There's Just The One

I have a theory. Well, it's more than a theory, it's more like a lead-pipe cinch to be fact. I just don't have a valid way of testing it. Yet. But it's one of those things that when you hear it you just know it has to be true.
   A bit of explanation. In one of my prior jobs I used to travel a lot. All over the continental US and then to various foreign parts of the world. So I lived out of suitcases and ate in strange restaurants and lurked in funny-smelling comic books shops in cities and towns and villages far from my home. I also spent a lot of time in airports and had a chance to see where they're different and where they're the same. And they're all pretty much the same, no matter if you're in Honolulu, Savannah, Frankfurt or Fukoka. This is where my theory comes in.
   I'm convinced that there is only one airport. Just one. Everyone all over the world uses the exact same airport no matter where they are. It's just that the airport looks different depending on which door you use to enter it. And you can't see the millions of other people using the One True Airport, only the ones who came in the same door as you.
   It's a multi-verse kind of thing, with a touch of experientialist solipsism thrown in. When you go into the airport in LaGuardia you have to traverse a certain path, travel certain roads to get there. And that path determines what the One True Airport looks like to you when you enter it. Same thing when you go to the airport in Adelaide, Australia, you have to work your way through the local environment to get there. It's kind of like solving the maze on the back of child's placemat in a restaurant; locally there's only way way to get to the One True Airport, and that one way determines how you see everything inside. So when you go to the Leonardo DaVinci Airport outside Rome all the signs look like they're in Italian. But when you go to Gatwick all the signs - which are the exact same signs - read in the Queen's English.
   That TGIF Friday's in DFW? It's the same one in McCarran. Exact same one. The burrito places are the same, the newsstands are the same, even the shoeshine stands are the exact same in each and every airport you're ever going to visit. The details just look different to you.
   You ever wonder why the janitor cleaning the bathroom in O'Hare looks just like the janitor cleaning the bathroom in Brussels? Because they're the exact same guy. It's true.
   Yeah, it's a brain-twister. But anyone who's traveled for a living knows what I'm talking about and they're with me. They get it. Now, if I can just figure out a way to prove myself right...

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

I'm concerned the garbage man may have it in for me. As far as I know I've done nothing to him to merit his wrath, yet I still feel persecuted.
   Back in the day, when there were three channels on TV plus PBS, there were three men on the garbage truck. One drove, presumably the senior member of the crew, and two clung to the sides of the truck like remoras.* The truck would rumble down the alley, the two guys would leap off and grab what you'd left out, toss it into the gaping maw, leap back on and go to the next pile of bags. They were usually convivial, even joking, and kept one another company as they did what had to be a miserable job.
   Now, though, there's just one garbageman. One loner in his truck, operating a remote-controlled claw. No exercise, no fresh air, no companionship. The lone garbageman is like the lone gunman, except his tower is a five-ton truck and his sniper rifle is the claw.
   We used to leave gifts for the garbagemen at Christmas. Really, just like we did for the paper boy, the postman, and the ritzy homes did for their milk men. Little notes with a couple of bucks inside and a 'thanks for doing a great job!' message. But now, with the garbageman hermetically sealed in his cabin, silently seething, teeth gritted in all-consuming resentment, I don't know how I'd get a gift to him. Maybe carrier pigeon?
   This is why I think he's pissed off - aside from the way he leaves the huge can smack in the middle of my driveway - he knows he's never going to get a Christmas gift.
   I tried to wave to him today, but he refused to acknowledge me. I think one day he's going to drive his truck through my front door, grab me with the big yellow claw, and toss me into the bin.
   Sure, call me crazy, but one day, when there's a garbage-truck sized hole in the front of my house, you'll all feel pretty guilty.


* that kind of simile is probably what pisses off garbagemen...

Monstrous

I settled in for the night, snuggling down in my covers, shivering as I waited for my body heat to warm the sheets and pillow.
   Borzes cleared his throat, the sound rattling around the room. Borzes is the monster who lives under my bed.
   "Hey, sport," he called out. He calls me 'sport' because he can't remember my name. He drinks. "You gonna have a nightmare tonight?"
   "I don't think so," I murmured as my eyes closed. "Not much going on to have a nightmare about."
   Borzes grumbled, and I heard a few other squeaks and bubbles from his digestive system. He eats dreams, and finds nightmares particularly tasty. "Nothing? What about the state of the economy? Global warming? Your stalled career?"
   "Nope," I yawned, "all of that stuff is so far beyond my control there's no point in worrying, let alone having bad dreams."
   "Really? Not even your career?" my monster sounded both disappointed and angry. "That's firmly in your control."
   I laughed. "Hardly. Settle down, Borzes, maybe I'll have some sort of surreal Hieronymous Bosch kind of dream you can eat. You like the weird ones, don't you?"
   "I like nightmares better..." he groused. "What about serial killers? One could sneak in here and gut you like a fish."
   "Stop talking," I said.
   For a long time Borzes said nothing and I drifted down into slumber.
   "I could show you my true form." He sounded a little timid, almost frightened.
   "I've seen you," I said. "Remember, when I thought you were a mouse? Chased you with a flashlight? Honestly, you're not that scary. You're small enough to fit under a bed."
   Another long pause.
   "You're going to die alone and unloved."
   I sat up. "Seriously? You're trotting that one out? That's more a psychiatrist's couch thing than a nightmare. And it's not true anyway."
   "Ohhh..." I could hear the smile in his voice. "I got it. Something to wake you screaming at 3 AM."
   "You got nothing," I challenged, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
   "Marriage. Commitment. Kids. A house in the suburbs. Real responsibility to someone other than yourself. More debt than you have income to take care of. No more time to yourself..."
   "All right, cut it out!" I snapped as visions of kids and mortgages and college bills flew through my head.
   "Hit a nerve, didn't I?" Borzes chuckled. "Ah, I still got it. Still got it."
   "Shut up," I mumbled. I dug further into the covers. "I'm not going to have a nightmare, so you can just starve."
   "Sweet dreams," Borzes whispered as my eyes closed.

What If?

What if every American just refused to go to work one day? I mean all of them (us), every one, including policemen, firemen, pilots, sewer plant workers. Everybody.

What if cars could drive themselves? Would they really do that much better a job than we do?

What if you remembered everything? For all your life. What you ate for breakfast as a three-year-old, every stroke from every time you shaved, how much water was in every glass you ever poured. The look on that middle-school kid's face when you told him his family was poor? Everything.

What if the Chinese had a decent navy? They could put a lot of sailors on the water, and a lot of Marines on foreign soil.

What if lightning keeps the Earth alive? Like a huge defibrillator?

What if someone was secretly photographing you when you picked your nose, and then they posted the pictures on line? And then what if someone did that to them?

What if you could understand what your dog was thinking? Would you be flattered, bored, or horrified?

What if you could understand what your cat was thinking?
   We know the answer to this one. You'd be horrified. Cats think of nothing but murder all day.

What if you weren't potty-trained until you were 30?

What if you could see air? What would you see? And would that make you functionally blind? And if you were an astronaut how would you see out of your space helmet, and how freaky would space with no air be to you?

What if all the power in the world stopped working? Even solar and hydroelectric? What would we do?

I Got Gamblin' Fever

I want to go to Vegas.
   'But Don,' you say, 'you live in Pasadena, you could just drive up to Vegas on a weekend. What's the big deal?' True enough. But I don't want to go to Vegas now, I want to go to Vegas then.
   It was 1998, at least I'm pretty sure it was, and five of us planned a trip to Vegas. Five guys. Three days in Vegas. Yeah.
   Back then (jeez... 1998 is 'back then') Vegas was just starting to build up. Caesars Palace was completing their second tower, the Mirage was the happening place, the Tam-o-Shanter was still there. So was the Sands. And the Frontier, and the Stardust, and the Boardwalk, and the Desert Inn. It was Old Vegas - Sinatra's mobbed-up Vegas - mingling grudgingly with the new, douchebag Vegas - Steve Wynn's Vegas. There weren't pedestrian walkways then, you had to get across the Strip the old-fashioned way, by jaywalking.
   Me, Scott, Mike, Sean, and Bizarro Don. Who brought his own pillow. Really. Right through the Mirage lobby. Ah, those were the days. Me and those guys out on the town. Them partaking of the free booze, sometimes with an undeserved sense of entitlement, me the perpetual designated driver since I don't drink alcohol. I want those three days back, or I suppose I want to re-live those three days over and over again. The trip of a lifetime. Seriously.

Some highlights:

Wrasslin' in the room. Both Mike and Sean used to wrestle in high school, so this was truly a contest of champions. Scott wrestled because he thought he could beat the other two because he outweighed each of them by forty pounds. He was wrong. I knew better and didn't participate, though I did egg everyone else on.

Scott - who was Jewish - kept his vow to eat bacon at every meal. He achieved his goal admirably, though sometimes with puzzled looks from waiters.

Crazy Girls in the Stardust. A topless revue. It was bad. Really bad. Spectacularly bad. So bad that it came back around and crossed over to being good. The performers were almost all former showgirls who'd been injured, or got too heavy, or had kids or bad boob jobs or all of the above. Some possibly with drug habits to support. Just agonizingly awful, and yet sublime because of it. We were about to leave before the show started but Mike made us stay, since we'd made the effort to get tickets. 'We're staying right here and we're gonna watch the show.' Good call, man.
   Also, the scary mafioso ticket taker guy. You could look in his eyes and know he'd murdered someone. Thin and sinister. 'So you want to see the Crazy Girls?' Yes, sir, we would. If that's okay by you.

Five dollar craps tables at the Stratosphere. A great place to learn the game. Especially at 9 AM.

Star Trek the Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton. Nerd-vana. You could get Ferengi drinks at the Quark's Bar. And if you were an uber-nerd you could get a Klingon-themed wedding.

Me, Scott, Mike, and Sean, walking two abreast on the sidewalk, clearing a path before us. I didn't think we looked particularly tough or threatening, but evidently our fellow vacationers felt otherwise.

The President from The Fifth Element at the Rio. We were waiting for a cab and there he was.

Club Paradise. A 'gentleman's club' where guys act like anything but. Scott took complete leave of his senses and spent waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much money. We were there for hours. HOURS. And it wasn't horrible. Scott actually paid for 'bootie bucks' or whatever they call their fake cash. A lot of bootie bucks. We helped him whittle his stash down and he was so drunk he never noticed.

Thanks, guys. A truly great time.

Dumpster Diving Don

I had to get into the garbage bin in my apartment complex today.
   This was not a pleasure cruise, I had serious business. Vital business. The kind of crucial business that would make me jump into a dumpster filled with other people's leavings.
   I went down into the garage and emulated what I'd witnessed the garbage man do before. You see, you have to really put your back into it to move those things around, even though they're on wheels. They're heavy enough by themselves, but when you put a couple hundred pounds of...
   I'm sorry? What's that? What was so important that I had to crawl into the dumpster in the first place? Yeah, um... that's... uh... classified. Sure. Classified.
   So once I got the dumpster out of the little tiny space they keep it in, I pulled myself into it, right over the side like I'd been doing it all my life. Even landed on my feet. I made sure I was wearing nothing new, nothing that I wouldn't mind just leaving there in the dumpster if I needed to.
   Okay, you, with the hand raised, looks like you have something on your mind. What do you mean I didn't answer the question? Of course I did. I was in the dumpster on vital, classified business. Meaning, Mr. Smarty-Pants, that if told you what I was doing in there I would be in violation of all sorts of national security stuff. Secret clearance, all that.
   Excuse me? Yes, well... okay, you're right, my clearance did expire something like five years ago, but... I'm still bound by... there are some things that civilians... Okay. Fine.
   I was in the dumpster retrieving Lotto tickets for tonight that I'd accidentally thrown out this morning.
   There. Are you happy?
   What's so funny? Huh? Bet you'll all feel like chumps when I win a million bucks tonight. That'll make dealing with the garbage juice worth it.

Talkin' Bout A Clambake

It's been a while since I've seen an Elvis movie. And by that I mean sat down and watched one, start to finish. Sure I've clicked through the channels and run across one now and then, but it's been so long since I've become absorbed in one. You know, let it wash over me and just appreciated it for what it was.
   So today I watched 'Clambake.'
   I gotta say, it's not bad, not bad at all. It is an Elvis movie, so he does sing about regular stuff. Like having a clambake, or painting a boat, or being a millionaire trading places with a pauper water ski instructor so he can find true love with Shelley Fabares. You know, what everybody sings about in their own lives.
   Made in 1967, Clambake was the start of Elvis's resurgence, the media storm that resulted in the black-leather Elvis Comeback Special of 1968. He wasn't as young as he was when he made 'Jailhouse Rock' and he wasn't as bloated and jumpsuited as he was towards the end, in the mid-70's. This was Elvis as most people remember him, in his early 30's and vital.
   Since it was made in '67 there is a lot of smoking in 'Clambake,' and themed jazz dinner clubs, and 'dancing' that looks as odd as it must certainly have felt. And the message is about young people trying to find themselves and make their own way in the world. Very much of its time.
   But it was fun. I didn't feel robbed of two hours as I usually do when I watch a more recent movie. And I felt good afterward, like my cares had been released, at least for a time.
   So if you're feeling down don't reach for booze, or food, or cheap sex with strangers. Or cheap sex with someone who owns a themed jazz dinner club, just find an Elvis movie and watch. It'll cure what ails you.

I Want To Be The Termite Guy

My apartment has termites. I know this because I saw them crawling on the carpet, and one hit me in the back of the neck when it was flying around. I thought they were ants until I took a closer look at the one that hit me in the neck. So I called the manager and told her about it, and she called in the termite guy.
   Man, what a gig. I have no doubt he knows his stuff, but it just seems so easy...
   He carried his stuff in a plastic bucket, and in the other hand he carried a step ladder. He looked around for a few minutes, and I showed him the termites I put in a sandwich bag in the freezer (yes, I really did that, they were evidence). He identified them right away, and we had termite conversation for a few minutes. Then he looked up into a light fixture and saw that was where they were coming from. Kind of like a termite Sherlock Holmes, because I had certainly never thought to look up for bugs that crawled on the carpet.
   Here's what he did. Got on the step ladder, drilled three holes around the light fixture, injected some termiticide into the holes he drilled and then filled the holes with spackle.
   Bada-bing, bada-boom. Done. In and out in fifteen minutes, tops, including the search.
   I don't know what he billed - I don't own the building - but whatever it was he's making a killing. Especially since he mentioned that what he'd just done was kind of hit-or-miss since there was no crawlspace he could get into. In other words, what he'd just done might not have killed termites, and the only way I could tell it didn't work was when I saw more termites. And if I did see more termites then the manager could just call him back out.
   Don't get me wrong, he was a nice guy and extremely professional, but I want a job where I can do something that may or may not work, and if it doesn't work I get to bill for another service call.
   Any ideas?

My Next Job

I've been giving this a lot of thought - well, at least some thought - trying to come up with a new career path for myself. What am I good at, that I like doing, that I could make a living doing? After much consideration, I've hit on the perfect job.
   I'm going to become a beach spoilsport.
   Imagine this, if you will: me with a solid mahogany tan, the kind of dark brown-with-undertones-of-painful-sunburn that makes people cringe. I'm wearing a bright red Speedo thong, the kind of banana hammock European guys like to rock. I have several bright gold chains around my neck, not as many as Mr. T, but too many for a white guy to have on. I'm wearing douchebag sunglasses and I've whitened my teeth so much they glow. And the capper, the pièce de résistance, is my glistening, baby-oiled body.
   Who would want to be around that? Precisely my point. As a beach spoilsport, I would get people to pay me to go away, to take my bright red Speedo and go offend someone else. I could sit in a chaise lounge with a mai tai, I could dance awkwardly to 80's Kraftwerk, anything to make a spectacle of myself and increase the payout to go away.
   The only problem I can forsee is the set-up costs. Gold chains and baby oil ain't cheap, and I'd need to maintain just the proper amount of butt-crack tan line to provide maximum offense when I bend over to adjust my beach towel. Details...

Things I Had To Go To Australia To Learn

I went to Australia two years ago, and it was a learning experience for us both. Here's what I learned:

You can put beets and pineapple on a hamburger and it's actually pretty good.
   I didn't know if I would like a burger that way. I do like beets, and I do like pineapple, and I do like a good cheeseburger - but all at the same time? Yeah. Good on ya, mate.

Santa looks good in shorts.
   A little pasty, but it's not the affront to my senses I imagined it might be. And there are some really cool Christmas sand castles. It's summer in December in the Southern Hemisphere, for those of you who don't know. Australia is in the Southern Hemisphere, for those of you who don't know that.

Up close koalas are a little creepy.
   Sacrilege, I know, but the eucalyptus they eat don't give them very much energy, so they sleep all the time. So when they're active they have permanent bed-head and bags under the eyes. Like they're on the late shift at the cute factory.

The purple-flower trees lining many Pasadena streets are called jacarandas.
   I never knew the name of this tree until I went to Australia. I was describing the scene - much like today - where the trees are all blooming and there is a riot of purple lining most major streets (except Colorado where they tore all the trees out). My friends told me the name of the tree, and I amaze and confound everyone with that knowledge to this day.