Semiotics

You ever wonder what people are thiking? I do all the time, mostly because I'm mystified at their behavior. I'm not talking about foreigners, they get a pass; if I see someone dressed oddly or acting oddly and they have an accent I know they're not coming from the same place I am. If, however, I see a fellow American looking like a circus sideshow... get me my robe and gavel and let the judgement begin.
   I was out last night with my mother, who needed to return a reconsidered Christmas present to Kohl's. And then, since we were in the store already, to shop for a new present in its place. This was just like Sears when I was younger, except this time she didn't feel the need to pretend to shop for me for a few minutes before taking an hour or more on something else. For my part I watched people. Who were, largely, unassuming and just going about their business.
   And then I saw... HER.
   Imagine, if you will, a woman whose hair is dyed not once but twice. Bleached blonde on top, bad home-dye job red underneath, both colors bound up in a sloppy, too-short ponytail with bits sticking out all over. Eyebrows gone and then painted in like a surprise. Thick pancake makeup. Lots of lip liner but no lipstick.
   Moving down the neck I saw the angel wing tattoos on her chest peeking out from a black lace shirt, over which was mercifully thrown a shiny white coat. Brick red fingernails - I didn't even know they made brick red nail polish - and a wrist full of those shaped rubber band thingys kids go ape over. Some sort of knit skirt (yes, a knit skirt) that stopped just below the shiny white coat, and legs that sported patterned black lace tights. Her shoes were closed-toed gold lame which nevertheless revealed the tattoos she sported on the tops of her feet.
   Best of all... pushing a baby stroller.
   Dear God in Heaven, what could this woman possibly have been thinking? It was like she chose on purpose everything that would make her look not just bad but terrible. Like a cliched Hollywood interpretation of poor taste and judgement. But there were no cameras, this was real life. I'd be charitable and say she just didn't know any better, but she was at least my age, possibly older, and if I can tell she's a fugitive from the fashion police she has to know as well. What's more, this is the face of 'Grandma' (let's hope) for the poor little baby she was pushing around. A tattooed, dyed, hooker version of Nana.
   Wow. Three things had to happen for me to encounter this train wreck in Kohl's. She had to think that ensemble looked good; she had to think it looked good on her; and she had to decide to go out in public looking like that. Triply bad.
   You might say 'Don, why don't you just live and let live?' But you weren't there. You didn't see her, large as life, pass within feet of you, unashamed, like a mental patient who'd gone over the wall. I tried to imagine her home, but visions of black velvet Elvises and Franklin Mint collector NASCAR plates shut my mind down. It's always funny until someone loses an eye.
   And for God's sake, take a look at yourself in the mirror before you go out. You're not the only person in the world, you know.

Safe Inside Or Out In The Nuclear Wasteland

You want to have a little fun with your friends? And by fun I mean start more trouble than you thought you would or are really comfortable handling? You are? Good. Try this:
   When you're gathered around twenty or thirty people - friends, family, co-workers, what have you - get one other person and start playing a hypothetical 'what if' game. Or, as Einstein put it, ein Gedankenexperiment. What you'll do is assume that the world has been utterly destroyed in a nuclear holocaust except the building you're inside. Every door and window has been sealed, there is no way for any of the radiation to get you. You're all safe.
   However... there are not enough resources to keep everyone alive. So you and your friend have to make the tough decisions regarding who gets to stay safe inside and who gets shoved to almost certain death (or mutation) outside. And you can't do it in secret, you have to discuss this right out in front of everyone. If people ask why you're the ones making the decision just tell them because you thought of it first.
   A friend of mine and I did this years ago, between shifts at the Olive Garden. We had some time to kill and decided to rank everyone in sight according to their fitness to stay inside our non-nuclear safe zone. For a while there we had a Purgatory of an airlock, halfway between salvation and damnation, but we had to abandon that idea when the population inside the airlock was greater than that either in or out. Being that we were in our early 20's we kept a lot of the hot waitresses because we'd need breeding stock to repopulate the Earth when the time came, and we kept a few of the smart guys because they'd be fun company, and then most everybody else we shoved outside. We kept only one guy in the airlock, so he could run outside and repair the antenna when we needed him to.
   What for us was a way to kill ten minutes turned into a days-long back and forth, complete with negotiations and pleas and backstabbing mutterings. Our population grew from just those people we could see that afternoon to the entire population of the restaurant, cooks, bus boys, waiters, cashiers, bartenders, managers, regional mangers, absolutely everyone. People really got into it, with those we kept inside very proud and disdainful of those outside, and those outside eager to make their case as to why they should stay safe and become part of the 'in' crowd. Those we relegated to the wasteland eventually decided they were going to form a radioactive mutant army and come back to storm the restaurant and take it by force. Until we pointed out that, because they would be contaminated by radiation, if they did breach the walls they'd just be turning the last hope for non-mutant humans into more nuclear fallout. And then we told them their lack of foresight is what made us put them outside in the first place.
   It was a very telling exercise in human nature, one that took us entirely by surprise. Who knew that people would take it so seriously? And, you know, now that I'm thinking about it, if I'd been a little quicker on the uptake back then that whole business probably could have gotten me laid.
   Ah well, live and learn.

What's The Protocol?

I was just in the grocery store, gettin' groceries - duh - just minding my own business and looking to stock up the refrigerator, which was running low on supplies. I was taking my time, ambling about, and I saw a guy who looked like a street person. He was unkempt and dirty, and his face and hands were deeply tanned, like he spent most of his time outside. He had a wild-man beard, the kind where you let everything grow including your neck, but oddly enough his extremely long hair seemed freshly-washed. Or at least not as dirty as the rest of him.
   So I thought that maybe my first estimate was a bit unkind, and that he might actually be a mechanic or a roofer or some kind of tradesman that gets dirty regularly but has a home to go to at night. I moved on and watched a few more people, like the Armenian guy with the shaved head wearing an Ed Hardy shirt and sunglasses indoors, and the SoCal soccer mom with bleached blonde hair and 'I swear I'm only 29' desperately hip clothes, and the cartoon-like short man who was as wide as he was tall with a head shaped like a great big gumdrop. Not a bad day for people watching, actually.
   After my peregrinations I ended up at the only open register, right behind Homeless Man.* He had a Von's card, though it was beat all to Hell and had an odd, almost melted shape. The checker gave him his total, $5.43, and he dug into his pocket.
   He drew back a hand with the filthiest, grodiest wad of $1 bills I have ever seen. And I used to be a waiter, people tipped me in bills they didn't want in their own wallets. He only had $4, and had already presented the cashier with 4 quarters, laid out carefully on that little stand they have. She told him he was short, and he dug back into his pocket for a fistful of change which he counted out laboriously. Being this close to him for so long I had to reverse my earlier estimate. This guy was homeless for sure, he just happened to find somewhere to wash his hair earlier in the day. Or the day before.
   His transaction successfully completed, he took his purchases - gum, I think, and something else - and departed. His money sat on the little shelf, just leaping with grime and bacteria and unknown nastiness. I was wondering if the cashier was just going to leave it there, but she grabbed a plastic bag and scooped the bills like she was picking up her dog's poop. Then she got another bag and did the same with the change. She stuffed one bag inside the other and then put the wad under the cash drawer.
   It had never occurred to me that not only did some people have 'so gross you don't want to touch it' cash, but that cashiers would have some sort of personal routine for handling that kind of terrible yet perfectly legal tender.
   You learn something new every day.


*sounds like a super-hero, doesn't it? Kind of a hapless one, but still. Nobody steal this, I'll make a script out of it.

Unexpected Ecologist

I was in the convenience store today, buying a Lotto ticket - you can't win if you don't play - behind a homeless guy who was talking to himself as he bought a quart of Miller. I couldn't make heads or tails of his dialogue, he was muttering and not finishing sentences, but I did notice that his clothes were too big. And not like he'd lost a lot of weight, like they were someone else's once upon a time. Which they most likely were. The guy got his quart of Miller in a paper sack and shuffled off to his wheeled basket piled high with soiled treasures picked from others' cast-offs. And a notion suddenly struck me.
   That homeless guy is a grass-roots ecologist.
   Think about it. Almost everything he owns, wears, or consumes is recycled or recyclable. The paper bag wrapped around his beer is probably made from recycled paper, the bottle almost certainly is, his clothes are recycled, and the collection of things in his wheeled basket is recycled.
   He may not know it, but that man is providing the example for the rest of us. Reduce, reuse, recycle. Talk to yourself, forget to bathe, argue with floating dandelion seeds.
   Well, maybe not those last few, but you get the idea.

What A Feelin'

She's a steel-town girl on a Saturday night, lookin' for the fight of her life, in the real-time world no one sees her at all, they all think she's crazy.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH ME?!!!

The lyrics for 'Maniac' have been running through my head for hours now, and I have no idea why. And just when I think it's over the lyrics for 'Flashdance' begin.
   At first when there's nothing but a slow-moving dream that your fear seems to hide deep inside your mind....

AAAAAAAGHHHHH!!

I saw part of 'Flashdance' only once, thirty years ago, and I put the 80's behind me back in 1985. Because I'm an overachiever. I haven't heard these songs on the truck radio lately, or in the gym, or on iTunes. As far as I can remember I haven't heard either of these songs all the way through in a decade or more.
   But damn me to Hell and back, I remember almost every word. And it's INSIDE MY HEAD, so I can't even get sweet release by puncturing my eardrums.

I understand now. This is what makes street people crazy. They're all hearing early 80's pop songs non-stop in their brains and it's driven them around the bend. If this keeps up much longer I'm going to join them.

I hear Target has the best shopping carts, but it's really difficult to get them off the property. And where's my tin foil? I need to make a hat.

Eavesdropping

I like to keep my eyes and ears open, I try to observe without being obtrusive and listen without butting in. People fascinate me, all kinds of people, even the most pretentious, horrible douchebag is someone's son or someone's father, and as such has an innate nobility, even if that person doesn't know it themselves. If you just hang back a little, watch and listen, you learn the most amazing things.
   I took my empty plastic and glass bottle up to Ralph's today, to the recycling center. This is the one right across the street - literally - from the Salvation Army mission, so it's always busy with homeless people cashing in their day's treasure. If you get there early in the morning, however, they're mostly all still out picking through dumpsters, so you can get in and out pretty quick.
   I got there early, about ten minutes after it opened, and got to work feeding my empties through one at a time. After about five minutes I happened to look up and saw that a crowd had gathered. Where there had been no one but me and another guy, all of a sudden there were eight or ten people, all waiting patiently for their turn. They snuck up on me.
   You can tell the career homeless, especially in Summer. They're the ones with the dramatic brown tans, the thin, bony limbs, and the towels and re-used bottles of water in their shopping carts. There were three of them in line. They all knew each other, and they were speaking low and quiet. I tried to eavesdrop over the sound of the recycler but it was too clangy. Then a fourth lady showed up, loud and happy and overbearing. She joined the conversation, and as usually happens the others increased their volume to match hers. And I listened. It was a glimpse into a world that, honestly, I hope never to become part of.

Things I learned:
   Pickers - as they call themselves - absolutely have turf. They discussed major streets and intersections across Pasadena, who had claim to what side, and who they witnessed venturing out of their regular area.
   They know police officers by first name.
   They're actually averse to certain soup kitchens, because of lectures they get. They'd rather sift through a dumpster than hear a sermon.
   There's a protocol to who gets first crack at restaurant food tossed out at the end of the night, and if you violate that protocol you're cruising for a beating.
   You're also cruising for a beating if you cheat someone out of a prime spot in the shade at the park during the day.
   Some travel very long distances on a regular route. One guy spent a few days in Pasadena, a few in Long Beach, a few in Santa Monica, and a few in LA proper before starting the cycle again. During the hottest summer months he favored the beach communities, but evidently so do many others.
   As you might expect, there is a great deal of personal tragedy that goes into putting a person out of a regular home. But these four talked about friends dying on the street with such detachment that it made me want to cry for them, since they weren't willing or able to themselves.
   They're not smart. It sounds uncharitable, I know, but I didn't hear any hidden pearls of wisdom, or glean any astounding insights into the human condition. They were four very down-on-their-luck homeless people just trying to get through another day. I don't suppose you find yourself in that position if you're prone to introspection and thinking about the consequences of what you do.

When I was finished I got my ticket for $5.75, redeemable in Ralph's just steps away. I thought I would buy grapes and fruit juice, but I finally got a good look at the loud lady. Thin, unwashed, gray hair and bad teeth, wearing men's clothes pulled from a bin of cast-offs. She was the one who'd been talking about all her friends who'd died in the past year, street people who weren't coming back to the Mission across the street, ever.
   I gave her the ticket. She needed it more than I did.

Dirt

I saw a homeless guy today. Which is not unusual, especially in LA, where even millionaires try to look as slovenly as possible. But there was something about this guy that made me notice him. He was in the crosswalk at Third and Vermont, talking to himself as he made his way across the street. His face was deeply tanned - he'd obviously spent most of his time outside - and he was wearing a jacket in the afternoon sun of a 75 degree day. He was worn and weary and thin from what was probably years spent on the street. Again, not unusual. But his feet were.
   He was wearing flip-flops, and his feet were black. I'm not engaging in hyperbole here, they were black, as if he'd walked through coal dust, with paler bits showing through where the grime had scraped off during his wanderings. And I realized that even the filthiest homeless person I'd ever seen in Pasadena didn't have feet that dirty. This guy must have gone weeks without a shower, without either the opportunity or even the compulsion to clean off in a gas station bathroom.
   That's a guy who needs help. And he's obviously not getting it. He's out on the street right now, maybe huddled in the doorway of a vacant office building or hiding out by a dumpster, trying to keep warm when it gets cold after midnight.
   On the rest of the ride home I got to thinking about how I'm sometimes less than satisfied with my lot in life. Things could be better, sure. But I'm living like a king compared to that guy. I have money, a car, a job (for now), and people who care about me and who would help out if I started wandering the street muttering under my breath.
   I got to wondering what choices that guy made that put him where he is, or what choices others made for him. And then I got to wondering what he thinks about his desperate situation when he's talking to himself because that's the only company he has.
   Man, sometimes I wish I was less observant.


COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes      back - 45 minutes, stalled car on the 110
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 41 days

Things I Wish Were True

Remember when you were a kid and everything was possible? You made Superman's cape out of a blanket tied around your neck and you were convinced that if you jumped off the roof just right you could fly. Or when you got a new pair of sneakers you knew you could run twice as fast as the day before. And it was true. The world was nothing but possibilities and all you had to do was want something bad enough to make it happen.
   As an adult - purportedly - I forget how it was back when I was shorter and smaller. I forget that imagination and perseverance make everything happen. Even impossible things become only highly improbable when you look at them the right way. So here's a list of things I wish were true, because I believe some day they all will be.

Every New Yorker takes a moment each day to look up and realize how cool it is to be living where they do.

LA drivers either speed up when they're supposed to or slow the hell down when it's appropriate, not the other way around.

For one year everyone gets exactly what they want for their birthday.

I make my living as a novel writer.

Chocolate cake is used as currency. Delicious, edible currency.

The pain of losing a parent goes away.

People and whales have a conversation about everything that's been going on for the past few hundred years and they forgive us.

Spats come back in style, at least for billionaires wearing waistcoats.

People stop and think for ten seconds about the consequences of what they're about to do.

The lazy and sly stop preying on the gullible and trusting.

Love is easy.

I figure out what that light switch in the other bedroom actually does.

People stop and think for ten seconds about the consequences of what they're about to say.

Those without get what they need, those with too much give what extra they have freely.

Someone figures out a limerick that rhymes 'Nantucket' with something that isn't dirty.



That's it for now. I'm sure I'll think of more later.

COMMUTE - there - 40 minutes      back - 37 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 47 days

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.

Introspection

I had to go down to Old Town today, and as I walked there and back I learned a few things about myself.

   I don't expect homeless people to be very tall. Certainly not 6'5". I don't expect them to look something like Garrison Keillor either. I like my homeless people to be smaller than me, and sickly, it makes me feel safer.

   Looking for a business I don't know the name of with a half-remembered address from someone who's never been to Pasadena is an ill-advised venture. But it does get me out of the house for an hour or so.

   If I'm distracted - really not paying attention - say, looking for an address or a business that doesn't exist, people give me a lot of room. I don't know if I look like I might start swinging, or if people suddenly become more courteous, but the end result is the same, they stay away. And I'm cool with that.

   It bothers me when women pushing baby strollers also have little pocket dogs trailing on a leash behind them. There seem to be plenty of them in Old Town during the day, and I don't know if they're treating the tiny dog like a baby or treating the baby like a tiny dog. Kind of creeps me out and I never realized it before.

   I don't mind when skateboarders almost commit suicide by rolling through a crosswalk when cars are turning left. It does bother me when pedestrians do stupid things, I really don't want to see anybody killed, but, surprisingly enough, the same does not apply to skateboarders. Who knew? Douchebags shouldn't be riding on the sidewalk anyway.

   Evidently I don't look like someone who wants to receive the word of God. A roly-poly fellow with a scraggly beard and a stained jacket was handing out Jesus literature while I waited at a crosswalk. He tried to give a pamphlet to everyone but me, and, to tell you the truth, I was a little disappointed. Maybe he could tell I was distracted.

Making It Easy With Archetypes

I'm getting lazy. Or lazier, I suppose, and I really don't feel much like doing a lot of work figuring people out. Dogs and cats let you know how they're feeling, if a dog doesn't like you it growls, if a cat likes you it rubs all over your ankles. Bared teeth mean the same for both species. I think as human beings we need to do the same kind of thing. We have language though, so having someone just come out and say what they're thinking isn't the best course of action, they could be lying, or sarcastic, or they could speak some mumbo-jumbo language I don't understand. Like French. No, if we want people to be clear, we need archetypes.
   I'm not talking stereotypes, I'm talking archetypes like they have in melodrama or in Roman comedy. If someone is a wise old man, they should have a long white beard, if they're a villain they should have a twisty mustache, if they're sneaky they should always look from side to side out of the corners of their eyes.
   See, if people would just act like their archetypes it would save everyone a lot of time. Don't know if you should get that interest-only adjustable rate mortgage on the property you clearly can't afford anyway? Check out the broker, is he wearing a battered stovepipe hat, flourishing a cape and cackling evilly? Then don't get a loan with him.
   Not sure if your Congressman is taking bribes? Go to Washington and visit his office. Does he have sacks of money with big dollar signs on them strewn around his office? Does he look like a pig wearing robber-baron clothes? Then he's probably on the take.
   Wondering what your girlfriend is going to become once you marry her? Go visit her mother. Is she wearing curlers with a kerchief wrapped around her head? Is she wearing a housecoat and fuzzy slippers in the middle of a weekday? Does she threaten you with a rolling pin? Then she's a battle axe and her daughter's going to be just the same.
   See? It would work out great, and keep me from thinking too much.

Wafflicious

Have you ever heard the expression 'I got a hammer, and now everything looks like a nail?'
   Well, for Christmas I got a waffle iron and now everything looks like it should be round and dotted with square holes.
   I know that I'm difficult to buy gifts for. But I was still taken by surprise when I unwrapped a waffle iron on Christmas Day. I didn't quite know what to think, which means it was a good gift indeed. I got it home, plugged it in, and whipped up a batch of batter as outlined in the owner's manual. I wasn't sure how it was all going to work out, if the batter was going to be too thick or too thin, if the waffle iron's non-stick coating really was, or if the waffles would actually be tasty. The first one came out a little lopsided, but it was crisp and brown and oh-so-delicious.
   I gotta say, I likes me some waffles.
   After the success of the first batch, I went out and sprung for some authentic maple syrup (it's pricey) and got ready to try out all of the waffle recipes. Cornbread waffles tonight.
   Now I'm thinking of ways to combine waffles with other things. Maybe waffles instead of hog dog buns, waffles on a stick, waffles instead of tortillas, waffles as the shell for beef wellington, waffles layered inside a lasagna. Okay, maybe not that last one, but I am thinking about waffles a lot.
   I really, really need a job.

I'm Back - And So's My Mojo

Okay, so it's still a little unsettled around here - it's not supposed to be this cold in SoCal - but I'm back and I can handle cold weather. You may recall a few weeks ago I was concerned that nothing strange had happened to me in a while. I think the Universe was taking pity on me, in preparation for my father's passing. Still tough to take, but things are getting back to normal. And I mean normal for me, not normal for you.
   The weirdos are back.
   Wheewww... That was me, heaving a huge sigh of relief. I was at the Post Office this morning, the big, fancy one down by City Hall, not the grody, tiny one down by RiteAid, mailing off a few query letters. I was standing in line beside that table they have, the one with all the forms you can fill out for everything, including voter registration. A puzzled-looking lady was standing there, filling out several forms. She wasn't particularly dirty, so she probably wasn't homeless, but she wasn't entirely present in the moment either, if you know what I mean. Her hair was scattered around, and she kept glancing up at every new person who entered as if they might want to steal something from her. I know the look, it's common among the crazy people who flock to me. Another clue was the very loud conversation she was having with herself; I was part of the conversation, I just didn't know it at the time.
    'Temporary... temporary... what do they mean by temporary?'
    'If I can just get these jerk-offs off my back...'
    'What day... day... what's today? What day is it today?'
(a very kind older lady answered for me, not realizing I was supposed to be taking this bullet)
    'Return? When? I don't know when I'm getting back from New York. Maybe I'll send a pizza back, take care of all this bullshit.'

   All this while the line was slowly advancing. And guess who had just stepped to the front of the line when Crazy Lady finished filling out her forms? That's right, yours truly. She came up to me, reached out to touch me, thought better of it, then waved the forms at me.
    'I'm gonna.... they told me to finish... when I finish with these just to go back to the first window. So I'm not cutting in front of you, okay?'
   Of course I let her go, I would never impede one of my people in their daily lunacy. Besides, I was just glad to have them back.

From Me To You

I used to spend a lot of time at my grandfather's house. Not as a celebrated guest, as manual labor. I spent my formative years mowing, weeding, chopping, edging, sweeping, raking, tilling, picking, and once nearly cutting off my toe with a chain saw. Good times, good times. As I sweated and cursed under my breath, from time to time my grandfather would dispense bits of grandfatherly advice. Some of his advice was of the 'don't take any wooden nickels' variety, but other bits I discovered, years later, were actually useful. For instance, his admonition to 'pay a little extra, get good shoes,' has proved true time and time again.
   So I thought it was time that I dispense my advice. These pearls of wisdom come from hard-won experience, and all of them will prove useful to you someday, though it may not seem so at first.

Oreos and orange juice. Don't do it. You might think 'hey, I like Oreos, and I like orange juice too, let's have them at the same time.' That would be a mistake. Trust me on this one.
    If that homeless guy looks like he might want to hug you, he probably will.
Corporations don't think it's funny when you point out inconsistencies in their policies, even if you think it's hilarious.
    If you're driving down a very narrow lane and both sides are lined with twenty-foot fences with razor wire across the top, you're in the wrong place.
Robot monkeys will never replace you in the work force. No matter how much you want it to happen.
    When the officer tells you to keep your hands where he can see them, he really means it.
An extra slice of pie is never a bad idea.
    You're almost never the smartest person in the room. But chances are good you are the most ethical.
Little kids are far, far more observant than you think they are. They're also sneakier and faster. But they're just as sticky as they look.
    The dialectic always wins out, your success shall become your failure. Plan for it.
If it looks too good to be true it's a multi-level marketing scheme.
    Half-assed but done really is better than well-planned but never started. Well-planned and well-executed is always best.
Drunk rednecks and boats always leads to tragedy. Same with drunk rednecks and guns. Or drunk rednecks and deep-frying a turkey.
    Transvestite prostitutes do not appreciate being called 'buddy.'

There you go, from me to you. I hope my wisdom gets you out of more trouble than it causes.

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

I'm never going to go to a Halloween party dressed as a hobo. Sure, it's cute for little kids, with their shoe-polish beards and their little bindles on broom handles, wearing Dad's old clothes and too-big shoes. But things get different when you're an adult man.
   I know that if I go to a Halloween party dressed as a hobo, I'm going to have a wreck in my car. This would be the one time I don't wear a seat belt and I'll be thrown free of the wreckage and I'll land in the bushes where my wallet will fall to the ground. When the paramedics find me they're going to assume that I'm a for-real homeless person who got hit while crossing the street. Instead of going to the good private hospital they'll take me to the crooked county hospital where they take uninsured homeless people.
   The crooked hospital will grudgingly take care of me, but when I try to tell them that I'm not really homeless I was just wearing a Halloween costume, they'll assume that I'm delusional, just another crazy homeless guy. The more I protest the more they're going to think I'm totally nuts, and since I won't have my wallet I can't prove anything. And then when they try to call my family or friends nobody will answer the phone because they'll assume the call is from a telemarketer trying get one over on them by impersonating a crooked hospital.
   When the crooked hospital finally realizes the mistake they made, instead of letting me go with an apology, they're going to decide to 'deal with' me. They know if they let me go I'll head straight for the cops and the newspapers and find a lawyer so I can put them in jail and then sue them into oblivion. They'll tell me they're letting me go, but they're really going to make me into Soylent Green.
   This is why I usually dress in a toga for Halloween; if I have a wreck nobody's going to assume I'm a real Roman.

Idle Thoughts

Here are a few random thoughts I had recently, which occurred to me while I was doing other things. No, not in the bathroom, when I'm in there it's all business.
   These things are in no way connected with one another. Or are they...?

Why is it that UFOlogists on TV have crazy eyebrows? Why do they wear odd sunglasses? Why do they wear blazers that have never been within shouting distance of a drycleaner? You'd think someone on the fringe like they are would want to pay more attention to dress and grooming, to be taken more seriously.

What color would flamingos be if they only ate broccoli?

Is there such a thing as 'Professional Tiger Week?' Because I had a dream that there was, and sometimes my dreams come true.

How embarrassed would you be if someone came up to you and offered you money because they thought you were homeless, only you weren't and you had to tell them you didn't need or want their charity? Do you think you'd go right home and do laundry? Maybe shave and get a haircut?

Crazy Guy Radio

The other day I saw a guy talking to himself out on Colorado Blvd. Usually I might think he was part of the Bluetooth generation and was just some oblivious douchebag talking loudly on the phone, but this guy had no phone or earpiece and he wore dirty, torn clothes, needed a haircut and some dental work, and was talking into his only possession, an empty Snapple bottle. He was one of those crazy guys who carry on a conversation alone.
   I walked a few blocks further down Colorado where I saw a different guy talking to himself. He wasn't quite so obviously needy as the first guy, a little cleaner, a little less obviously insane. But as I stood by him waiting for the light to change, I couldn't help but notice he also didn't have a cell phone or earpiece, and he had his left arm wrapped over his head to press fingers on his right ear. Another crazy guy, carrying on a conversation alone. I walked on, the day a little bit sadder.
   Then it me. There has to be Crazy Guy Radio, a way that obviously deranged people use to communicate with each other. The first guy must have been talking to the second guy, blocks away, even though neither of them had a telephone. So even though it looked like each was crazy, talking to someone who wasn't there, they actually were carrying on a legit conversation.
   Maybe this is the case with every crazy person on the corner who talks to himself: he's really talking to someone else, but we can only hear one half of the conversation. And the reason they wear tin foil hats is to improve reception on the Crazy Guy Radio Network. It's obviously the only explanation.
   Someone should organize crazy people who talk to themselves, so that during an emergency, when the phone lines go out, we can stay in communication. Of course, there's no guarantee any of it's going to make sense...

Strange But True

The Rite-Aid by my house keeps razors under lock and key, my Gillette Sensor 3s in a cabinet behind glass just like they were XBox games at Target. I was curious, so I asked one of the clerks why I had to get assistance just to buy a disposable resource.
   Evidently there's a huge black market in razors, at least on Colorado Blvd. in Pasadena. The clerk told me they have to keep razors almost under armed guard because homeless guys steal them, then sell the razors on the street.
    Who knew? Instead of handing these guys a buck or two, maybe I'll give them a fresh razor, it's probably worth more to them.

Around Town

I saw a homeless guy riding a little tiny bicycle - a kid’s bike - pulling a shopping cart along beside him. He was going along at a fair clip, the homeless-guy junk in the shopping car rattling and shaking like it was in an earthquake, his dirty little legs pumping furiously.
   While I applaud his ingenuity and energy, I wonder where a homeless guy needs to get to that quickly.