It's The Little Things

I was minding my own business when I got hit by the shrink ray.
   It must have been some fight between costumed superheroes and a bad guy. I don't know which one had the shrink ray - probably the bad guy - all I know is one minute I'm at Starbuck's 'enjoying' a $5 cup of coffee when BAM!! I'm suddenly three inches tall. About the size of a shot glass, give or take.
   There was all the commotion that usually accompanies a fight between people who wear their underwear on the outside, lots of explosions and smoke and debris and property damage. Me? I was just concerned that someone would sit on me. Or step on me.
   What are you supposed to do when you're shrunk to 5% of your former height? There's no manual for this sort of thing, we didn't cover it in Boy Scout first aid training, we didn't have 'shrink drills' in elementary school. So I was at a loss. My first priority, as I mentioned, was not getting killed accidentally by people panicking. It was pretty much my only priority, to tell you the truth. So I stayed put on the chair, wondering if one of the people racing around was going to knock the furniture over and put an end to me.
   Then I saw her. Slender and dark-haired, and about three inches tall, just like me. Only she was on the floor. Where people were running around. I saw her almost get creamed three or four times, but she wasn't frightened. She was pissed. I could see her screaming at people, giving them the finger with her tiny little right hand, but they couldn't hear her any more than I could. And to see her they'd have to be expecting a three-inch tall woman on the floor of Starbuck's, and, let's be honest, even the most baked stoner wouldn't expect to see that.
   She was moments away from getting trampled, so I did the only thing I could. I slid down the chair leg and ran for her. I tackled her and we rolled under the pre-packaged coffee display, where we hid with the dust bunnies and the dessicated corpse of a cockroach until the commotion died down.
   Of course the superheroes realized what happened and went looking for shrunk-down people. Turns out there were quite a few of us. Like over a thousand. And, long story short, no one can figure out a way to un-shrink us. So we're stuck like this.
   My grandmother always told me there was no use crying over spilt milk, and I agree. If I'm stuck being three inches tall, I might as well make the best of it. So the girl I rescued, Lois, and I are getting married, and I'm running for Mayor of Tiny Town - what else were we going to call it? - and trying to build up an outsourcing industry. On the phone no one can tell how tall you are.
   Not the best thing that's ever happened to me, but not entirely the worst, either. I did get the girl.

What Do They Know?

Synchronicity, it's not just a song by the Police. Kids, the Police used to be a band, and they were popular and good, and you can hear their music now when you get on an elevator.
   Synchronicity: "Coincidence of events that seem to be meaningfully related, conceived in Jungian theory as an explanatory principle on the same order as causality."
   I've been getting a lot of junk mail on my Hotmail account recently. A lot. An awful lot. And for some reason a fairly good portion of that junk mail is for Viagra.
   At first I just sent those messages to the trash bin. But they kept coming. And after a few days of this barrage of 'male enhancement' e-mails I started to wonder what was going on. What did they know that I didn't? Was there some sort of problem? Was it that problem?
   I'm all man, make no mistake about it. Strong and vital and nothing but serious business when it comes to... you know... Little Elvis. But the sheer number of Viagra solicitations makes me wonder if there's something somebody knows that I don't.
   Nah... couldn't be. Right?


COMMUTE - there - 37 minutes      back - 44 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 51 days

The Mailmen Aren't The Same

Working on the Miracle Mile is a treat, really. Aside from fighting the buses for space in narrow lanes, and the overabundance of taco trucks, and oddly high-security office buildings, and far less colorful homeless people than I'm used to, the mailmen aren't the same.
   For one, their trucks are different, bigger than they are here in Pasadena, where they have the little junior-minivan kind of mail trucks. And the mailmen scrupulously lock their trucks in the Miracle Mile. In Pasadena they just close the back and make sure the keys aren't in the ignition. Down on the Miracle Mile the mailmen don't make eye contact, and - maybe I'm reading a little too much into it here - they're a little more unkempt, a little more slouchy. I noticed untucked shirts, unlaced shoes, five o'clock shadow that had gone past midnight. Almost like they're trying to match the neighborhood.
   And when I was buying lotto tickets in the liquor store the other day, the mailman lingered just a little bit too long, eyeing the product lustily. I'm not saying he was drinking on the job, but I'm not saying he wasn't either. He just seemed to like the bourbon section a bit much. I prefer my mail carriers as sober as possible, cuts down on the copies of Cosmo I have to return to their rightful owners.

Don't Answer That

I was in the convenience store the other day buying lotto tickets, when the lady behind me asked the clerk for a Swisher Sweet, 'grape flavor.'
   Just when I think I'm all smart and know lots of stuff, random crap will happen to make me realize I know absolutely nothing.
   I had no idea that Swisher Sweets - the cigar of choice for potheads the world over - came in flavored varieties. If you go to their web site (make sure you say you're over 18) and take a look you can see that not only do they have grape, they have peach, strawberry, menthol, tequila, and chocolate-flavored cigars too. I got to wondering just how bad grape-flavored nicotine would taste, and then I realized that I didn't really want an answer to that question. Some things are better left alone.

Here are some other questions I don't really need an answer to:

What are McNuggets, really?
   How many people have handled the twenties in my pocket?
When transvestites get all dolled up what do they with... you know... Mr. Johnson?
   What does a bruise look like under the skin?
Where does Kool-Aid powder come from?
   How many babies does it take to get a pint of baby oil?
What does it feel like when a hyena breaks your leg in its jaws?
   What does bubonic plague smell like?

I'm sure there are tons more things I'd rather stay ignorant of. I'll share more when I figure them out.

Junk Mail Diet

As you may remember, a while back I confessed my fondness for all things Billy Mays. As a matter of fact, I kind of like most infomercials, because they're so earnest and seemingly-forthright about selling you crap you absolutely don't need.
   As I continue to be 'between assignments,' however, I'm starting to take e-mail spam more seriously. I have always casually scanned the 'Junk Mail' box on my mail program, mostly to make sure the filters haven't accidentally landed one of my friends in that Purgatory, but when I do that I'm forced to read the subject lines. Which are increasingly intriguing the longer I'm not in an office every day.
   Would I like a career in Health Care? I just might. Would I like to learn more about the acai berry? Absolutely. Free credit report? You know it. How about a coupon for Olive Garden, KFC, Pepsi, Burger King, Velveeta, or Wal-Mart? I'd be stupid not to. Need a colon cleanse? I don't know, do I look like... well, maybe... what the hell, cleanse away!
   It's like driving past a train wreck, I don't want to watch but I cannot turn away. I do want a Rolex for $50, I really do. I need to help out that Nigerian prince who just wants his family fortune back. I want to learn how to make a six-figure income stuffing envelopes from home.
   I'm not sure this is healthy. I think it turns my attention from nobler things like... I don't know, doing the dishes or something.