Flavor,' he said as he climbed to the second floor.
Perfect. There's nothing like an extremely white guy like me getting caught rapping. Kind of pathetic and presumptuous at the same time. Guilty, as charged.
I turned the iPod off until I got to the gym.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Old Folks Say The Darndest Things
I read somewhere - probably Scientific American - that as people age, the circuits in their brains that keep them from saying the first thing that pops into their heads stop working. This is what gives rise to the phenomenon of Grandma cussing up a blue streak when you never thought she knew those words in the first place. Add to that the tendency of old people to stop caring what other people think, and you have a perfect storm of indiscretion. And I can tell you first-hand that this is true.
Yesterday I was at an audition down in Santa Monica - for Fed Ex, cross your fingers - and they were seeing all kinds of people. My age, younger, older, freaky looking (not me), not freaky looking (hopefully me), short, tall, fat, thin, you name it. The fact that the audition was on a Saturday and that there were so many different kinds people meant the client had no idea what they were going for, or they changed their mind, or both. Opportunity for me in any event.
I happened to be there with a lot of old guys. And I don't mean older than me old guys, I mean OLD guys, well over 70. While they were gregarious and friendly, they were also the most vicious bunch of SOBs I'd been around in a long time. Maybe I'm just used to the 'everybody wins' attitude in modern society, but these old guys were in it to win it, if you know what I mean. Talking about another old guy when he's ten feet away and can certainly hear, doing the classic undermining confidence tricks - 'you're wearing that?' 'nailed it...' 'you all might was well go home now' - and even trying to nudge their way up the list with lame excuses. Man, if that's what Hollywood was like thirty years ago no wonder actors are a sad, bitter, angry group.
They didn't screw with me or anybody without gray hair, though, only with the other old guys. If I were a sociologist I might be interested in discovering exactly why that was the case. But I'm not a sociologist so I don't give a sh*t, as long as they leave me alone.
Oh, and I got a parking ticket too. Bastard meter reader got me at five minutes over time. It's what I get for street parking in Santa Monica on a Saturday afternoon.
Yesterday I was at an audition down in Santa Monica - for Fed Ex, cross your fingers - and they were seeing all kinds of people. My age, younger, older, freaky looking (not me), not freaky looking (hopefully me), short, tall, fat, thin, you name it. The fact that the audition was on a Saturday and that there were so many different kinds people meant the client had no idea what they were going for, or they changed their mind, or both. Opportunity for me in any event.
I happened to be there with a lot of old guys. And I don't mean older than me old guys, I mean OLD guys, well over 70. While they were gregarious and friendly, they were also the most vicious bunch of SOBs I'd been around in a long time. Maybe I'm just used to the 'everybody wins' attitude in modern society, but these old guys were in it to win it, if you know what I mean. Talking about another old guy when he's ten feet away and can certainly hear, doing the classic undermining confidence tricks - 'you're wearing that?' 'nailed it...' 'you all might was well go home now' - and even trying to nudge their way up the list with lame excuses. Man, if that's what Hollywood was like thirty years ago no wonder actors are a sad, bitter, angry group.
They didn't screw with me or anybody without gray hair, though, only with the other old guys. If I were a sociologist I might be interested in discovering exactly why that was the case. But I'm not a sociologist so I don't give a sh*t, as long as they leave me alone.
Oh, and I got a parking ticket too. Bastard meter reader got me at five minutes over time. It's what I get for street parking in Santa Monica on a Saturday afternoon.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Does Anybody Know?
You ever have one of those days where it seems like you're the only one thinking things through? Been that way for a week or so with me.
In the office supply store.
Me: Excuse me, I'm looking at these 9 x 12 envelopes, and this box is eight dollars, but this box here is twenty-four dollars.
Worker: Yeah, look at that.
And this third one is sixteen dollars. But it's the exact same thing as the eight dollar box and the twenty-four dollar box.
You're right.
Can you tell me why this box is three times more expensive than that one? If you look inside the envelopes are identical. I can't see any difference.
Huh. Me neither. Never seen that before.
In the grocery store.
Me: Excuse me, can you answer a question for me?
Worker: Sure.
This juice... this flavor has a tag that says it's on sale.
Yeah.
But the tags are missing for these two flavors. Does that mean they're not on sale, or the tags just fell off?
Hmmm... I don't know. Usually there's a tag for every product.
I know, that's why I'm wondering.
That's weird, usually there's a tag...
On the phone with a recruiter.
Me: Hi, I'm following up on an application I submitted yesterday, for the Director position.
Recruiter: Let me see... oh yes, the client put that position on hold last week.
Oh, okay, too bad. I submitted my resume yesterday, though.
Yes, I see, Tuesday.
That means the position is still posted on-line this week.
Oh.... yeah.
Don't you think somebody should take the job posting down if the position is on-hold?
Yeah, usually that's what happens.
At the gas station.
Me: Hi, I noticed that the price for regular out on your sign says $1.15.
Worker: Really?
Yeah, see? Out by the corner?
Huh... $1.15.
But it's not really $1.15, it's $3.15.
Right, we'd lose money at $1.15.
Don't you think the sign should reflect the price at the pump?
Usually it does. I guess somebody didn't change it.
In the office supply store.
Me: Excuse me, I'm looking at these 9 x 12 envelopes, and this box is eight dollars, but this box here is twenty-four dollars.
Worker: Yeah, look at that.
And this third one is sixteen dollars. But it's the exact same thing as the eight dollar box and the twenty-four dollar box.
You're right.
Can you tell me why this box is three times more expensive than that one? If you look inside the envelopes are identical. I can't see any difference.
Huh. Me neither. Never seen that before.
In the grocery store.
Me: Excuse me, can you answer a question for me?
Worker: Sure.
This juice... this flavor has a tag that says it's on sale.
Yeah.
But the tags are missing for these two flavors. Does that mean they're not on sale, or the tags just fell off?
Hmmm... I don't know. Usually there's a tag for every product.
I know, that's why I'm wondering.
That's weird, usually there's a tag...
On the phone with a recruiter.
Me: Hi, I'm following up on an application I submitted yesterday, for the Director position.
Recruiter: Let me see... oh yes, the client put that position on hold last week.
Oh, okay, too bad. I submitted my resume yesterday, though.
Yes, I see, Tuesday.
That means the position is still posted on-line this week.
Oh.... yeah.
Don't you think somebody should take the job posting down if the position is on-hold?
Yeah, usually that's what happens.
At the gas station.
Me: Hi, I noticed that the price for regular out on your sign says $1.15.
Worker: Really?
Yeah, see? Out by the corner?
Huh... $1.15.
But it's not really $1.15, it's $3.15.
Right, we'd lose money at $1.15.
Don't you think the sign should reflect the price at the pump?
Usually it does. I guess somebody didn't change it.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Everything's Better On A Stick
It's that State Fair time of year, and I'm like a giggly little schoolgirl. With a beard. I love - L O V E - midways, fairs, and carnivals of all sorts, and when you make it the biggest one in the entire state... well, you just can't go wrong. There's nothing at a State Fair that isn't the greatest thing ever, from the competitions for vegetables, preserves, livestock, dessert, cheese, beer and wine (really), to the aforementioned midways, to lovingly artery-clogging fried food.
And then there's food on a stick.
I'm from Texas, and we know how to put stuff on a stick and eat it. In San Antonio we have Fiesta where almost everything solid is available on a stick, but the best stick-eating to be had is a few months later at the Folklife Festival. My childhood and much of my adulthood was spent at these events and others like them, street parties with stick-food, so I know what I'm talking about here.
There's something... I don't know... primeval about eating food from a stick. Like when I went camping as a Boy Scout and we proudly dispensed with all pretense of civilization, eating food from a stick brings you closer to your inner caveman, that guy who ate what he killed and charred it black over a lightning-spawned fire. It's man stuff, though I've seen plenty of women eating food from a stick too. Stick-food just pleases the palate more than non-stick food. I'll even go so far as to say there is no food that is not made better by eating it from a wooden stick. Corn on the cob? Check. Sausage? Check. Cheesecake? Check. Pizza? Check (I've seen it done). Meatballs? Check. Bacon? Double-check. I invite you to prove me wrong, but I bet you can't.
The California State Fair is over, so I'm gonna have to go abroad to get my stick-eating on...
And then there's food on a stick.
I'm from Texas, and we know how to put stuff on a stick and eat it. In San Antonio we have Fiesta where almost everything solid is available on a stick, but the best stick-eating to be had is a few months later at the Folklife Festival. My childhood and much of my adulthood was spent at these events and others like them, street parties with stick-food, so I know what I'm talking about here.
There's something... I don't know... primeval about eating food from a stick. Like when I went camping as a Boy Scout and we proudly dispensed with all pretense of civilization, eating food from a stick brings you closer to your inner caveman, that guy who ate what he killed and charred it black over a lightning-spawned fire. It's man stuff, though I've seen plenty of women eating food from a stick too. Stick-food just pleases the palate more than non-stick food. I'll even go so far as to say there is no food that is not made better by eating it from a wooden stick. Corn on the cob? Check. Sausage? Check. Cheesecake? Check. Pizza? Check (I've seen it done). Meatballs? Check. Bacon? Double-check. I invite you to prove me wrong, but I bet you can't.
The California State Fair is over, so I'm gonna have to go abroad to get my stick-eating on...
Friday, July 17, 2009
Weirdo Intervention
You ever have a friend who believes wacky stuff? You know, things like bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster? Most people have a passing interest in these things, on the off chance they might actually exist. But everybody has at least one friend or acquaintance who BELIEVES, who is convinced that any day now we're going to be conversing with gray aliens or that Elvis is alive and pumping gas in Arkansas. Unless it goes too far it's actually kind of fun to have a crazy friend like that.
Now suppose that friend was substituting genuine religious belief - Catholicism, Buddhism, Islam, what have you - with their wacky theories. Like if they started attending the Church of the Chupacabra or Our Lady of Trolls Under Bridges.
I have a friend who's starting down that road, and I don't know what to do.
She's already into alternative, holistic things, which is not necessarily bad, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, but that willingness to walk the fringes leaves her open to swindlers and con artists who prey on trusting, vulnerable people. I'm not going to link to it - I don't want this charlatan to get any more web site traffic - but here is an excerpt from a for-real, no-shit description of one of the 'Therapy' sessions my friend paid $75 to attend.
'...some of the techniques go far back to ancient Atlantis and Lemuria. Using all our intuitive abilities, meditation, telepathic communication and … Happy Spirit, we will experience the great healing powers of the crystal energy...'
I have to call bullshit on this one. Or shenanigans, whatever. I just want to scream at my friend "Atlantis and Lemuria are FICTION!!! They're made up, they never existed!! Buying into this is like studying 'literature' from Middle Earth or Narnia or Dune!! It's not real!! It never will be real!!" As much as I would like it to be otherwise, telepathy is also just as much a fiction as shooting lasers from your eyes or guys who dress like bats and fight crime. And, jeez, don't get me started on all that crystals garbage...
On the other hand, maybe there's a money-making opportunity here. I could divorce myself from my conscience, abandon everything my parents taught me about right and wrong, and dive into the deep end of the 'alternative religion' pool. How about The First Church of Oz? I could reveal the Secrets of the Divine Tin Man. For a price.
Now suppose that friend was substituting genuine religious belief - Catholicism, Buddhism, Islam, what have you - with their wacky theories. Like if they started attending the Church of the Chupacabra or Our Lady of Trolls Under Bridges.
I have a friend who's starting down that road, and I don't know what to do.
She's already into alternative, holistic things, which is not necessarily bad, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, but that willingness to walk the fringes leaves her open to swindlers and con artists who prey on trusting, vulnerable people. I'm not going to link to it - I don't want this charlatan to get any more web site traffic - but here is an excerpt from a for-real, no-shit description of one of the 'Therapy' sessions my friend paid $75 to attend.
'...some of the techniques go far back to ancient Atlantis and Lemuria. Using all our intuitive abilities, meditation, telepathic communication and … Happy Spirit, we will experience the great healing powers of the crystal energy...'
I have to call bullshit on this one. Or shenanigans, whatever. I just want to scream at my friend "Atlantis and Lemuria are FICTION!!! They're made up, they never existed!! Buying into this is like studying 'literature' from Middle Earth or Narnia or Dune!! It's not real!! It never will be real!!" As much as I would like it to be otherwise, telepathy is also just as much a fiction as shooting lasers from your eyes or guys who dress like bats and fight crime. And, jeez, don't get me started on all that crystals garbage...
On the other hand, maybe there's a money-making opportunity here. I could divorce myself from my conscience, abandon everything my parents taught me about right and wrong, and dive into the deep end of the 'alternative religion' pool. How about The First Church of Oz? I could reveal the Secrets of the Divine Tin Man. For a price.
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...
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Bacon Is Magic
It's a culinary axiom: Bacon is magic.
And I'm not talking the metaphorical kind of magic, either, not the kind of 'magic' behind a home run or a the 'magic' of children's laughter or the 'magic' of a Van Halen reunion with David Lee Roth. No, bacon is real magic, like a Van Halen reunion with Sammy Hagar.
Here's the proof - there is nothing savory that can't be made better by adding bacon.
I'm not talking sweet. Bacon and ice cream? Probably not the best. Bacon and cheesecake? Pass
But - bacon and pizza? Mmmmm... Bacon and fillet mignon? Mmmmm... Bacon-wrapped shrimp? Well, I hate shrimp, but people tell me it's good. Bacon and macaroni and cheese, or mashed potatoes or cous cous or spaghetti... I tell you, the list is endless.
I will go out on a limb here and say that no one can find a savory food that isn't made better by the addition of bacon. Prove me wrong.
And I'm not talking the metaphorical kind of magic, either, not the kind of 'magic' behind a home run or a the 'magic' of children's laughter or the 'magic' of a Van Halen reunion with David Lee Roth. No, bacon is real magic, like a Van Halen reunion with Sammy Hagar.
Here's the proof - there is nothing savory that can't be made better by adding bacon.
I'm not talking sweet. Bacon and ice cream? Probably not the best. Bacon and cheesecake? Pass
But - bacon and pizza? Mmmmm... Bacon and fillet mignon? Mmmmm... Bacon-wrapped shrimp? Well, I hate shrimp, but people tell me it's good. Bacon and macaroni and cheese, or mashed potatoes or cous cous or spaghetti... I tell you, the list is endless.
I will go out on a limb here and say that no one can find a savory food that isn't made better by the addition of bacon. Prove me wrong.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
