Dear Mr. Rich Person:
I’m not writing to people who are just reasonably well-off, or to people who simply have more money than I do. No, I’m writing to you, the fabulously wealthy individuals who are in charge of our economy. I know, I know, it makes you uncomfortable to hear that, and some of you may not even understand it completely, but you are the straw that stirs the drink, if the straw were your out-of-all-proportion influence in politics and the economy and the drink were the fate of every American who does not share your incredible good fortune. You know who you are, you’re the multi-millionaire on your way to being a billionaire, you’re the person who needs to find ways around campaign financing laws to contribute to your candidate – of either party. You’re the person who is part of the one thing our Founding Fathers loathed more than anything else and tried with all their might to keep from growing upon our shores: an hereditary aristocracy. Multi-generational wealth, unearned and undeserved, has given you a kind of leverage and influence not seen since the Robber Barons of the late Nineteenth Century. It’s you I’m talking to.
You’re treading a thin line, you have been for the past few decades, and you’re courting disaster. The thin line is the tissue-thin space between dissent and anarchy, and the disaster you’re courting is the breakdown of the very system that made possible the circumstance you were born into.
You see, America needs a strong middle class. It’s vital to everything we’ve come to expect from our modern economy. A large, thriving middle class not only makes the goods that your company sells, they buy the goods other companies sell. For the most part people don’t need much, but when they feel comfortable in their situation they’re more than willing to part with a few of their hard-earned dollars and line your pockets with even more filthy lucre. A strong, large, vibrant middle class provides the grease that keeps the American economy turning, which provides you the fabulous wealth you in no way deserve.
When you break down the middle class, as you have done in the past three decades by keeping wages stagnant and eliminating jobs and generally ignoring the fates of most of the human beings in this nation, you erode the very base of the pyramid you teeter atop. This is a lesson the French aristocracy learned too late back in the Eighteen Century – power to govern always derives from the consent of the governed. And if you think you’re not governing just because you haven’t run for or been elected to office you’re making another mistake.
Mr. Rich Person, if for no other reason than enlightened self-interest, you absolutely must start paying attention to your responsibilities to preserve American society. It’s not all about you, despite everything you’ve come to expect over the past three decades. When the haves get most of the economic pie and the have-nots fight for crumbs, sooner or later the have-nots are going to realize there are far more of them than you, and they can just take as much pie as they want. Mr. Rich Person, you need to realize that we really are all in this together, and in a very tangible sense your continued safety and prosperity requires tending to and assuring the safety and prosperity of those less fortunate than you.
Don’t worry, even though this newfound and unfamiliar civic responsibility means you’ll make less money than you did before, you’ll still make far more than you can possibly spend in your lifetime. But you’ll enjoy the added benefit of not being the first against the wall when the revolution comes.
Sincerely,
-- your friend Don
Showing posts with label douchebag. Show all posts
Showing posts with label douchebag. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
Were I A Billionaire...
Everybody wants to have lots of money, and most of us don't want to have to do anything to get it. That would be the best, tons of cash in a Scrooge McDuck-style money bin just free and clear. I'd dive and cavort and everything else Scrooge McDuck does but without all the bother of actually having to manage my money.
There are, according to Forbes Magazine which tracks these things, 1,011 billionaires in the world. Aside from being a complete socio-economic travesty and an insult to hard-working people across the globe, the fact that there are over one thousand billionaires means it's becoming increasingly common. The possibility exists, is what I'm saying. I could be one of them.
But what do you do with $1 billion in assets? I mean, really. When you have more than enough for any ten lifetimes, what do you do with it? You could endow libraries, like Andrew Carnegie, or you could support crackpot political movements that pretend to help the very people they're screwing the most, like the Koch brothers. So I sat and pondered what I would do if I had the money to do anything at all.
Build a Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang car. One that really flies.
Endow pure scientific research projects. But the scientists have to call me 'Uncle Moneybags' on weekly video conferences broadcast over the web.
Punch Alan Greenspan in the nose. And kick Phil Gramm in the nuts. Bastards ruined our economy for no good reason...
Go to Vegas and procure midget hookers, then make them carry my luggage.
Buy lots of ranch land and raise gigantic armadillos, ones big enough for kids to ride, then take over the kiddie-ride industry.
Go to clown college. Then flunk out.
Teach an army of gorillas sign language, then send them all to school to get their MBAs. Then get them jobs at every major US corporation. And then when anyone at that corporation puts forward some illegal, immoral, or just plain stupid idea the gorilla gets to rend them limb from limb. That ought to cut down on the shenanigans in corporate America.
Make a Summer blockbuster that doesn't completely suck.
Learn how to mambo. Because 'mambo' sounds funny.
Start a World Family Reunion, that everyone has to attend, all six billion of us. We're all related, after all, if you go back far enough. People don't remember that enough.
Buy up all the TV air time for one day and just turn it off. All of it, every channel. You people need to figure out what to do without the idiot box flashing at you every two seconds.
See? My wants are few, my needs even fewer. I could probably do all that with just a couple of billion dollars, no need for $50 billion or anything outrageous.
There are, according to Forbes Magazine which tracks these things, 1,011 billionaires in the world. Aside from being a complete socio-economic travesty and an insult to hard-working people across the globe, the fact that there are over one thousand billionaires means it's becoming increasingly common. The possibility exists, is what I'm saying. I could be one of them.
But what do you do with $1 billion in assets? I mean, really. When you have more than enough for any ten lifetimes, what do you do with it? You could endow libraries, like Andrew Carnegie, or you could support crackpot political movements that pretend to help the very people they're screwing the most, like the Koch brothers. So I sat and pondered what I would do if I had the money to do anything at all.
Build a Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang car. One that really flies.
Endow pure scientific research projects. But the scientists have to call me 'Uncle Moneybags' on weekly video conferences broadcast over the web.
Punch Alan Greenspan in the nose. And kick Phil Gramm in the nuts. Bastards ruined our economy for no good reason...
Go to Vegas and procure midget hookers, then make them carry my luggage.
Buy lots of ranch land and raise gigantic armadillos, ones big enough for kids to ride, then take over the kiddie-ride industry.
Go to clown college. Then flunk out.
Teach an army of gorillas sign language, then send them all to school to get their MBAs. Then get them jobs at every major US corporation. And then when anyone at that corporation puts forward some illegal, immoral, or just plain stupid idea the gorilla gets to rend them limb from limb. That ought to cut down on the shenanigans in corporate America.
Make a Summer blockbuster that doesn't completely suck.
Learn how to mambo. Because 'mambo' sounds funny.
Start a World Family Reunion, that everyone has to attend, all six billion of us. We're all related, after all, if you go back far enough. People don't remember that enough.
Buy up all the TV air time for one day and just turn it off. All of it, every channel. You people need to figure out what to do without the idiot box flashing at you every two seconds.
See? My wants are few, my needs even fewer. I could probably do all that with just a couple of billion dollars, no need for $50 billion or anything outrageous.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Passing The Torch
Last week my older niece got a job as a waiter.* Her younger sister starts the same job in a month or so.
I am now officially NOT the only person in my family to have been a waiter.
It's been my contention since I brought my first plate of lasagna to my first ungrateful and undeserving customer that everyone should have to work a food service job early on in life. Much like the Swiss have mandatory military service for all their citizens, we should have mandatory restaurant duty. You don't necessarily have to be a waiter, you could be a busser, a bartender, even a hostess, any job where you have to deal with the Great Unwashed on a daily basis.
See, having to deal with people on a decidedly unequal footing - your job is to bring them their food, presumably spit-free** - makes you realize how poorly you've been treating others. Slinging hash, or spaghetti, or burgers, or in my niece's case tortillas, brings you into contact with some genuine people. And by that I mean not only genuinely nice people, I mean genuine assholes. There are customers who come in the door looking to take their bad day out one someone, and since the waiter has the apron he's elected.
It's a learning experience for sure, not only in reading people and their intentions but also in controlling yourself. And in controlling your finances, and in managing not only your work but others' work as well. When you're first on the Tuesday evening shift and the cook is coming down off some righteous bud you need to plan for his inevitable screwing-up of the order and general lack of urgency to repair his own mistake. And at the same time your customers don't want to hear any excuses, especially lame ones about the cook being stoned off his ass. It's a PR job and the first acting gig I ever had.
It builds character. When you dance like a trained monkey for 15% or less, you learn to find inner validation. And then, when the night is done and the restaurant is closed and you're so tired you can't hardly stand up, you discover that everything - EVERYTHING - is the funniest thing you've ever heard. My best friends are people I worked with when I was a waiter. Good times, good times.
So congratulations to my nieces on their new adult jobs. Welcome to the working world, it sucks worse than you can possibly imagine. But if anybody gives you a hard time let me know, me and my boys will take care of it.
* waitress, server, waitron, wage slave, food getter... it's all good and all means the same thing
** no guarantees
I am now officially NOT the only person in my family to have been a waiter.
It's been my contention since I brought my first plate of lasagna to my first ungrateful and undeserving customer that everyone should have to work a food service job early on in life. Much like the Swiss have mandatory military service for all their citizens, we should have mandatory restaurant duty. You don't necessarily have to be a waiter, you could be a busser, a bartender, even a hostess, any job where you have to deal with the Great Unwashed on a daily basis.
See, having to deal with people on a decidedly unequal footing - your job is to bring them their food, presumably spit-free** - makes you realize how poorly you've been treating others. Slinging hash, or spaghetti, or burgers, or in my niece's case tortillas, brings you into contact with some genuine people. And by that I mean not only genuinely nice people, I mean genuine assholes. There are customers who come in the door looking to take their bad day out one someone, and since the waiter has the apron he's elected.
It's a learning experience for sure, not only in reading people and their intentions but also in controlling yourself. And in controlling your finances, and in managing not only your work but others' work as well. When you're first on the Tuesday evening shift and the cook is coming down off some righteous bud you need to plan for his inevitable screwing-up of the order and general lack of urgency to repair his own mistake. And at the same time your customers don't want to hear any excuses, especially lame ones about the cook being stoned off his ass. It's a PR job and the first acting gig I ever had.
It builds character. When you dance like a trained monkey for 15% or less, you learn to find inner validation. And then, when the night is done and the restaurant is closed and you're so tired you can't hardly stand up, you discover that everything - EVERYTHING - is the funniest thing you've ever heard. My best friends are people I worked with when I was a waiter. Good times, good times.
So congratulations to my nieces on their new adult jobs. Welcome to the working world, it sucks worse than you can possibly imagine. But if anybody gives you a hard time let me know, me and my boys will take care of it.
* waitress, server, waitron, wage slave, food getter... it's all good and all means the same thing
** no guarantees
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Smarty-pants Phone
I moved. I got an iPhone. I discovered that I got crappy reception at my house. I used my phone sparingly and only when it was connected to my in-house network. My smart phone sat idle for the better part of five weeks.
Then I got a job. A job that takes me out of the house.
I now have reception. And 3G connection. And I can do stuff with my iPhone. Like text effectively, action which my sister is all over. Me, not so much. I can download apps from the App Store. Wheee! If I use the compass I can tell which way I'm facing, which was always a question for me before I got this phone. Now I can tell the hobos who approach me which way North is. I can calculate a tip using the calculator, or just use my brain like I did when I was a waiter. I did use GarageBand to create a few ring tones, but there are tons of other things my iPhone can do that I'm completely ignorant of. And, perhaps, willfully so.
Except...
I discovered that I can take notes on my iPhone. Type things into a notepad and preserve them forever. So when I'm sitting in a restaurant observing the local fauna it seems like I'm texting, but I'm really jotting a few quick observations to myself. It's like when I use my digital recorder to preserve my pearls of wisdom, except not quite so 'douche-y' as a friend of mine put it. Although I can't say I think obliviously texting in a restaurant is any less douchebaggery than talking into a digital recorder.*
So here are a few notes I've taken in the last few days since I discovered this feature.
From Jim's - a chain of diners in San Antonio:
'Cooked fish smells almost as bad as raw fish.'
'300 lb. man makes a dramatic point of ordering wheat toast with his chicken-fried steak breakfast. It's not going to help.'
'Hefty waitress constantly snacking. Wonder if she helped herself to some of my hash browns?'
From the gas station:
'Why do bald guys with tattoos always look like they're going in to rob the place?'
'Who rents videos from a Red Box outside a Valero? People who wear terrycloth shorts in public.'
'Terrycloth shorts should never be worn in public.'
From the Wal-Mart parking lot:
'Terrycloth shorts should never be worn in public.'
'Is everyone here morbidly obese?'
'Is anyone else looking at me and asking 'is everyone here morbidly obese?''
'Have they stopped making toilet paper? Everyone has a twenty-four pack.'
'What percentage of Wal-Mart workers smoke versus the average population?'
And so it goes...
* or iPhone, since it will also do digial voice recording. Steve Jobs' gnomes are nothing if not thorough.
Then I got a job. A job that takes me out of the house.
I now have reception. And 3G connection. And I can do stuff with my iPhone. Like text effectively, action which my sister is all over. Me, not so much. I can download apps from the App Store. Wheee! If I use the compass I can tell which way I'm facing, which was always a question for me before I got this phone. Now I can tell the hobos who approach me which way North is. I can calculate a tip using the calculator, or just use my brain like I did when I was a waiter. I did use GarageBand to create a few ring tones, but there are tons of other things my iPhone can do that I'm completely ignorant of. And, perhaps, willfully so.
Except...
I discovered that I can take notes on my iPhone. Type things into a notepad and preserve them forever. So when I'm sitting in a restaurant observing the local fauna it seems like I'm texting, but I'm really jotting a few quick observations to myself. It's like when I use my digital recorder to preserve my pearls of wisdom, except not quite so 'douche-y' as a friend of mine put it. Although I can't say I think obliviously texting in a restaurant is any less douchebaggery than talking into a digital recorder.*
So here are a few notes I've taken in the last few days since I discovered this feature.
From Jim's - a chain of diners in San Antonio:
'Cooked fish smells almost as bad as raw fish.'
'300 lb. man makes a dramatic point of ordering wheat toast with his chicken-fried steak breakfast. It's not going to help.'
'Hefty waitress constantly snacking. Wonder if she helped herself to some of my hash browns?'
From the gas station:
'Why do bald guys with tattoos always look like they're going in to rob the place?'
'Who rents videos from a Red Box outside a Valero? People who wear terrycloth shorts in public.'
'Terrycloth shorts should never be worn in public.'
From the Wal-Mart parking lot:
'Terrycloth shorts should never be worn in public.'
'Is everyone here morbidly obese?'
'Is anyone else looking at me and asking 'is everyone here morbidly obese?''
'Have they stopped making toilet paper? Everyone has a twenty-four pack.'
'What percentage of Wal-Mart workers smoke versus the average population?'
And so it goes...
* or iPhone, since it will also do digial voice recording. Steve Jobs' gnomes are nothing if not thorough.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
There Oughta Be A Pill...
I don't usually take drugs. And I don't mean just crack, I don't take regular medication of any kind. Aspirin now and then, when I have an ache or my head hurts from giving up soda yet again. But I was sitting in traffic today behind a person who WOULD NOT GO THE SPEED LIMIT -- grrr -- and I thought, 'there should be a pill that person could take to realize that if the sign says 45 she doesn't have to go 30.'
It's a modern conceit. Just take a pill to solve the problem. Quick and easy, relatively painless unless the pill goes down sideways, and very American in its simplicity. Why work to fix something when you could just take drugs?
And the floodgates opened. Here's a list of things that could be solved by better application of modern pharmacology.
Notaloneicin - makes you realize that there are, in fact, other people in the world who may not want to be held hostage to your whims. Perfect for people who leave their shopping carts in the center of the aisle.
Quitchabitchin - provides for relief of kids who have always gotten their way when they find out that the world doesn't hand out participation ribbons.
Getalongopril - specifically for elected officials who believe their mandate is to oppose rather than to compromise. We'd need a lot of this one. A LOT.
Compassionalitril - used to allow the self-righteous to walk a mile in the shoes of someone less fortunate. It's easy to be a smug judge when you have no idea of someone else's situation.
Thinkaminit - designed for bureaucrats who blindly adhere to the formula of their job instead of the overall intent. If we made it with an aerosol delivery vector we could gas the DMV and solve everyone's problem overnight.
Dontbeadoucheatall - for CEOs and finance jackasses who imagine their sole purpose is to line their own pockets, not to protect the American financial system. I'm also thinking this might be better used like rat poison, sprinkled on ill-gotten gains so the greedy bastards will just curl up and die.
It's a modern conceit. Just take a pill to solve the problem. Quick and easy, relatively painless unless the pill goes down sideways, and very American in its simplicity. Why work to fix something when you could just take drugs?
And the floodgates opened. Here's a list of things that could be solved by better application of modern pharmacology.
Notaloneicin - makes you realize that there are, in fact, other people in the world who may not want to be held hostage to your whims. Perfect for people who leave their shopping carts in the center of the aisle.
Quitchabitchin - provides for relief of kids who have always gotten their way when they find out that the world doesn't hand out participation ribbons.
Getalongopril - specifically for elected officials who believe their mandate is to oppose rather than to compromise. We'd need a lot of this one. A LOT.
Compassionalitril - used to allow the self-righteous to walk a mile in the shoes of someone less fortunate. It's easy to be a smug judge when you have no idea of someone else's situation.
Thinkaminit - designed for bureaucrats who blindly adhere to the formula of their job instead of the overall intent. If we made it with an aerosol delivery vector we could gas the DMV and solve everyone's problem overnight.
Dontbeadoucheatall - for CEOs and finance jackasses who imagine their sole purpose is to line their own pockets, not to protect the American financial system. I'm also thinking this might be better used like rat poison, sprinkled on ill-gotten gains so the greedy bastards will just curl up and die.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Free Research
I've been thinking lately, and here are some topics that would make really good Master's theses or even PhD dissertations. I provide them free of charge, just mention my name when they award you the Nobel.
What is the correlation between the rise of religious fundamentalism in US society as a whole and the rise of originalism in the Supreme Court's interpretation of the Constitution? Can both these things be traced back to a single source, be it social movement or world event?
What is an electron, precisely? If you measure an electron one way it's a particle, if you measure it another way it's a wave, which means that an electron is actually neither of those things but something else entirely. What is that thing? Same goes for the other elementary particles. And don't tell me it's a vibrating string, that's just another barely-suitable model.
Why do people become so eager for McRib sandwiches and Shamrock Shakes? The idea is that rarity breeds desire, no secret there, or the principle of intermittent reward. But neither of those things fully explains the fan base these horrible food items have. If you can unlock the secret to why people love these two things so much you'd go a long way towards predicting human behavior.
Why are yawns contagious? Ignore for a moment the question of why we yawn at all, I want to know why yawns are contagious across species. If I yawn in front of my dog he's probably going to yawn too. Same thing if I had a monkey, which - God willing - I will one day. What's the deal? Why does it happen?
To what extent does the media shape and inform political discourse? And I'm not just talking about drug addict right-wingers on AM radio, I mean broadcast television, the AP, Reuters, all of them. If the media doesn't tell us about it we don't care, so how does news coverage affect our impression of the political landscape?
What are the ethics of complete sequencing of a person's genome? I don't mean the first time scientists finished the job, I mean what are the ethical implications for sequencing mine specifically? Or yours? Or the President's? We'll be able to tell a lot more about a person from their genes in the coming years, for instance if someone has a tendency towards being a serial killer. Do we pre-emptively treat someone for being a serial killer if they have shown absolutely no tendency towards that? What are the social stigmas attached to having a serial killer gene? And if we suppress that serial killer gene - we don't allow that person to breed - what are the implications for the human genome as a whole?
I swear, I should work for a think tank. Anybody have any idea how to go about getting hired by a think tank? Maybe creating one of my own? For that matter, how did they come up with the term 'think tank' in the first place?
So many questions...
What is the correlation between the rise of religious fundamentalism in US society as a whole and the rise of originalism in the Supreme Court's interpretation of the Constitution? Can both these things be traced back to a single source, be it social movement or world event?
What is an electron, precisely? If you measure an electron one way it's a particle, if you measure it another way it's a wave, which means that an electron is actually neither of those things but something else entirely. What is that thing? Same goes for the other elementary particles. And don't tell me it's a vibrating string, that's just another barely-suitable model.
Why do people become so eager for McRib sandwiches and Shamrock Shakes? The idea is that rarity breeds desire, no secret there, or the principle of intermittent reward. But neither of those things fully explains the fan base these horrible food items have. If you can unlock the secret to why people love these two things so much you'd go a long way towards predicting human behavior.
Why are yawns contagious? Ignore for a moment the question of why we yawn at all, I want to know why yawns are contagious across species. If I yawn in front of my dog he's probably going to yawn too. Same thing if I had a monkey, which - God willing - I will one day. What's the deal? Why does it happen?
To what extent does the media shape and inform political discourse? And I'm not just talking about drug addict right-wingers on AM radio, I mean broadcast television, the AP, Reuters, all of them. If the media doesn't tell us about it we don't care, so how does news coverage affect our impression of the political landscape?
What are the ethics of complete sequencing of a person's genome? I don't mean the first time scientists finished the job, I mean what are the ethical implications for sequencing mine specifically? Or yours? Or the President's? We'll be able to tell a lot more about a person from their genes in the coming years, for instance if someone has a tendency towards being a serial killer. Do we pre-emptively treat someone for being a serial killer if they have shown absolutely no tendency towards that? What are the social stigmas attached to having a serial killer gene? And if we suppress that serial killer gene - we don't allow that person to breed - what are the implications for the human genome as a whole?
I swear, I should work for a think tank. Anybody have any idea how to go about getting hired by a think tank? Maybe creating one of my own? For that matter, how did they come up with the term 'think tank' in the first place?
So many questions...
Friday, November 5, 2010
Grocery Store Jerk
As he heard his nose break and felt it twisting into a new shape on his face, Chad thought 'I probably should have gone to another grocery store.'
The older Asian woman he assumed he could intimidate with his height and muscles hadn't been cowed in the least. She told him he was behaving like a three-year-old and when he took exception to her words she punched him square in the face. In hindsight, as the blood really started to flow, he realized he'd misjudged her.
He also misjudged the pot-bellied, balding-yet-with-a-pony-tail hippy throwback, whose tattooed leg was even now launching a combat-booted foot into Chad's groin. When the blinding light and searing pain tore into his brain Chad made a mental note to remember what it felt like when a testicle ruptured, just in case the ER docs asked him.
A meek mother of two toddlers got in on the action, slamming her fifteen-pound diaper bag into Chad's solar plexus so hard that for a moment he actually was paralyzed. He vaguely remembered calling her 'stupid bitch' when she'd been trying to wrangle her older child away from the produce.
Chad's wobbly legs failed and he pitched forward onto his knees. His tears and blood combined in a pool on the floor, and copious amounts of vomit joined the mix as Chad heaved and spat, emptying his stomach contents in one colossal urping bellow.
Before he could get to his feet a Rascal hit him from behind, sending him sprawling into his own vile fluids. Chad rolled over onto his back, catching the murderous glint in the eye of the 500-pound man he'd called 'tubby' not five minutes ago, over by the gluten-free dessert case. Evidently when the morbidly obese got mad they stayed mad.
More people descended on Chad, eager to exact their revenge, and he tried frantically to catch the eye of the lone security guard. The one he'd called a 'rent a cop' and told to go back to DeVry and find a real job. The guard found something interesting across the store.
As more fists and feet and bariatric assistance devices pummeled him and his consciousness slowly slipped away, Chad started to regret being such a colossal douchebag. Then he passed out and thought nothing more about it.
The older Asian woman he assumed he could intimidate with his height and muscles hadn't been cowed in the least. She told him he was behaving like a three-year-old and when he took exception to her words she punched him square in the face. In hindsight, as the blood really started to flow, he realized he'd misjudged her.
He also misjudged the pot-bellied, balding-yet-with-a-pony-tail hippy throwback, whose tattooed leg was even now launching a combat-booted foot into Chad's groin. When the blinding light and searing pain tore into his brain Chad made a mental note to remember what it felt like when a testicle ruptured, just in case the ER docs asked him.
A meek mother of two toddlers got in on the action, slamming her fifteen-pound diaper bag into Chad's solar plexus so hard that for a moment he actually was paralyzed. He vaguely remembered calling her 'stupid bitch' when she'd been trying to wrangle her older child away from the produce.
Chad's wobbly legs failed and he pitched forward onto his knees. His tears and blood combined in a pool on the floor, and copious amounts of vomit joined the mix as Chad heaved and spat, emptying his stomach contents in one colossal urping bellow.
Before he could get to his feet a Rascal hit him from behind, sending him sprawling into his own vile fluids. Chad rolled over onto his back, catching the murderous glint in the eye of the 500-pound man he'd called 'tubby' not five minutes ago, over by the gluten-free dessert case. Evidently when the morbidly obese got mad they stayed mad.
More people descended on Chad, eager to exact their revenge, and he tried frantically to catch the eye of the lone security guard. The one he'd called a 'rent a cop' and told to go back to DeVry and find a real job. The guard found something interesting across the store.
As more fists and feet and bariatric assistance devices pummeled him and his consciousness slowly slipped away, Chad started to regret being such a colossal douchebag. Then he passed out and thought nothing more about it.
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.
Friday, October 8, 2010
What Do You Do?
Okay, pop quiz, hot shot. What do you do when:
You're in a store and you see a sign in Spanish, and even you can tell it's misspelled? Ignore it or say something?
You're talking to a friend of a friend and you find out he works as a cook at steak house. You also find out he's a vegetarian, so while he might know how to cook meat, he certainly doesn't care to do the job well, but nobody at the restaurant knows his dietary preference. Rat him out or keep the secret?
It's late at night and you're in Los Angeles proper, on Santa Monica between La Brea and Highland. You see a suspicious-looking character skateboarding down the sidewalk, jumping curbs and making a nuisance of himself. You also see him take a huge spill and grab his ankle like he's really hurt. Laugh and drive off or see if he needs help?
You and a few of your co-workers have a secret nickname for another co-worker, and not a flattering one, something like Muffin or Buttlicker or D-Bag. Someone mentions the name in passing in front of that person, who then wants in on the joke and asks who Muffin really is. Tell him the truth or pretend not to know what he's talking about?
While grocery shopping you see an actor you admire, one who you'd really like to speak to and - perhaps - get an autograph from. But she looks like a bag lady in old sweats, hair in a scarf, and battered gardening shoes, and clearly is in a hurry to get in, get what she needs, and get the hell out before anybody recognizes her. Go for the introduction or respect her privacy?
Each one of these may or may not have happened to me. Can you guess what I might have done?
You're in a store and you see a sign in Spanish, and even you can tell it's misspelled? Ignore it or say something?
You're talking to a friend of a friend and you find out he works as a cook at steak house. You also find out he's a vegetarian, so while he might know how to cook meat, he certainly doesn't care to do the job well, but nobody at the restaurant knows his dietary preference. Rat him out or keep the secret?
It's late at night and you're in Los Angeles proper, on Santa Monica between La Brea and Highland. You see a suspicious-looking character skateboarding down the sidewalk, jumping curbs and making a nuisance of himself. You also see him take a huge spill and grab his ankle like he's really hurt. Laugh and drive off or see if he needs help?
You and a few of your co-workers have a secret nickname for another co-worker, and not a flattering one, something like Muffin or Buttlicker or D-Bag. Someone mentions the name in passing in front of that person, who then wants in on the joke and asks who Muffin really is. Tell him the truth or pretend not to know what he's talking about?
While grocery shopping you see an actor you admire, one who you'd really like to speak to and - perhaps - get an autograph from. But she looks like a bag lady in old sweats, hair in a scarf, and battered gardening shoes, and clearly is in a hurry to get in, get what she needs, and get the hell out before anybody recognizes her. Go for the introduction or respect her privacy?
Each one of these may or may not have happened to me. Can you guess what I might have done?
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Don't You Wonder?
I was standing in line today for a free lunch – provided by the building where I'm currently working, not a soup kitchen – and listening to the conversations around me. Very little work discussion going on, but quite a bit about how slow the line was moving and whether someone should queue up for chicken, a burger, or a hot dog. Or for all three.
From time to time I glanced at the clouds, which were odd-looking for Los Angeles, especially this time of year. We've been having freaky weather lately. But I noticed that not many other people were noticing the clouds. No one, in fact, seemed to be looking up. Very few people looked out at the street, even, mostly they just watched the guys cooking the food. Which got me to wondering.
What do other people see?
I know what I see, obviously, and I know what I tend to notice. But is that what others see and notice? Probably not. Or obviously not, since nobody else seemed to be watching the clouds. But even deeper than that, if you and I look at the same thing, do we actually see the same thing?
I don't mean if I see a fire hydrant you might see a bouquet of flowers, I mean if I see a red fire hydrant, how is the quality of red I see different than what you see? Assuming neither of us is colorblind or impaired in any fashion, how is the red fire hydrant you see different than mine?
I know these are experiential philosophical questions people have pondered for a long time, but I am intrigued. Most of human strife is caused by misunderstandings that could be prevented if the two sides only understood one another. Take Robert McNamara's comments on the Vietnam War, for example. Part of understanding someone is trying to walk a mile in their shoes, as it were, trying to see things the way they do. This doesn't mean that the other person has a proper perception and you don't, it just means that when you understand where someone is coming from it's much easier to find common ground.
What I want to know, though, is what was the guy with neon yellow tennis shoes thinking? Seriously, when is something like that ever a good idea?
From time to time I glanced at the clouds, which were odd-looking for Los Angeles, especially this time of year. We've been having freaky weather lately. But I noticed that not many other people were noticing the clouds. No one, in fact, seemed to be looking up. Very few people looked out at the street, even, mostly they just watched the guys cooking the food. Which got me to wondering.
What do other people see?
I know what I see, obviously, and I know what I tend to notice. But is that what others see and notice? Probably not. Or obviously not, since nobody else seemed to be watching the clouds. But even deeper than that, if you and I look at the same thing, do we actually see the same thing?
I don't mean if I see a fire hydrant you might see a bouquet of flowers, I mean if I see a red fire hydrant, how is the quality of red I see different than what you see? Assuming neither of us is colorblind or impaired in any fashion, how is the red fire hydrant you see different than mine?
I know these are experiential philosophical questions people have pondered for a long time, but I am intrigued. Most of human strife is caused by misunderstandings that could be prevented if the two sides only understood one another. Take Robert McNamara's comments on the Vietnam War, for example. Part of understanding someone is trying to walk a mile in their shoes, as it were, trying to see things the way they do. This doesn't mean that the other person has a proper perception and you don't, it just means that when you understand where someone is coming from it's much easier to find common ground.
What I want to know, though, is what was the guy with neon yellow tennis shoes thinking? Seriously, when is something like that ever a good idea?
Saturday, July 3, 2010
At L'Hotel Pretentieux
'Allo, monsieur, I am Thierry. Welcome to L'Hotel Pretentiuex. May I provide you Spanish almonds while Manuel retrieves your bags?
Actually, all I have is this carry-on.
Oh... but of course. Manuel will just have to pretend to be valuable for another hour. Usually patrons of the Pretentieux have more... extensive baggage needs.
Not me, Just here for one night.
Certainly, sir. But that will hardly give you time to enjoy our wide array of amenities. Would you like a seat at our tapas bar? The menu is almost certainly affordable for a man with your wardrobe.
No thanks. Just a room key.
Perhaps a guided tour of our climate-controlled wine cellar? It was once used to hide partisans from socialist forces.
Really? Partisans? In Los Angeles?
The Pretentieux had an entire Burgundian cellar dismantled boulder by boulder and brought to the United States to be painstakingly rebuilt exactly as it was.
Nifty. I just want to hit the sack.
Ah, sack. Perhaps you would like a visit to our club room. It was once the pride of the duke of a certain demesne in Italia. The Pretentieux had it...
... dismantled plank by plank and reconstructed.
Precisely, sir. Down to the last bit of wainscoting and the buttons on the leather chairs. We serve the finest port in crystal snifters.
I've been on a plane all day, I just want to lay down.
I believe you mean lie down, sir. Lay is transitive while lie is intransitive.
Thanks.
We have a wine lounge, which we complement with only the finest artisanal cheeses, or certified organic vegetarian fare if that's your preference.
I'm a meat-eater.
Of course you are.
Please. A room.
Certainly. We have a dizzying array of choices in accomodation...
The cheapest one you have with a TV and an alarm clock!
We frown on raised voices at The Pretentieux, sir.
Son of a... I came all the way from San Antonio for this...
San Antonio? Really? I'm from Austin.
I thought your name was Thierry.
It is. My parents are kind of hippies.
How about that room? A quiet one, away from people.
Right on, man. You wouldn't believe some of the posers we get in this place.
Actually, all I have is this carry-on.
Oh... but of course. Manuel will just have to pretend to be valuable for another hour. Usually patrons of the Pretentieux have more... extensive baggage needs.
Not me, Just here for one night.
Certainly, sir. But that will hardly give you time to enjoy our wide array of amenities. Would you like a seat at our tapas bar? The menu is almost certainly affordable for a man with your wardrobe.
No thanks. Just a room key.
Perhaps a guided tour of our climate-controlled wine cellar? It was once used to hide partisans from socialist forces.
Really? Partisans? In Los Angeles?
The Pretentieux had an entire Burgundian cellar dismantled boulder by boulder and brought to the United States to be painstakingly rebuilt exactly as it was.
Nifty. I just want to hit the sack.
Ah, sack. Perhaps you would like a visit to our club room. It was once the pride of the duke of a certain demesne in Italia. The Pretentieux had it...
... dismantled plank by plank and reconstructed.
Precisely, sir. Down to the last bit of wainscoting and the buttons on the leather chairs. We serve the finest port in crystal snifters.
I've been on a plane all day, I just want to lay down.
I believe you mean lie down, sir. Lay is transitive while lie is intransitive.
Thanks.
We have a wine lounge, which we complement with only the finest artisanal cheeses, or certified organic vegetarian fare if that's your preference.
I'm a meat-eater.
Of course you are.
Please. A room.
Certainly. We have a dizzying array of choices in accomodation...
The cheapest one you have with a TV and an alarm clock!
We frown on raised voices at The Pretentieux, sir.
Son of a... I came all the way from San Antonio for this...
San Antonio? Really? I'm from Austin.
I thought your name was Thierry.
It is. My parents are kind of hippies.
How about that room? A quiet one, away from people.
Right on, man. You wouldn't believe some of the posers we get in this place.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Can You Spare A Fiver For A Liar?
I was down at the local Rite Aid this morning, getting razors and adult diapers, the razors because I'm out of them and need to keep clean-shaven and the diapers because I'm very lazy. Nah, just kidding about the diapers. As far as you know.
Anyhoo... there are frequently homeless people panhandling by the front door, in large part because there's a Salvation Army Mission a block up and a block over. Today was no different, there was a guy outside, kind of grubby, asking for money for bus fare. Seeing as how I'm 'between assignments' - STILL - I didn't have anything to give him.
I went in Rite Aid, did my business, paid, and left. Since I had a couple of quarters change I figured I'd help the guy out, bus fare is usually seventy-five cents, fifty cents for the Pasadena ARTS bus. Only the guy wasn't at the door.
He was in the parking lot, poking his head into a relatively new jeep.
No lie, the guy begging bus fare in front of the Rite Aid had driven there. So not only was he taking a prime spot from real homeless people, he was lying about what he needed the change for.
As he approached a woman just getting out of her car he saw me and changed his pitch. He needed money for gas this time.
I thought about getting together a homeless posse and bringing some frontier justice to this guy, but I let it go. He'll get his, sooner rather than later, it's a bitch when you're crushed under the great karmic wheel.
Anyhoo... there are frequently homeless people panhandling by the front door, in large part because there's a Salvation Army Mission a block up and a block over. Today was no different, there was a guy outside, kind of grubby, asking for money for bus fare. Seeing as how I'm 'between assignments' - STILL - I didn't have anything to give him.
I went in Rite Aid, did my business, paid, and left. Since I had a couple of quarters change I figured I'd help the guy out, bus fare is usually seventy-five cents, fifty cents for the Pasadena ARTS bus. Only the guy wasn't at the door.
He was in the parking lot, poking his head into a relatively new jeep.
No lie, the guy begging bus fare in front of the Rite Aid had driven there. So not only was he taking a prime spot from real homeless people, he was lying about what he needed the change for.
As he approached a woman just getting out of her car he saw me and changed his pitch. He needed money for gas this time.
I thought about getting together a homeless posse and bringing some frontier justice to this guy, but I let it go. He'll get his, sooner rather than later, it's a bitch when you're crushed under the great karmic wheel.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Boxing Tigers
How come you never see boxing tigers?
I saw an old video - used to be 8mm film - of cats boxing. I don't know the context, but it was clearly a pre-PETA thing, where some guy in a dark suit had built a cat-sized boxing ring and then put gloves on two cats. He'd pick them up by scruff of their necks and they'd flail at each other with their boxing gloves until he set them down again.
It was terrible, and not just because it was cruel, but because it wasn't funny. It was clearly supposed to be funny - cats with boxing gloves, hilarious! - and the guy in the suit certainly had a good time picking up the cats, but it didn't deliver the goods.
As a matter of fact, back in the 30's, 40's, 50's, when we saw the world in black-and-white newsreels or kinescopes of old TV shows, they'd put boxing gloves on just about any animal. Kangaroos, orangutans, little monkeys, ostriches, otters, I remember seeing all of these at one time or another. Clearly intended to be funny, but not really funny at all.
Ah... but tigers with boxing gloves, now we're talking something entirely different. Why would this be funny when the others aren't? Because somebody has to go put the gloves on the tiger. See, it's easy to force gloves onto cat's paws, or onto a compliant orangutan's hands, but tigers aren't really down with the sweet science, and they certainly don't like people screwing around with their feet. And, assuming someone actually does get boxing gloves onto a tiger's front paws, chances are good the gloves aren't going to last very long, seeing as how tigers have big ol' claws and fangs.
I think we should have a reality show where we take people from other reality shows and have them try to put boxing gloves on tigers. I figure we take everybody from Survivor and see just how tough they really are, and the douchebags from Jon and Kate, and all of the Kardashians. I'll bet we'd have some pretty fat tigers after a while.
I saw an old video - used to be 8mm film - of cats boxing. I don't know the context, but it was clearly a pre-PETA thing, where some guy in a dark suit had built a cat-sized boxing ring and then put gloves on two cats. He'd pick them up by scruff of their necks and they'd flail at each other with their boxing gloves until he set them down again.
It was terrible, and not just because it was cruel, but because it wasn't funny. It was clearly supposed to be funny - cats with boxing gloves, hilarious! - and the guy in the suit certainly had a good time picking up the cats, but it didn't deliver the goods.
As a matter of fact, back in the 30's, 40's, 50's, when we saw the world in black-and-white newsreels or kinescopes of old TV shows, they'd put boxing gloves on just about any animal. Kangaroos, orangutans, little monkeys, ostriches, otters, I remember seeing all of these at one time or another. Clearly intended to be funny, but not really funny at all.
Ah... but tigers with boxing gloves, now we're talking something entirely different. Why would this be funny when the others aren't? Because somebody has to go put the gloves on the tiger. See, it's easy to force gloves onto cat's paws, or onto a compliant orangutan's hands, but tigers aren't really down with the sweet science, and they certainly don't like people screwing around with their feet. And, assuming someone actually does get boxing gloves onto a tiger's front paws, chances are good the gloves aren't going to last very long, seeing as how tigers have big ol' claws and fangs.
I think we should have a reality show where we take people from other reality shows and have them try to put boxing gloves on tigers. I figure we take everybody from Survivor and see just how tough they really are, and the douchebags from Jon and Kate, and all of the Kardashians. I'll bet we'd have some pretty fat tigers after a while.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Pasadena Vampires
Children of the Night have invaded the Crown City. I know this because I seen 'em, down on South Lake.
I've been really cranking on my latest novel for the past week and half or so, putting in eight, ten hour days because, honestly, what else do I have to do when the sun is up? Working so diligently, however, I have been kind of falling down on my grocery shopping. Anything I have to eat is something I have to take time to prepare. Except for cereal, and you can only eat just so much cereal in a day.
Anyhoo... long story short, this afternoon, about 2 PM, I got hungry. And not just 'I could use a bite' hungry, this was 'my next door neighbor is lucky I'm not a cannibal' hungry. I had nothing thawed and I polished off the last of the crackers and baby carrots last night, so I had to go out.
I've been trying to eat sensibly, so fast food was right out. Luckily, there's a great place just down the street, the Mediterranean Cafe, good food at a good price. I could walk there but I didn't, I wanted to get back to work more on my book.
It was then, as I drove through the parking lot, that I saw them. The Children of the Night, the minions of Vlad Dracul, the nosferatu, das vampyr. They were walking out of KooKooRoo, which surprised me because I thought vampires craved blood, not chicken. But, whatever.
The six of them wore jet black garments except for some splashes of silver, their sable locks flowing over their shoulders, and both the boys and girls were deathly pale, but with dark eyes and blood red lips.
... okay, hold on a second...
Now that I think about it, they were probably just some Goth douchebags out for lunch in between angsty discussions about how much they hate their parents and getting together for another round of Vampire: the Masquerade.
Dammit, I thought I found a little excitement today.
I've been really cranking on my latest novel for the past week and half or so, putting in eight, ten hour days because, honestly, what else do I have to do when the sun is up? Working so diligently, however, I have been kind of falling down on my grocery shopping. Anything I have to eat is something I have to take time to prepare. Except for cereal, and you can only eat just so much cereal in a day.
Anyhoo... long story short, this afternoon, about 2 PM, I got hungry. And not just 'I could use a bite' hungry, this was 'my next door neighbor is lucky I'm not a cannibal' hungry. I had nothing thawed and I polished off the last of the crackers and baby carrots last night, so I had to go out.
I've been trying to eat sensibly, so fast food was right out. Luckily, there's a great place just down the street, the Mediterranean Cafe, good food at a good price. I could walk there but I didn't, I wanted to get back to work more on my book.
It was then, as I drove through the parking lot, that I saw them. The Children of the Night, the minions of Vlad Dracul, the nosferatu, das vampyr. They were walking out of KooKooRoo, which surprised me because I thought vampires craved blood, not chicken. But, whatever.
The six of them wore jet black garments except for some splashes of silver, their sable locks flowing over their shoulders, and both the boys and girls were deathly pale, but with dark eyes and blood red lips.
... okay, hold on a second...
Now that I think about it, they were probably just some Goth douchebags out for lunch in between angsty discussions about how much they hate their parents and getting together for another round of Vampire: the Masquerade.
Dammit, I thought I found a little excitement today.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
It's Not The End Of The Decade
I've seen all sorts of 'Decade in Review' stuff on TV these past two days, and I've let it go. But the more I think about it, the more I hate it. It's not the end of the decade, just like the year 2000 was not the start of the new millennium.
Our Western method of noting the years begins with the birth of Christ, or at least when people generally assume Jesus was born. The whole CE-BCE academic conceit aside - don't get me started on that one - the Gregorian calendar begins with the year 1. There is no year 0. Since a decade is ten years, the first decade would have ended on Dec 31st, 10, and the next decade would have begun on Jan 1st, 11. This means the first century would have ended on Dec 31st 100, the second century would have begun on Jan 1st, 101, etc. etc. etc. The second millennium began on Jan 1st, 2001, which means the first decade of that millennium ends next year, on Dec 31st, 2010.
Is it so hard to get this right?
And don't try to tell me that if everybody thinks the decade ends on the last day of 2009 that makes it so. The truth cannot be altered by ignorant consensus. If I get a bunch of morons together who all agree that the sky is yellow, that does not mean that when I step outside I'm going to look up to see a lemon heaven. The sky is blue, no matter what people say otherwise, and this is not the end of this decade, even though all the jackasses on TV say it is.
Maybe I'll be less cranky with the new decade. You know, in 2011.
Our Western method of noting the years begins with the birth of Christ, or at least when people generally assume Jesus was born. The whole CE-BCE academic conceit aside - don't get me started on that one - the Gregorian calendar begins with the year 1. There is no year 0. Since a decade is ten years, the first decade would have ended on Dec 31st, 10, and the next decade would have begun on Jan 1st, 11. This means the first century would have ended on Dec 31st 100, the second century would have begun on Jan 1st, 101, etc. etc. etc. The second millennium began on Jan 1st, 2001, which means the first decade of that millennium ends next year, on Dec 31st, 2010.
Is it so hard to get this right?
And don't try to tell me that if everybody thinks the decade ends on the last day of 2009 that makes it so. The truth cannot be altered by ignorant consensus. If I get a bunch of morons together who all agree that the sky is yellow, that does not mean that when I step outside I'm going to look up to see a lemon heaven. The sky is blue, no matter what people say otherwise, and this is not the end of this decade, even though all the jackasses on TV say it is.
Maybe I'll be less cranky with the new decade. You know, in 2011.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Corporate Monkey-Spank
The more things change the more they stay the same. And just when you think corporate weasels would start to get the message they prove that they just don't get it.
I worked out this morning, and as I was walking home I decided to stop in at the convenience store along the way for a soda and a lotto ticket, my only two vices if you don't count curling up in my robe on the couch Friday nights to read the latest vampire book while my hot rollers set my hair just-so.
The place is closing.
They have a half-off sale on most things, including beer, as they try to liquidate inventory before they close in ten days. So I doubled up on the diet soda - half off is essentially 'two for one' - and I asked the guy behind the counter why the place was closing. I expected to hear 'raising rent' or 'losing money' or 'lost the liquor license' something like that. Not even close.
The corporate offices decided to close the store because it wasn't making enough money. Not that it wasn't making money - the manager assured me they had been turning a profit since the day they opened - but that they weren't making the kind of profits the corporate weasels wanted them to.
This is why I hate, hate, hate MBAs. They don't know how to run a business, they know how to do algebra on a spreadsheet. Some jerkoff who's never actually operated any kind of store, web site, or even a cart at the mall sets a sales goal, a number he creates out of thin air according to his flawed analysis of whatever bogus metrics he can think up. Then when the store doesn't meet those artificial goals, he makes the 'command decision' to shut the place down because, after all, not meeting goals needs to have consequences. Ridiculous and short-sighted.
'But Don,' you MBAs say, 'there are all sorts of considerations beyond profitability that might call for closure.' Bull and shit. If a place is profitable it should stay open, even if the profit is only $1. If it doesn't make enough cash to contribute to the middle-manager corporate bloat of do-nothing asswipes then the ranks of those weasels needs to be thinned.
So for want of a few extra dollars to pay the salary of someone who shouldn't be working anyway, people lose their jobs, the neighborhood loses a store, and I get an excuse to go on my anti-MBA rant again.
Oooh... it just angries up the blood...
I worked out this morning, and as I was walking home I decided to stop in at the convenience store along the way for a soda and a lotto ticket, my only two vices if you don't count curling up in my robe on the couch Friday nights to read the latest vampire book while my hot rollers set my hair just-so.
The place is closing.
They have a half-off sale on most things, including beer, as they try to liquidate inventory before they close in ten days. So I doubled up on the diet soda - half off is essentially 'two for one' - and I asked the guy behind the counter why the place was closing. I expected to hear 'raising rent' or 'losing money' or 'lost the liquor license' something like that. Not even close.
The corporate offices decided to close the store because it wasn't making enough money. Not that it wasn't making money - the manager assured me they had been turning a profit since the day they opened - but that they weren't making the kind of profits the corporate weasels wanted them to.
This is why I hate, hate, hate MBAs. They don't know how to run a business, they know how to do algebra on a spreadsheet. Some jerkoff who's never actually operated any kind of store, web site, or even a cart at the mall sets a sales goal, a number he creates out of thin air according to his flawed analysis of whatever bogus metrics he can think up. Then when the store doesn't meet those artificial goals, he makes the 'command decision' to shut the place down because, after all, not meeting goals needs to have consequences. Ridiculous and short-sighted.
'But Don,' you MBAs say, 'there are all sorts of considerations beyond profitability that might call for closure.' Bull and shit. If a place is profitable it should stay open, even if the profit is only $1. If it doesn't make enough cash to contribute to the middle-manager corporate bloat of do-nothing asswipes then the ranks of those weasels needs to be thinned.
So for want of a few extra dollars to pay the salary of someone who shouldn't be working anyway, people lose their jobs, the neighborhood loses a store, and I get an excuse to go on my anti-MBA rant again.
Oooh... it just angries up the blood...
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Eating Alone In Your Car
Back before I was 'between assignments' I would occasionally go out for lunch with colleagues. If we wanted to go somewhere just out of walking distance we'd all trek into the parking garage, pile into somebody's vehicle and take off. Nine times out of ten, in the garage we'd see this guy sitting in his truck - he was a white-sunglasses-worn-on-the-back-of-his-head, spiky moussed hair guy - listening to really loud music, or sleeping, or eating. Sometimes all three. I used to wonder how lonely he was that he thought he needed to take his break in his truck, in a cement parking garage, alone. I would have felt sorry for him if he wasn't such a complete douchebag. White sunglasses. Seriously.
Fast forward to this week. I've been out doing some Christmas shopping (scored an Elmo cap for my little nephew), and I've seen more people sitting in their cars alone than ever before. And most of these people were eating. Maybe I'm just not in touch with the whole American car zeitgeist, but the only thing I like to do in my truck is drive it. I don't eat in it, rarely drink in it, and I certainly don't sleep in it even though it would make a dandy bed. On the rare times I go to Sonic, I'm usually one of those people sitting at the benches up front, not horking down a burger behind the wheel.
So what's with all the people eating in their cars? I'm not talking about utility workers or dump truck drivers or cops or firemen, those guys I can understand, they eat when they can where they can. I'm talking about secretaries or students or accountants or white-sunglass-wearing douchebags, people who don't have to be anywhere at a moment's notice. Why? Go inside, sit down, have your artery-clogging meal at a plastic table with the rest of society, don't lock yourself away. For God's sake, today I saw a lady sitting in a McDonald's parking lot, eating the meal she had just gotten at the drive-through. Does that make any sense at all?
Am I completely out of touch with this one? Is this more of my impending old-man-ness showing?
Fast forward to this week. I've been out doing some Christmas shopping (scored an Elmo cap for my little nephew), and I've seen more people sitting in their cars alone than ever before. And most of these people were eating. Maybe I'm just not in touch with the whole American car zeitgeist, but the only thing I like to do in my truck is drive it. I don't eat in it, rarely drink in it, and I certainly don't sleep in it even though it would make a dandy bed. On the rare times I go to Sonic, I'm usually one of those people sitting at the benches up front, not horking down a burger behind the wheel.
So what's with all the people eating in their cars? I'm not talking about utility workers or dump truck drivers or cops or firemen, those guys I can understand, they eat when they can where they can. I'm talking about secretaries or students or accountants or white-sunglass-wearing douchebags, people who don't have to be anywhere at a moment's notice. Why? Go inside, sit down, have your artery-clogging meal at a plastic table with the rest of society, don't lock yourself away. For God's sake, today I saw a lady sitting in a McDonald's parking lot, eating the meal she had just gotten at the drive-through. Does that make any sense at all?
Am I completely out of touch with this one? Is this more of my impending old-man-ness showing?
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Industry For The New Milennium
After the financial fiascos of the past year or two, it should be clear to everyone that 'finance' should be a means to an end, and not an entire industry to itself. And any economy based solely on financial institutions is doomed to failure when those institutions fail - just ask Iceland or Charlotte, NC. Our economy shouldn't be based on imaginary dollars moved from one place to another, we need to get back to making stuff, our economy needs to be the sum total of goods moved and services provided.
"But Don," you say, "the auto industry has failed just like the steel industry did. And the time for railroads was two centuries ago. What could the United States possibly make that the rest of the world wants to buy?" Well, thanks for asking, I have a few suggestions.
Garbage-based Deodorant. Americans generate a lot of garbage, and much of the rest of the world smells bad (pretentious Eurotrash, I'm looking your way). All we have to do is figure out a way to make our garbage smell better than stinky foreigners and it's an instant growth industry. And, let's be honest, we don't have all that far to go.
Discarded CD Solar Reflectors. Steve Jobs was right, the iPod changed everything; it killed an entire industry, as a matter of fact, which makes you wonder why pretentious record store douchebags were the first to go digital. Who buys CDs any more? And once you load your music onto your computer what do you do with the old ones? Solar is a growth industry, and they need shiny stuff. CDs are shiny and otherwise useless. Picture acres upon acres of worthless copies of 'Pocket Full of Kryptonite' shining valuable sunlight back into solar cells. Brings a tear to your eye.
McMansion Holidays. We have a glut of hastily-built, overpriced, immense homes all across the country, standing vacant and waiting for banks to realize they're never going to make back the money on those overextended mortgage notes. People in developing countries will have money for vacations, and rather than stay in an impersonal hotel that looks like every other hotel on the block, they can stay in an impersonal home that looks like every other home on the block. Oooh, look, granite countertops! And a jacuzzi in the master bath!
Soylent Green. Just hear me out on this one... the developing world is hungry, and the best innovations in the next century are going to come from third world nations, as long as they get enough to eat. Here in the US we have an overabundance of 'reality' performers whose only claim to fame is that they once showed up on TV. We take our surplus, make Soylent Green out of them, a high-protein easily-digestible food, and 'voila!' problem solved. I think the first to go should be Jon and Kate, then the big-booty Kardashians.
I'm available for consulting, once the 'captains of industry' catch up to me.
"But Don," you say, "the auto industry has failed just like the steel industry did. And the time for railroads was two centuries ago. What could the United States possibly make that the rest of the world wants to buy?" Well, thanks for asking, I have a few suggestions.
Garbage-based Deodorant. Americans generate a lot of garbage, and much of the rest of the world smells bad (pretentious Eurotrash, I'm looking your way). All we have to do is figure out a way to make our garbage smell better than stinky foreigners and it's an instant growth industry. And, let's be honest, we don't have all that far to go.
Discarded CD Solar Reflectors. Steve Jobs was right, the iPod changed everything; it killed an entire industry, as a matter of fact, which makes you wonder why pretentious record store douchebags were the first to go digital. Who buys CDs any more? And once you load your music onto your computer what do you do with the old ones? Solar is a growth industry, and they need shiny stuff. CDs are shiny and otherwise useless. Picture acres upon acres of worthless copies of 'Pocket Full of Kryptonite' shining valuable sunlight back into solar cells. Brings a tear to your eye.
McMansion Holidays. We have a glut of hastily-built, overpriced, immense homes all across the country, standing vacant and waiting for banks to realize they're never going to make back the money on those overextended mortgage notes. People in developing countries will have money for vacations, and rather than stay in an impersonal hotel that looks like every other hotel on the block, they can stay in an impersonal home that looks like every other home on the block. Oooh, look, granite countertops! And a jacuzzi in the master bath!
Soylent Green. Just hear me out on this one... the developing world is hungry, and the best innovations in the next century are going to come from third world nations, as long as they get enough to eat. Here in the US we have an overabundance of 'reality' performers whose only claim to fame is that they once showed up on TV. We take our surplus, make Soylent Green out of them, a high-protein easily-digestible food, and 'voila!' problem solved. I think the first to go should be Jon and Kate, then the big-booty Kardashians.
I'm available for consulting, once the 'captains of industry' catch up to me.
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.
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