If I Were A Blues Musician...

If I were a blues musician I'd have a great nickname. Because all blues musicians have great nicknames, like Blind Lemon Jefferson, T-Bone Walker, or Lightnin' Hopkins. If you have a cool nickname people treat you better, they move aside when you pass by, they hold doors open for you. Mostly, though, you get that cool nickname on your tombstone so people 100 years from now can pass by your grave and wonder how cool that guy was to get a nickname like 'Jelly Roll.'
   So I decided to cut out the middleman - and, coincidentally, all the tragedy and pathos of being an actual blues musician - and come up with my own blues nickname. I tried to think of things that define me, or at least that others might think define me.

   Scratchin' Don H.
Needs a Shave Hartshorn
   Junk Food Hartshorn
Don 'Cut the Damn Grass' Hartshorn
   Knee Poppin' Don
Old Man Groan Hartshorn
   Don 'Too Much Mayonnaise' Hartshorn
The Bellybutton Lint Kid
   White Guy Rhythm Hartshorn
Bad Haircut Don
   Don 'Pays Bills On Time' Hartshorn
Sullen Resentment Hartshorn
   Inappropriate Mutterin' Don

   One of those just has to fit. I'll go to local jazz clubs and get the emcee to announce me over the microphone, see which one has the right reverb.

Building A Mystery...

There's a question I've been pondering for years now - YEARS - and I still don't have an answer. I'm a fairly smart guy, so this lack of a solution has me troubled; is it something I'm just not seeing, or is there some veil the truth is hidden behind. I don't know, and the longer this goes on the more I think there are some things man was just not meant to know. What's the question? Glad you asked.
   How does Radio Shack stay in business?
   Seriously, have you been in a Radio Shack recently? Or even in the last ten years, because they haven't changed at all. They stock store-brand RC cars, terrible off-brand cell phones, grossly overpriced TV and stereo cables, batteries and... that's about it. Every time I've had to buy something at a Radio Shack* there's been one guy working and nobody else in the store. I felt I was interrupting his day, or perhaps a pending drug deal, with my petty commerce. Like going into that suspect hamburger joint, you know the one, that never seems to be open except late at night or early in the morning, and then you find out from a neighbor that Armenians own the place and are using it to launder money from whatever fraud they're perpetrating.
   Radio Shack bothers me and yet intrigues me at the same time. Bothers me because I strongly suspect there's something crooked going on, either at the stores or at the corporate level or both. If you can't reconcile their reported profits with the fact that the stores are mostly empty all day long, then somebody somewhere is fudging the numbers or completely making them up. Intrigues me because, on the off chance they're not totally lying then they have a magic business model, something other corporations would do well to copy.
   But I'm putting my money on the lie. You just can't sell enough batteries and cables to keep a store like that afloat.

Now... what about the Sunglasses Hut? They're always devoid of customers, so the fact that they're still in business seems kind of shady. HA! Get it? Sunglasses... shady... hooo boy... that's comedy right there.


* cell phone charger, cell phone battery, and cable TV adapter. And, with the cell phone battery, I bought a gorilla-shaped flashlight. Really.

Brad Nero, Boy Hero

"Well, golly, Skip, sure is lucky the pirates didn't notice us."
   Skip just wagged his tail, on account of his voice machine was broken.
   It was just as well, the volume on Skip's voice box had been stuck on 'YELL' for months, Brad just hadn't had the time to fix it. And just now, swinging onto the pirate ship on a jungle vine from the headhunters' island, Skip's voice box had crashed into a yardarm and now was nothing more than a mass of wires and dented metal around a furry brown neck. It was all for the best, Brad realized, he couldn't chance being discovered by the pirates, and Skip tended to talk too much anyway.
   The clomping tread of heavy boots rattled the deck, and Brad tried to make himself as small as possible as he hid behind barrels. Two pirates clomped by, men twice as big as Brad and four times as strong. Brad didn't dare peek out to look at their faces but they probably had scars too, big ones. Pirates always had dramatic scars on their faces.
   "Yo ho, mateys," came a call from read of the ship, from the wheel.
   Brad stifled a gasp and grabbed Skip's muzzle to keep him from barking. They knew that voice!
   "Aaargh, Cap'n," one of the pirates who had just passed snarled. "We're glad to be off that cannibal island."
   Cap'n? Brad's blood ran cold. So that explained it all...
   "If you don't pull your scurvy weight around here, I'll send you back," the cap'n snarled, "so the cannibals can put ye in their stew pot."
   "And if you do," one of the pirates replied, "who'll be unloadin' yer cargo of Cleveland Cavaliers bobble-heads?"
   "Or the crates of Sham-wows?" the other pirate asked. "You need us, Cap'n Thompson."
   Thompson. Or Old Man Thompson as Brad and his neighborhood gang The Enigma Patrol called him. He always yelled at kids to keep off his lawn and never gave back any balls or Frisbees that ended up in his back yard. Rumor had it that he took the loot to the flea market on weekends to pay for his cat tranquilizer habit.
   "To Blazes with your sass talk," Cap'n Thompson cursed. "But without yer help I'll never get this crap posted on Craigslist and eBay."
   Brad scribbled furiously in his L'il Detectives note pad. So that was Old Man Thompson's game... post all the pirated goods onto terrible, larcenous web sites so unsuspecting dupes would pay top dollar for discount crap. Fiendishly clever. An old man could buy a lot of cat tranquilizer with eBay money.
   "Before ye go below decks for inventory, though," Cap'n Thompson said, "could ye two look behind them barrels. I do believe we got us a stowaway."
   Brad's blood froze as the pirates' shadows fell across him and Skip.

-- to be continued --

Near Nudity In The Afternoon

I have never seen so many shirtless guys in my life as I saw this afternoon. Even counting the very best episodes of COPS. I don't know what the deal was today, but it seemed men who really shouldn't be parading around bare-chested were only too willing to put it all out there, sharing their complete lack of shame or inhibition.
   It started right out of the parking garage on Wilshire with an EXTREMELY bronzed older man roller blading down the sidewalk in front of LACMA. Usually that sort of thing is confined to Venice Beach, maybe he got lost. The flesh-fest continued in Hancock Park, then into Koreatown, and into that part of Silverlake that isn't infested with Yuppies. Even downtown had shirtless guys, who for some reason all seemed to be riding bicycles. My tour got interrupted by the 110 - no shirtless guys on the highway - but then when I got to Pasadena it started all over again with two different guys mowing their lawns. Their own lawns, which just doesn't happen in SoCal. The ultimate spectacle, though, had to be the chubby kid in the Speedo running around outside the aptly-named Vagabond Inn. Today was a smorgasbord of inappropriate displays of man-boobs, love handles, and grody chest hair. And one gnarly Speedo.
   It's not even particularly hot, not even for LA. Must be something in the water.
   But this does raise an interesting question, one that has perplexed philosophers for millennia. To wit: Without the perceiver, does the perceived exist? Would all those fat guys without their shirts on have even been there if I wasn't also there? Had I not been passing by in the truck, would the street have been empty? Or even better, have those fat, shirtless guys always been there, and I just happened to notice them this afternoon? Did the fact that I happened to see one at the beginning of my commute color my perception enough that I became hyper-vigilant, attuned to the slightest glimpse of a hairy nipple? If one does not see the fat shirtless guy, can that fat shirtless guy be said to exist at all?
   That's philosophy right there. You can tell by all the question marks.

At The Pearly Gates

   The huge bouncer glanced up from his clipboard and nodded at me. I shuffled forward, next in line.
   "Yeah.. uh.. my name's Don..."
   "I know who you are," the bouncer said, glowering at me. He still flipped through pages on his clipboard, sheet after sheet after sheet, it seemed like a ream of paper even though it looked like there was only one page.
   "So you're Saint Peter?" I asked.
   The bouncer nodded.
   "But... I thought... I mean... you're black."
   St. Peter stopped flipping pages, and stared over his reading glasses at me. "Is that a problem?"
   "Oh, no, no. God, no!" I said. "It's just.. I thought you were Middle Eastern."
   "You mean Jewish?" Saint Peter asked. "Is that a problem?"
   I ran my finger along the velvet rope and looked past him to the white, luminous gates. Still closed.
   "You gotta understand," I said. "This is not at all what I thought it would be. Waiting in line forever, the limos, the kleig lights, the velvet rope. Who knew the gates to Heaven looked like one of those douchebaggy Hollywood clubs down on Sunset?"
   Saint Peter pushed his glasses up on his nose. "So your eternal reward looks... what did you say? douchebaggy?"
   "I'm just digging myself deeper and deeper here, aren't I?" I said with a nervous laugh. "I was expecting..."
   "Clouds? Harps? A wise old white man with a white beard, a big tome, a quill pen with a really long plume?" Saint Peter grew more agitated with each word. "Let me ask you something, smart guy, do you eat the same thing every day?"
   He stared at me, his eyes reflecting infinity, and I knew he expected an answer.
   "N... no," I said. "I like to mix it up. Mexican, Chinese, good old home cooking."
   "So what makes you think I want to see cherubs and dazzling golden light all the time?" Saint Peter said. "I've been here near on two thousand years, maybe I'm tired of harp music, maybe I think I'll puke if I see another puffy cloud. Maybe I want to be a black guy every once in a while."
   I held my hands up, surrendering. "Okay, okay, sorry. I'll keep a more open mind."
   Saint Peter cleared his throat and regained his composure. "I happen to like Hollywood. Reminds me of Rome under Nero. Before the fire, of course."
   "So..." I said, pointing at the clipboard, "I don't want to be a pest, but..."
   He flipped a few more pages on his eternal clipboard, scanning them intently. "Well, I don't see anything too egregious. You were mostly good, and the bad stuff you did wasn't all that bad, compared to some people I see. Looks like you're... oh..."
   Ready to step across the velvet rope I paused. His 'oh' didn't sound like a pleased 'oh,' but more like a troubled 'oh.'
   "Is there some sort of problem?" I asked.
   "Kind of," Saint Peter said. "It says here you kept a blog?"

Gettin' A Little Punchy

What is it about American business - especially big corporations - that leads them to be increasingly blind to the consequences of their actions? I see things every day in the news that show the decision-makers in these companies believe themselves safe behind the faceless facade of a corporate logo and a high-priced legal team. For instance, in California Anthem is raising insurance rates 40%, Toyota has lied for years about the severity of its runaway cars, and banks that needed bailout money eight months ago are giving out the highest bonuses they've ever given, to men and women who failed utterly at their jobs.
   It's as if they think nobody will notice, or if somebody does notice, there's nothing anyone can do about it. There are human beings who made these decisions, people who've taken leave of their senses and let greed and apathy take over their more charitable virtues. They're secure in their anonymity, and that's dangerous. People will do all sorts of things when they think nobody else is looking or nobody else will ever find out. When there are no consequences people tend to let their baser instincts rule them. So let's make consequences.
   I say we create a Punch In The Nose Patrol, staffed with the biggest, meanest, most tattooed, punching-est ex-cons we can find. When Anthem decides to raise rates 40%, we send out the Punch In The Nose Patrol, who will find the person who made the decision - there's always somebody who gives the go-ahead - and punch them square in the puss. Maybe twice. Not enough to kill them, but more than enough to humiliate them and send a clear message.
   What better consequence is there than corporal punishment? When you can't reason with someone, when a person has proved again and again and again that they can't be trusted to do the right thing on their own, they need to have some negative incentive. I guarantee you, if the President of Toyota thought for one second that he might be visited by the Punch In The Nose Patrol, he would never have ignored concerns about his cars. If Wall Street brokers thought they might get a knuckle sandwich they'd think twice about their lying, theiving way of business. They might decide the risk isn't worth it and move to another career entirely.
   I'm no ex-con, not by a longshot, but I humbly volunteer to be on the first Punch In The Nose Patrol. And I'm guessing that the list of applicants would be long enough to keep the Patrol staffed up for some time to come.

A Guy Walks Into A Bar...

Hey, buddy, what'll it be?
   Something with an umbrella in it.
Sorry, closest thing we have is a lemon peel twist. Got maraschino cherries too.
   I don't know. Surprise me.
You got it.
   Well, aren't you gonna ask?
About what?
   The clown costume. I'm wearing a clown costume and I'm looking to get drunk in a dive bar.
You'd be surprised by how much that doesn't surprise me. We get clowns all the time. A couple are regulars.
   Really? I thought I was treading new ground. Another failure to add to the list. I'm Notes, by the way. Notes the Clown.
Harvey.
   I've never met a Harvey before. That's a good name. Not like Notes.
What's wrong with Notes?
   Duh. It's lame. I'm supposed to be one of those clowns that communicates through music. Who doesn't speak and doesn't need to. Like Harpo Marx.
But you're in here holding a conversation with me.
   See? Complete failure. I can't even play the recorder, let alone something difficult like the harp. Third-graders play the recorder better than I can. I'm a washout.
So you're drowning your sorrows.
   Trying to. What is this?
An apple-tini.
   Seriously? I might be a clown but I'm not gay.
Sorry, I just thought, you know, with the eye liner, that bowler hat, and the unitard...
   It's a performance art concept! Jeez!
I said I was sorry. How about a boilermaker? On the house.
   Now you're talking. But I shouldn't be mad. You're not the first to assume Notes played for the other team. I'm starting to think it's all my fault.
Gonna look for another line of work?
   Doing what? I have a BA in Psychology.
Oooh. Yeah, tough one.
   'You want fries with that?' That's what I'm looking forward to. At least it's honest work.
Hey, look who's here! It's Patches. Haven't seen her in a while.
   Patches? She's the hottest thing on the clown circuit. Oh, God, is my tie on crooked? Is my flower droopy enough?
You look fine. Why don't you go talk to her?
   You think I should?
She comes in alone, she leaves alone. I'm guessing she's looking for the right clown to come along. Could be you.
   All right, I'm going in. Wish me luck.
Break a leg, buddy.
   It's Notes. Notes the Clown. And he's back in the game.

From My Bookshelf

I grew up a minority. Really. Caucasians have been a minority in San Antonio for decades, since I was a kid. The city's mostly Hispanic - although try to find Hispanica on a map - but as far as I was concerned people were just people. Some spoke Spanish, some spoke Chinese, or Khmer, or German, whatever. It never occurred to me that my people - white folks - might have a culture outside of what I saw in the Brady Bunch or the Partridge Family. Live and learn.

Stuff White People Like by Christan Lander
   This is the definitive guide to white culture. Not to be confused with White Supremacist 'culture,' white culture is focused on self-satisfaction, appearances, and trying to make a difference without really changing anything you're doing in your own life.
   These are short essays about, well, stuff white people like. Such as Music Piracy, Hating Corporations, and Avoiding Confrontation. These are all cringe-inducing insights into the way privileged white folks like myself behave, and how they're perceived by non-white folks. They're the best kind of essays, funny and true, and liable to make some posers change the way they act.
   Mr. Lander is himself a white person, and better yet he's Canadian, which makes him extra, extra white. And thus more than qualified to write this book.

Quote: 'One of the more popular white-person activities of the past fifteen years has been attempting to educate others on the evils of multinational corporations. White people love nothing more than explaining to you how Wal-Mart, McDonald's, Microsoft, or Halliburton is destroying the Earth's cultures and resources.'

Smooth Operator

A few weeks back I had the opportunity (?) to hear and then record a smoove operator as he tried to pick up a chick. I seized that chance because being witness to ickiness like that doesn't happen every day. Turns out, though, that it does happen every few weeks. At least to me.
    I was in the gym this morning, engaging in my earnest yet futile efforts to lose twenty pounds, when I heard the following conversation in the locker room. Don't worry, it's not graphic, but it is cringe-worthy. The two gentlemen in question were at the sinks, towels wrapped around their waists. Evidently one or both of them was deaf because they were practically yelling at each other even though they were side-by-side.

Dude 1: What kind of razor do you use?
    Dude 2: Gilette, dude. Sensor 3.
What about shaving cream?
   Don't use cream, use gel, it's better. Shaving cream sucks.
What about just soap? That would work right?
   If you use one of those chick soaps, the kind with moisturizer in it. That would work.
Do you go against the grain or with the grain?
    Both, dude. First you go with the grain, then you go against. Extra smooth.
Really? That works?
   Oh yeah. But you gotta be careful around your nipples and your bellybutton.

Yup... they were talking about shaving their chests.
   I almost laughed out loud but I covered it with a cough. Usually the men's locker room is a no-eye-contact zone, but there were about four of us puzzled, amused, and disturbed by this. Seriously, what do you do? Tell them they're talking too loud, and, oh, by the way, if we were in prison you'd be my bitch? Some stuff you just don't talk about in public, and you especially don't yell it out in an echoing men's locker room.
   But at least if I ever decide to 'mow the field' I have notes for technique.

A Very Special Posting

You know what I miss? 'Very Special' episodes of TV shows. Time was the TV networks actually made the effort to appear to be serving the public interest, at least a little bit. Back in the day ABC actually had the After School Special, which aired after school - duh - and always seemed to star Christy MacNichol for some reason. The stories explored topics like divorce, or substance abuse, or teen pregnancy. I was a little young to watch them, and I also didn't care. My sister recently gave me a boxed set of the shows on DVD, and they came in a miniature Trapper Keeper. Sweet!
   Then we got a few 'very special' episodes of shows like Diff'rent Strokes or Blossom or Punky Brewster. And it seemed like every episode of Moesha was 'very special.'
   And now... nothing.
   Maybe I'm not watching the proper channels, but I haven't seen or heard of a 'very special' anything in quite a while. As far as I can tell this means either a) kids have wised up in the past twenty years, or b) the TV networks stopped caring enough even to pretend to be socially relevant.
   I'm guessing it's b).

Songs I Don't Want To Know

So I was doing a little work around the apartment this morning - dishes, vacuuming, that kind of thing - and just idly singing a tune. I'm absolutely NOT a singer, but when I'm alone and no one else has to pay the price for my atonality it's all good. So I'm busy scrubbing the bathroom and I realize that I'm singing all the words to a song I'd thought I'd long forgotten.
   I was singing - in its entirety - Gloria Gaynor's 'I Will Survive.'
   I'm not making this up, I started from the beginning and just let it all hang out. Loudly. I had gotten to the 'I will survive... hey hey' part before I realized what was going on and put a stop to it. But the tune's still there, running laps around my brain.
   The fact that I had to live through the Disco years at all is a tragedy of epic proportions, but it's far, far worse that those coked-out ex-hippies managed to lodge a song in my cranium so thoroughly that I would sing the whole thing while cleaning the bathroom. It makes me feel dirty, like I'd been waiting in line for hours to try to get into Studio 54, with no chance at all it would happen.
   This kind of thing needs some sort of atonement, some kind of expiation to wash the sin of Disco from my soul. Maybe I'll say a rosary to Led Zeppelin. 'Hail Jimmy Page, full of blues, the guitar is with thee...'