140Story - Day 34

  I'm writing a story 140 words at a time and posting the results here daily.  Can I sustain interest?  Will I lose the narrative thread?  Find out in this next installment of Bullets Ain't Cheap

lived it.  The constant tension, ready for any threat at any time.  I’d overcome it with difficulty and help.  The kind of help Kelly needed but never got.
    “Did you kill Theda?” I asked.
    “Drive, dammit,” Kelly hissed.
    I didn’t move.  I needed to know.  “She’s dead.”
    “The brunette you were with?  Is that what the gunshot was?  Not me.”  He shook his head.  “Broad daylight... amateurs.”
    I turned the key and Kelly flinched.  “Which way to avoid cops?”
    Kelly cocked his head, listening as the sirens came closer.  “Left on Green, right on Lake, then the second alley.  Back in.”
    I knew roughly where he was taking me.  Close to where I thought he would be, but not exactly.  Kelly was unpredictable, which was why Burton needed me to find him.
    Or... needed Kelly to find me.
    “Why aren’t

Under My Skin

Maybe I'm a little sensitive, maybe a little touchy, or maybe - just maybe - I'm a touch too polite. Living the Golden Rule and all, it just aggravates me when people don't think of others when just a moment's consideration would go so far.
   Here, in no particular order, are various impolite things that have gotten under my skin lately.

In the car:
   The douchebag in the Cadillac Escalade in front of me flicking his cigarette ash out the sunroof.
   Same douchebag veering across three lanes of traffic to make an exit.
   The battered green LeBaron making a right turn from the left lane. Just go a few blocks down, turn around and come back. Nothing you have on your agenda is more important than my life.
   The flattened aluminum cans falling like raindrops from the flatbed trailer pulled by the wheezing and laboring Ford utility pickup. You can't be environmentally conscious about recycling if you're littering for miles on your way to the reclamation station.

In the grocery store:
   Every woman who's ever pushed a grocery cart in a grocery store. The place is packed full of people, you're not alone. Get the hell out of the center of the aisle. Watch the men, see how they stay out of each other's way? Do that.
   Morbidly obese people elbowing people out of the way to get to the diet soda. You're not fooling anyone, and you're only making your condition worse.
   Serving sushi in the middle of a South Texas Summer, right at the front of the store. So many things wrong with this idea it's hard to know where to begin the list.
   The person who forgets his coupons until he's already paid for his groceries with his debit card, so the clerk has to give him cash back. Seems like some sort of scam to me.

At the Post Office:
   The passport office is that one over there. With the big label that says 'Passport Office.' Don't get snippy with the clerks because you waited in the wrong line.
   Mr. Impatient who shows up at the Post Office at noon on a weekday and is put out when he has to wait more than two minutes. Of course if all the passport people weren't in the wrong line...
   The same Mr. Impatient who gets testy when the postal clerks run through their list of added services. It's their job to ask, so don't get all pissy about it, just say 'No, thank you' like your parents taught you when you were three.

In the gym:
   Mr. Smell-Good. The slightest spritz of Axe body spray makes you smell like an Armenian pimp, practically drowning in it clears the room. Just take a bath like a normal person, Junior.
   The Chatty Kathies on the treadmill. It's a gym, not a coffee shop, and you're yelling to be heard over the whir of the machines. I can hear every icky detail of your lady-parts surgery story, and I'm twenty feet away.
   The Creeper standing by the water fountain, trying to be slick while he watches the hot chicks on the eliptical machines. Gonna get yourself arrested there, Peeping Tom.

Eco-Friendly LED Pot

I've been slowly converting the light bulbs in my house to LEDs. Slowly because LEDs are expensive - REALLY expensive - and because sometimes they don't give enough light for my purposes. I think LEDs are the way to go for the sustainable future instead of poisonous and awful compact flourescents, which I predict will become the 8-track tapes of the lighting world. Let's hope.
   Today as I was surfing the web looking for what's on the cutting edge of LED technology (you can't rely on Lowe's to lead innovation), I saw an application that had never crossed my mind.
   Grow lights. Indoor grow lights.
   I know, I know there are legitimate uses for indoor grow lights. Like... uh... well, I'm sure there are some. But I know and you know and everybody in the country knows the real use for indoor grow lights is pot farming.
   I had an Indian friend* who bought a house years ago. It was a bank repo long before that was common, and he got a fantastic deal on it, mostly because the previous owner defaulted after some legal problems. Criminal legal problems.
   My friend had me over to his new castle and showed me around. It was an older house in Pasadena and so didn't have AC. Except, he pronounced, in the attic which was colder than penguin turds. When he and his wife wanted AC they just pulled down the step ladder and let the cool air waft over them.
   He showed me into the attic, which was indeed painted perfectly, finished out, with a great-big AC unit in one end. There were also electrical outlets every 18 inches on-center, and a hook above a weathered circle in the finished attic floor between each and every rafter for the length of the house, both sides.
   "You know what this used to be, don't you?" I asked him. Blank stare back. "Pot farm."
   He didn't believe me. At first. But as he looked I saw the realization dawn in his eyes; the guy before had one marijuana plant between every set of rafters, a huge grow light hanging from the hook above each plant, a pan to catch the water below, and Arctic air conditioning to keep his stash from wilting in the heat. Pretty slick setup except for managing the heat from all those grow lights.
   Fast forward to today and the modern, eco-minded pot farmer. If you used LED grow lights you wouldn't have any of the temperature control problems you have with regular grow lights. And no heat would mean your pot farm wouldn't be betrayed to infrared sensors on police helicopters. PLUS you'd be saving electricity which means more profit for your illegal operation. Win-win-win all around. Of course, you'd have to not be totally baked all the time to have your wits about you enough to make this a reality. It could happen.
   Like everything else, I'll bet vice drives innovation in the LED lighting market too.


* Slurpee Indian, not casino Indian

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.

Walk On By

I've been watching people walk lately. Not just hot chicks, though I've done my share of that – maybe more than my share. I've been watching all kinds of people, young, old, short, tall, fat, thin, and everything in between. I'm fascinated with it, kind of my new obsession. If I were the type to get obsessed with things. Which I'm not. But if I were…
   The street's the best place to begin your studies, a large public thoroughfare with lots of pedestrians. Like Wilshire, where I'm working right now, or Lake Avenue in Pasadena. You have to find a real crossroads where many different types come and go. A melting pot of ambulatory styles, if you will. You can tell so much about a person and the day they're having by the way they walk when they think no one is watching them.
   Here are some things I've noticed:

Small women usually walk in one of two ways. Either they draw in, clutching their bags to their chests, chin down, taking small steps and trying to be unobtrusive, or they pretend they're a foot taller than they actually are and try to take up more space and look other people in the eye.

Small men in office attire are uniformly combative, refusing to get out of the way for anyone and making people go around them. Small men who work with their hands for a living don't feel the need to prove anything to anyone so they just get where they need to go.

Big doofus-y guys – fat or not – seem very conscious of their bulk. They watch the way ahead of them and try to plan for others not realizing how big they actually are. Almost apologetic.
   The exception to this is big doofus-y teenaged boys, who really don't know how big they actually are and constantly get in the way. They'll grow into themselves.

Tall women walk fast. Don't know why, they just do. Really fast, sometimes. Dangerously fast. Give them a wide berth when they start swinging those monkey arms.

Pregnant women always get a lot of space from others on the sidewalk. Especially if they look like they're about to pop. Just a safety deal, I think.

Old men seem to move through crowds like ninjas, finding just the right space at just the right time. Probably their years of walking experience.

Old couples holding hands walk slowly, but no one seems to mind.

Angry people make eye contact then look away quickly. Sad people don't make eye contact, they look past you. Happy people smile and acknowledge you. Distracted people weave from side to side as they go. Crazy people have crazy eyes and you should avoid them at all costs. If you don't know what crazy eyes are, I can't explain it to you.

Douchebag dudes – sunglasses backwards on their heads, gold chains on their necks or wrists, bowling shirts, that kind of thing – don't usually abandon their Jeep Wranglers to walk anywhere, but when they do they walk right out of their flip-flops. Which is funny because well-traveled sidewalks are not made for bare feet. That's what you get for being a jerkoff, jerkoff.

Teen girls walk in packs. But not well-organized, cohesive packs like wolves, more like packs of hamsters. Chittering, giggling, stumbling hamsters who get where they're going by chance, not by design. With 'Hello Kitty' backpacks they're too old to be wearing, but they wear anyway because they think it's cute. And texting the other girls in the group because actually talking is just soooo 20th Century.

Adult men always watch where they're going and try to stay out of each other's way. It's a guy thing, a combat challenge deal, a mutually-agreed-upon convention that if you stay out of my way and I stay out of yours then we have no problem with each other and we can go about our business. You ever see how boys fight? It starts with one blocking the other in, asserting control and dominance. That never ends well.
   Women don't know this convention, or they don't understand it. This is why women always, always, always, always go the wrong way on the sidewalk and end up right in front of some huge dude who glares down at them until they get out of the way. Learn the convention ladies, it'll save you wondering why people on the street are so angry.

Goons And Henchmen

Why is it that only bad guys can have goons and henchmen? When mafiosi and Nazis and third-world dictators have a few people around who like them and are willing to do what they say without question, those people get the title henchmen. When somebody in charge needs something done, the person they send to do the job gets called a goon. But, in an odd twist of terminology, when the person in charge is not a crime lord, dictator, or cult leader, their faithful are called supporters or followers.
   I don't know about you, but I'd rather have henchmen. A few guys to go around and do stuff that I need done. Like wash my truck or do the dishes or get the dry cleaning. I don't have much dry cleaning done now, but I assure you if I had henchmen to do my bidding I'd take pants and shirts there more often. I'd have goons only when I've earned them.
   Which makes me think, does a CEO of a corporation have goons or supporters? What about the least-drunk hobo in the railroad car, henchmen or followers? Those self-help gurus on PBS? I'm guessing they have goons, you don't make PBS money and only have henchmen.
   And what about the henchmen and goons themselves? They're people too, husbands with families who've taken to gooning to put food on the table. From everything I've seen, heard, and read, goons and henchmen don't really get benefits. No 401K for them, no term life package, no health insurance where they can see a doctor in-plan for a $10 co-pay. They're contractors, and not even W-2 contractors, they're 1099 contractors, responsible for all their own stuff. Nobody's got their back. Who's fighting the good fight for them? Who does things for them when things need doing? Who henchmens the henchmen?
   I think I've found a new Hollywood charity. Please, won't somebody think of the goons?

That's Globalization, Baby

Sorry, I channeled Dick Vitale there for a second...
   For Christmas, my younger niece got me a polar bear toy that poops jelly beans. It's all good, because I got her a plush zombie that you can pull apart and put back together. The jelly beans are tasty, too, butterscotch and cola.
   But I noticed something as I was reading the package. The package comes from a distributor in Canada. Or at least from Quebec, which is part of Canada for the time being, I suppose. No biggie, I have no quarrel with Canada, except for them making Celine Dion our problem but I've let that go. I did notice something interesting, though.
   The polar bear itself - the plastic bit - comes from China. The jelly beans come from Ireland, of all places (who knew they had the jelly bean infrastructure?). And my niece bought the polar bear package, bear, beans and all, in San Antonio, Texas.
   So you have a silly little toy made in one corner of the world combined in Canada with candy made in another corner of the world, being sold in Texas. I posted recently about a Pepsi can made in England, but this is an even better example of how little national boundaries mean to modern business exigencies. All this effort, all this coordination, all this back and forth through four countries, all this blood, sweat, plastic, and sugar put into getting a candy-pooping polar bear into my hands at Christmas.
   Kind of makes you think, don't it? People want to 'buy American,' but if you do that the only thing you're assured of is the product is assembled in America, the bits might very well have come from other parts of the world.
   I wonder where my Gene Simmons ceramic bobble-head really came from?