You Know What This Town Needs?

I went on a long walk today instead of going to the gym. Where they want to take my fingerprints. And I had a few thoughts about how to improve the city.

   Moving sidewalks. I'm walking for my health, but I do get a little tired now and then. If we had Jetsons-style moving sidewalks I could take a breather when I needed and still make progress to my destination.

   Refreshments. Just like they have for marathon runners, only good. Not cups of warm water, mugs of ice cold beer. And bowls of pretzels. Maybe some Cheeze-Its if that's in the budget.

   A ban on creepy people. No hard-bitten strung-out broads driving beat up panel vans, no extra-hefty gentlemen carrying tiny little dogs, no Eurotrash holding cigarettes the wrong way and giggling in their mother tongue, all those people are up to no good and they should be prohibited. Possibly flogged.

   Conversely, we need more crazy conspiracy people. The kind who will hold an earnest conversation with you about just why the aliens are coming for Jesus and give you a pamphlet to prove their point. But we need to put them all in one place, maybe right by the pawn shop. They can fight it out in a cage match to see whose nonsense wins.

   More big, goofy dogs. The kind who knock things over with their tails and don't realize it. We should be able to pet at least one big friendly dog every block.

   Street food. I noticed a definite lack of hot dogs, churros, and pretzels on every corner. Sure, the local restaurants would object, but if you're buying a hot dog from a cart you weren't going into Cheesecake Factory in the first place.

   Street performers. They could move from block to block every half hour, so they wouldn't totally block foot traffic or screw up any single business for too long. Jugglers and fire eaters draw crowds.

See? Seven great ideas just from an hour of wandering around. If the Pasadena City Council would implement just a few of these suggestions Old Town would be a much more fun place to be. They should hire me as their Idea Man. I could totally do that.

Candy Day

Why is it that Valentine's Day gets terrible candy? I'm not talking about the waxy, grainy chocolates in the shiny red box, which are bad enough. I'm talking about those heart-shaped Necco wafery things. The ones with 'Be Mine' and 'Kiss Me' and 'Hugs' printed across them.
   Am I the only one who thinks these are horrible?*
   They're not just horrible tasting, either - though they are that - they're horrible presents. 'Here honey, I'd like you to have a box of mass-produced chalky heart-shaped candies that will break your teeth and make you choke. Remember to pretend to smile while you read them and consume them.' Back in elementary school, when people kept tabs on popularity by how many Valentine's cards you got in your paper-bag mailbox, if someone really, really liked you they'd slip you a few of those candy hearts. I always took the misshapen, misprinted ones and slipped them to people I didn't like, because I knew the message was mixed. They got candy, but it was ugly candy. I don't know of any other holiday that would make such vandalism possible.
   I mean, come on. Easter has Peeps - which can be gross, I'll admit - and Mother's Day has all kinds of chocoloate, and Christmas has candy canes, and Halloween has candy corn, all of which are edible and delicious. Why does Valentine's Day get stuck with something that could be used as paving stones?


* They remind me of candy cigarettes, which you can't get in the US any more. But I like candy cigarettes. They make me seem mature.

The Picture Of Goober-ness

I saw a picture of myself today, one taken a year or more ago. I was laughing unreservedly, having a great time, probably oblivious to the camera.
   Jeez, what a dork.
   Really, I looked like I was drunk, and I don't drink alcohol. It was long enough ago that I don't remember the circumstances around the photo, but it is undeniably me, and I am undeniably dorky.
   Modern cameras are marvels of engineering, they can focus on multiple spots, adjust the shutter speed and aperture automatically, flash or not flash as you wish, and even become movie cameras if you want them to.
   So why don't they have a dork filter? Just a little switch, maybe another setting on the dial that's already there, to keep the camera from working if someone in the field of view looks like an idiot. If their teeth were bucked out, if they were squinting like they ate a lemon, if their tongue were not only sticking out but discolored... not that I looked anything like that, I assure you. I'm just saying, if the camera were programmed not to take pictures of people like that, it sure would have saved me a lot of embarrassment.
   There's gotta be someone from MIT working on this. And if there isn't there will be after they read this.

Stop Being Curious

I like to know stuff. Actually, I guess it's better to say that I like to find stuff out. When I was in college I worked in the library - I used to say 'libary' to make my boss angry - and I tried to learn something new every day, even if it was some completely random fact I learned off an out-of-date atlas. Like Zimbabwe used to be Rhosdesia, stuff like that.
   Sometime, though, curiosity can be a bad thing. Ignorance really is bliss.
   I got a thing in the mail for a local dry cleaner, I'm sure everyone gets them for their local dry cleaners too. Twenty dollars off an order of $70 or more, if you're interested and want to ship your clothes to Pasadena for some reason.
   Anyway, I got to wondering what dry cleaners use to clean clothes. So I hit the internet and had a look. Mistake. Big mistake.
   Dry cleaning fluid is tetrachloroethylene, which sounds like something crazy people in the Middle East use for chemical warfare. The best thing you can say for it is that it won't catch fire. Other than that, it's nothing good. It's a carcinogen and a degreaser for auto parts, for God's sake, why would I want my clothes put in that?
   I should have just left well enough alone, but evidently I didn't learn my lesson from a couple of months ago, and I just had to go digging. I swear, if I find one more thing that's bad for me that I assumed was okay, I'm going to go live in a convent.
   Yeah, you heard me.


COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes      back - 50 minutes. Ride share Thursday my ass...
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 79 days

Lost In The Sands Of Time

The other day I was cleaning out a closet - more like rearranging it, really - and I found a small can of paint. So I got to thinking, somebody must have invented paint. Somewhere, some time, some dude thought that it would be a good idea to coat a piece of wood in a layer of stuff that would keep it from getting wet or keep bugs away. But that had to have been so long ago, thousands of years. We know who invented the light bulb, but there's no way we'd ever know who invented paint.
   Thinking further, I wondered what other ubiquitous things had to have been invented by people we're never going to know.

Forks
   Soap
Mayonnaise
   Thread
Coasters - the kind you put under glasses
   Ink
Boat oars
   Fences
Hammers
   Erasers, either chalkboard erasers or the ones on the end of a pencil
Buttons and button holes
   Wire

This is the kind of thing that occupies my day.

Did You Ever Notice...?

I used to like stand-up comedy. Really. Back in the good ol' days, before there were entire TV channels devoted to replaying mediocre comics over and over and over again. I think I reached critical mass last week, when I stumbled across a Seinfeld episode, and before I could change the channel I was subjected to some of his 'what marketing genuis thought of that...' lines.
   Ugh. Painful. So I thought about all the comedy routines I've seen over the years, and I've come up with a checklist, in case you want to try your hand behind the microphone.

How to construct your own stand-up routine and get on HBO:
   1. Dress down, but not too down. T-shirt and jeans are out, but so is a suit and tie. Business casual is right out, so you're left with 'Friday night club-hopping' attire. Since no clubs will let you in, ask someone.
   2. Get something to drink. Water is good, but so is a bourbon and coke if the bar is complimentary for performers.
   3. Get a stool to put next to the microphone. You'll need something to play with, and something to prop yourself up if you have too many bourbons and coke.
   4. Practice mugging in front of a mirror. You'll need funny faces, especially if your material is weak. And be honest, you know it's weak.
   5. Work out one physical bit. You'll need to jump across the stage, or fall down or something, because movement makes good television. Remember that you're working towards a mediocre sitcom, so think visual. Dane Cook is master of the non-funny, kinetic performance art standup comedy.
   6. Think about what to say to a heckler. Those meanines try to ruin your show by pointing out inconsistencies or telling you that you suck. This is especially devastating to those of you who do suck, so prepare a witty rejoinder in advance.
   7. Have head shots and credits ready just in case a network exec or agent is in the audience and wants to offer you a development deal. Have contract demands worked out, and be prepared to stand firm.
   8. Oh yeah. Think of something funny to say. (see next checklist)

Funny stand-up topics:
1. Those pin heads in Washington.
2. Airplane food.
3. Your traumatic childhood.
4. Your goofy relatives.
5. Commercials you hate.
6. Commercials you love.
7. What if television characters were real?
8. Some guy in line at the coffee shop.
9. Black people (if you're black).
10. White people (if you're black or white).
11. Asian people (if you're black, white, or asian).
12. Women drivers.
13. Since you haven't really done much with your life, your childhood is a rich mine of material, and it plays in with the physical stuff.

Gas Station Pickup

Sometimes, as a writer I have to struggle with a concept, I have to tease a finished product out of a rough mess that refuses to make sense. There are days I have to work hard to get anything close to a cogent narrative, and there are occasions where I have to struggle for hours to get just a few good words.
   Sometimes, though, pure gold falls right into my lap and I don't have to do a damn thing but write it down. Sunday night was one of those times.
   I was at a Chevron in Eagle Rock - a newly-hip and still run-down part of Los Angeles immediately adjacent to Pasadena - putting gas in the truck and buying a soda I definitely did not need to drink. The line to pay was long because some jerkoff was cashing in a fistful of lottery scratchers, and so I got at the back of the line and an Ed-Hardy-wearing greasy hipster dude got in line behind me; that's Eagle Rock for you. Moments later a 'blonde' woman in shorts got in line behind him. She was attractive in that 'been clean from meth for six months' kind of way skinny bottle-blonde white chicks can have.
   This is their conversation, which I ran to my truck to write down.

'Blonde' woman: Man, did a bus let off just now?
   Greasy hipster douchebag: Yeah, that's a long line.
What's happening up there?
   So who are you here with?
My husband.
   Oh yeah? Which one is he?
The one with the Raiders shirt.(pointing to the big bald guy pumping gas into his pickup)
   Yeah, okay. (...pause...) You should come party with us.
Nah, I've done enough partying in my life. Hardcore, man.
   You don't look old enough to be done partying.
I'm thirty-five. A lot of long years partying, I'm done.
   Really? I thought you looked... maybe... twenty-eight or thirty. A lot of paryting, huh?
   (... pause..)
   Are you high right now?
No. Are you?

~~~ at this point I have paid for my soda, a habit I'm unsuccessfully trying to kick, and I'm trying to think of a slick way to stay there and eavesdrop on the horrible, embarrassing conversation behind me. I finally abandoned all pretense and just re-folded my cash while they finished ~~~

   Well, I just... you know. Here let me give you my number. ( douchebag actually has a business card he tries to hand over )
No, that's okay, I don't think my husband would want me to take it.
   Oh, hey, he can come too. He looks like a party guy.
He's not.
   Okay... well... I guess I'll see you around.
I don't think so.

Ugh and ewwww. While on the one hand I do have to admire the greasy hipster's bravado and willingness to take a chance, on the other hand I think his choice of venue was questionable, and his banter was reprehensible. If this is what you ladies have to put up with on a regular basis no wonder we men have a bad reputation.
   Oh, final note, as you probably guessed the greasy hipster guy in full Ed Hardy regalia was, in fact, buying cigarettes. Livin' the sterotype...

Here's a Quick Question

The answer to the following question can determine your personality more accurately than any MMPI ever could.
    Would you rather fly or be invisible?
   It really is that simple. You have two choices of a superpower. You can either fly or turn invisible. At will. You can't have both. You can't fly while invisible, you don't turn invisible while you're flying, you don't need wings, everything you wear or carry turns invisible, anything you eat turns invisible too, you aren't flying constantly if you don't want to...
   Look, don't make a great big production out of this, just answer the damned question. Fly or invisible?
    I've asked this question of many, many people over the years, and then I asked them their reasoning. Why would you want to fly? Or why would you want to be invisible? The answers always - ALWAYS - fall into two fairly specific categories, which put them into two distinct personality types. So go ahead, make your choice. I'll wait. No fair reading ahead.
..
..
..
   Done? Made your choice?
   Okay, people who said they wanted to fly were noble souls, they wanted to be up in the clouds, soaring free, unfettered by earthly constraints. Dreamers, poets, saints.
   People who wanted to be invisible were - to a man - thieves and perverts. They wanted to be invisible to steal cash or get into the girls' locker room. Or steal cash from the girls' locker room.
   You perverts know who you are...