Okay, technically turkey vultures, but we called them buzzards growing up. They'd circle the thermals out in the country, waiting for something to die. Since they're vultures they're carrion birds which means they eat dead animals, but you knew that. In the mornings in West Texas, where they have to roost on the ground, you can see them standing on fence posts with their wings outstretched to dry so they can begin the day's scavenging. They're big too, like two or three feet tall. And stink... whoo boy. They're all over the countryside around Texas.
And now, evidently, they're operating well within the San Antonio city limits.
Time was you knew you were in the country when you started seeing buzzards. Last week I saw two of them perched on a lamp post near my house, and just today I saw two perched on a lamp post near my mother's house. Two different sets of buzzards, lurking in suburban neighborhoods.
Unless they were the same two buzzards both times, stalking me as they wait for me to keel over from the heat...
Ignoring my paranoid conspiracies, I don't think having turkey vultures in town is a good thing. Aside from them being terribly ugly and not at all in keeping with the non-Gothic architecture, vultures are country birds, they don't belong on lamp posts. And yet, there they are, like Beaky Buzzard* in Death Valley.
Why?
What has changed to bring turkey vultures into the city? And I don't mean on the fringes, I mean smack dab in the middle, with miles to go in any direction before they find what used to be their natural habitat.
Kind of scary, if you think about it. I don't mean in my paranoid 'are the buzzards following me?' kind of way, I mean in the 'why did a species of wild animal change its habits so drastically?' way.
Besides, they creep me out, hanging around like my street is some kind of Old West Boot Hill. They need to go find a dead armadillo or something and leave me the hell alone.
*reference courtesy of the Warner Bros Archive of Cartoons Kids Don't Watch Nowadays
Showing posts with label tin foil. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tin foil. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm concerned that solipsism is real, and that everything I see is just a figment of my imagination.
Because if that's the case, then, man am I f*cked up.
Think about it. If anyone reading this actually exists, that is. What if everything I see and experience is actually just a figment of my imagination? All my friends, all my family, everyone I've ever met or talked to is just some aspect of my unconscious mind. I've met some pretty weird people in my time. I mean seriously whacked-out individuals who should have been institutionalized, or probably had been. What if I made them up? What if they were nothing but me with idle time to spend coming up with something insane? Scary.
Or what about every situation in the world? How completely screwed up am I if the mortgage crisis, the end of the space shuttle and the Japanese tsunami are all stuff I just made up. What kind of person thinks up those kinds of things?
Here's a brain twister. Serial killers. If no one but me exists, that means I made up the concept of serial killers. How deviant is that? And, to put the icing on the cake, if no one else exists, then the serial killers are really parts of me looking to do away with other parts of me. Me stalking myself, as it were. A grand ouroborous of disordered thinking.
For my money, I hope all you other people are real. Even those of you who smoke. Because the alternative is that I'm just one great big, hyper-imaginative mess.
Because if that's the case, then, man am I f*cked up.
Think about it. If anyone reading this actually exists, that is. What if everything I see and experience is actually just a figment of my imagination? All my friends, all my family, everyone I've ever met or talked to is just some aspect of my unconscious mind. I've met some pretty weird people in my time. I mean seriously whacked-out individuals who should have been institutionalized, or probably had been. What if I made them up? What if they were nothing but me with idle time to spend coming up with something insane? Scary.
Or what about every situation in the world? How completely screwed up am I if the mortgage crisis, the end of the space shuttle and the Japanese tsunami are all stuff I just made up. What kind of person thinks up those kinds of things?
Here's a brain twister. Serial killers. If no one but me exists, that means I made up the concept of serial killers. How deviant is that? And, to put the icing on the cake, if no one else exists, then the serial killers are really parts of me looking to do away with other parts of me. Me stalking myself, as it were. A grand ouroborous of disordered thinking.
For my money, I hope all you other people are real. Even those of you who smoke. Because the alternative is that I'm just one great big, hyper-imaginative mess.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Oddly Comforting
I'm moving out of LA.
Sorry if this is how some of my friends in SoCal learn this news, but the time has come and there's no sense in me fighting it any longer. I've made preparations, gotten a place back home in San Antonio, and it's a done deal.
That doesn't mean I'm not conflicted about the move, I have very mixed feelings about moving back, but LA just isn't doing it for me any more so I can't stay here. Yet... going home feels like giving up, like a surrender. And I ain't French.
So today, just half an hour ago or so, I went to the grocery store. 'Cause I gotta eat. And there was a guy just inside the door, one of those people trying to sell subscriptions to the LA Times. Nice enough guy, but I told him I was moving in two weeks and couldn't take advantage of his offer. He wished me well and I went about my business.
I got my veggies and fruit, and headed for the other side of the store. When I passed the subscription guy he stopped me again. I reminded him that he'd already spoken to me, but he didn't want to talk about newspapers.
He started to tell me about how he'd been homeless, an abject alcoholic convinced that he was going to die either with a bottle in his hand or looking for one. He then told me how he asked God to help him get sober and stay sober and improve his life. Which evidently happened. I don't mind talking to people about this kind of thing, you can't deny the evidence of a changed life, and anything that happens to bring one man out of the gutter and into a productive life is something I can appreciate hearing about.
He then quizzed me a little about San Antonio and who was there, whether I was married or not, that sort of thing. Then he told me 'God has something planned for you, that's why he's calling you home.'
I found this reassurance oddly comforting. I say oddly because my usual habit would be to nod politely and roll my eyes inside, where I wouldn't offend the other person. But I didn't feel that coming on. Not one bit. I'm not a particularly religious person - more blasphemous than anything else, actually - but I could feel my restless spirit ease slightly with this unsolicited proclamation from a complete stranger. I don't know if it's true, I'm pretty sure God has bigger things to worry about than me*, but just the thought that I'm not firing blindly and hoping for the best makes the move easier to do.
* say... nuclear armageddon in Japan, where in the past few days the chance of creating a for-real Godzilla has dramatically increased
Sorry if this is how some of my friends in SoCal learn this news, but the time has come and there's no sense in me fighting it any longer. I've made preparations, gotten a place back home in San Antonio, and it's a done deal.
That doesn't mean I'm not conflicted about the move, I have very mixed feelings about moving back, but LA just isn't doing it for me any more so I can't stay here. Yet... going home feels like giving up, like a surrender. And I ain't French.
So today, just half an hour ago or so, I went to the grocery store. 'Cause I gotta eat. And there was a guy just inside the door, one of those people trying to sell subscriptions to the LA Times. Nice enough guy, but I told him I was moving in two weeks and couldn't take advantage of his offer. He wished me well and I went about my business.
I got my veggies and fruit, and headed for the other side of the store. When I passed the subscription guy he stopped me again. I reminded him that he'd already spoken to me, but he didn't want to talk about newspapers.
He started to tell me about how he'd been homeless, an abject alcoholic convinced that he was going to die either with a bottle in his hand or looking for one. He then told me how he asked God to help him get sober and stay sober and improve his life. Which evidently happened. I don't mind talking to people about this kind of thing, you can't deny the evidence of a changed life, and anything that happens to bring one man out of the gutter and into a productive life is something I can appreciate hearing about.
He then quizzed me a little about San Antonio and who was there, whether I was married or not, that sort of thing. Then he told me 'God has something planned for you, that's why he's calling you home.'
I found this reassurance oddly comforting. I say oddly because my usual habit would be to nod politely and roll my eyes inside, where I wouldn't offend the other person. But I didn't feel that coming on. Not one bit. I'm not a particularly religious person - more blasphemous than anything else, actually - but I could feel my restless spirit ease slightly with this unsolicited proclamation from a complete stranger. I don't know if it's true, I'm pretty sure God has bigger things to worry about than me*, but just the thought that I'm not firing blindly and hoping for the best makes the move easier to do.
* say... nuclear armageddon in Japan, where in the past few days the chance of creating a for-real Godzilla has dramatically increased
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Yeah, I Still Don't Care
Last year I wrote about how much I don't care about the SuperBowl.
Nothing's changed.
I decided to give it a try this year. Maybe I'm the one who's turned around on the subject, maybe the rest of the world is tuned into the zeitgeist and I'm just flopping around like a fish suffocating on a dock.
Nope.
I've been watching two hours worth of pre-game show so far, and it's two hours I will never get back. There's been a lot - a LOT - of self-congratulatory back slapping, reminiscing, and blatant pandering. There's a red carpet now, which is clearly calculated to bring the ladies to the TV and keep them there. There are celebrities who have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the game like Keith Urban and Hugh Jackman (both Australian), and, God help me, celebrity douchebag chef Guy Fieri. I defy anyone to explain to me what Guy Fieri has to do with the SuperBowl, aside from shilling Ritz crackers and inspiring my apoplectic rage.
So far it's been one big EXTREMELY commercial waste of time. Give me NASCAR, where at least they're honest enough about sponsorship to wear the product names on their uniforms.
Instead of a brief list of crap I don't care about, this year I decided to compile a brief list of things that should occupy more of your attention than the SuperBowl:
Political unrest in the Middle East - when long-standing dictatorships are toppled, we all need to take notice. Especially when the toppling takes place in a part of the world prone to prideful displays of nationalism. This isn't going to end well, no matter which side comes out on top.
Squalor in Haiti - a year later and they're even worse off than right after the earthquake. At least a year ago Americans were paying attention. Kind of. Now cholera is making the rounds of the shantytowns on the island. Cholera makes you shit yourself to death. Yeah. 600 miles from the US.
Wall Street and Big Bank bonuses - with all the money paid this year to evil, evil, detestable people who aren't worth the hollow-point bullet it takes to solve their problem, the country is moving closer and closer to an hereditary aristocracy. Do we want our nation to turn into Mexico where you're either very very rich or very very not?
Google, Facebook, and many others wiping their asses with your personal privacy. If you use gmail or have an Android phone, I hope you're comfortable with Google reading your mail and monitoring your calls, because they are. Why people take this sitting down instead of rising up in revolt I'll never understand. Or, jeez, just don't use the service or buy the damn phone.
Anti-immigrant politics in Europe - we like to think of Europe as full of quaint, polite old-worlders, but there's rising right-wing sentiment that demonizes immigrants. Europe was never the melting pot America claims to be, but when European countries start to pick one group as a scapegoat for all their problems, we all need to take notice. And, yes, I'm talking about the mass execution of Jews during World War II. It wouldn't take all that much for that horror to happen again. And if you don't believe me, read some of the rhetoric.
Not that I'm trying to destroy your SuperBowl experience...
Yeah, okay, maybe I am.
Nothing's changed.
I decided to give it a try this year. Maybe I'm the one who's turned around on the subject, maybe the rest of the world is tuned into the zeitgeist and I'm just flopping around like a fish suffocating on a dock.
Nope.
I've been watching two hours worth of pre-game show so far, and it's two hours I will never get back. There's been a lot - a LOT - of self-congratulatory back slapping, reminiscing, and blatant pandering. There's a red carpet now, which is clearly calculated to bring the ladies to the TV and keep them there. There are celebrities who have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the game like Keith Urban and Hugh Jackman (both Australian), and, God help me, celebrity douchebag chef Guy Fieri. I defy anyone to explain to me what Guy Fieri has to do with the SuperBowl, aside from shilling Ritz crackers and inspiring my apoplectic rage.
So far it's been one big EXTREMELY commercial waste of time. Give me NASCAR, where at least they're honest enough about sponsorship to wear the product names on their uniforms.
Instead of a brief list of crap I don't care about, this year I decided to compile a brief list of things that should occupy more of your attention than the SuperBowl:
Political unrest in the Middle East - when long-standing dictatorships are toppled, we all need to take notice. Especially when the toppling takes place in a part of the world prone to prideful displays of nationalism. This isn't going to end well, no matter which side comes out on top.
Squalor in Haiti - a year later and they're even worse off than right after the earthquake. At least a year ago Americans were paying attention. Kind of. Now cholera is making the rounds of the shantytowns on the island. Cholera makes you shit yourself to death. Yeah. 600 miles from the US.
Wall Street and Big Bank bonuses - with all the money paid this year to evil, evil, detestable people who aren't worth the hollow-point bullet it takes to solve their problem, the country is moving closer and closer to an hereditary aristocracy. Do we want our nation to turn into Mexico where you're either very very rich or very very not?
Google, Facebook, and many others wiping their asses with your personal privacy. If you use gmail or have an Android phone, I hope you're comfortable with Google reading your mail and monitoring your calls, because they are. Why people take this sitting down instead of rising up in revolt I'll never understand. Or, jeez, just don't use the service or buy the damn phone.
Anti-immigrant politics in Europe - we like to think of Europe as full of quaint, polite old-worlders, but there's rising right-wing sentiment that demonizes immigrants. Europe was never the melting pot America claims to be, but when European countries start to pick one group as a scapegoat for all their problems, we all need to take notice. And, yes, I'm talking about the mass execution of Jews during World War II. It wouldn't take all that much for that horror to happen again. And if you don't believe me, read some of the rhetoric.
Not that I'm trying to destroy your SuperBowl experience...
Yeah, okay, maybe I am.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Conversation With My Mother's Cat
It's said that on Christmas Eve, at midnight, animals can talk. So last night I waited up so I could have it out with Smokey, my mother's horrible cat. About 11:55 PM he tried to escape through his cat door, but I followed him outside, even though it was cold and windy. We sat on the front porch and had a little talk. What follows is a transcript of that conversation.
Me: All right, it's midnight on Christmas Eve. I know you can understand me, and now I can understand you back. Don't pretend you can't, I know how it works.
Smokey: Yeah? So? I got nothing to say.
I got plenty. Let's start with why you're such a disagreeable little bastard.
What do you mean?
We're not going to get anywhere if you shut down like that.
We're also not going to get anywhere if you keep insulting me.
Fine. Why do you present such an angry front all the time?
Well, to tell you the truth, I'd really rather just sit around all day licking my balls.
But you don't have any... Oh...
Yeah. Oh.
It's really a common thing, what all responsible pet owners do.
And that's supposed to make everything okay?
Well, I mean, I never really...
No, your kind never does. I can't tell you how many times a day I'm grooming myself, getting the feet and the ears and the tail, then I decide to go downtown, polish up the twins, only to find they're gone.
It's been years...
How about I get a little scissor happy below your belt? You think you wouldn't miss your two good buddies?
Let's not get hasty here...
So you think maybe something like that might make you angry too?
I suppose it would. But are you saying that's the only reason you get in fights with other animals? Why you attack ankles and feet? Why you hiss and growl and tear around the house? You're telling me you've been such a little savage all this time because my parents had you fixed?
That's about the size of it.
Huh. Kind of a long time to hold a grudge.
Can you think of a better reason?
I suppose not.
You feel better now that we've had a talk, you freakin' hippy? Glad to have something to tell your therapist?
Hey, I only live in California, I was born and raised here.
Whatever you say, Moondoggy.
You know, when you can talk you're even more of a jerk.
I gotta be me. Deal with it. Or don't, makes no difference.
Well... it is Christmas Eve. You want some cat treats?
I could eat. The chicken kind, I hate the liver ones. But this doesn't make us friends.
Absolutely not. And I'm still keeping the bedroom door closed so you can't get in.
Wouldn't have it any other way.
Me: All right, it's midnight on Christmas Eve. I know you can understand me, and now I can understand you back. Don't pretend you can't, I know how it works.
Smokey: Yeah? So? I got nothing to say.
I got plenty. Let's start with why you're such a disagreeable little bastard.
What do you mean?
We're not going to get anywhere if you shut down like that.
We're also not going to get anywhere if you keep insulting me.
Fine. Why do you present such an angry front all the time?
Well, to tell you the truth, I'd really rather just sit around all day licking my balls.
But you don't have any... Oh...
Yeah. Oh.
It's really a common thing, what all responsible pet owners do.
And that's supposed to make everything okay?
Well, I mean, I never really...
No, your kind never does. I can't tell you how many times a day I'm grooming myself, getting the feet and the ears and the tail, then I decide to go downtown, polish up the twins, only to find they're gone.
It's been years...
How about I get a little scissor happy below your belt? You think you wouldn't miss your two good buddies?
Let's not get hasty here...
So you think maybe something like that might make you angry too?
I suppose it would. But are you saying that's the only reason you get in fights with other animals? Why you attack ankles and feet? Why you hiss and growl and tear around the house? You're telling me you've been such a little savage all this time because my parents had you fixed?
That's about the size of it.
Huh. Kind of a long time to hold a grudge.
Can you think of a better reason?
I suppose not.
You feel better now that we've had a talk, you freakin' hippy? Glad to have something to tell your therapist?
Hey, I only live in California, I was born and raised here.
Whatever you say, Moondoggy.
You know, when you can talk you're even more of a jerk.
I gotta be me. Deal with it. Or don't, makes no difference.
Well... it is Christmas Eve. You want some cat treats?
I could eat. The chicken kind, I hate the liver ones. But this doesn't make us friends.
Absolutely not. And I'm still keeping the bedroom door closed so you can't get in.
Wouldn't have it any other way.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Scary Friday
Some days are just normal, regular old days when you go about your business like you always do and nothing particularly strange or eventful happens. Then you'll have a day like today. There's got to be something in the water, or in the air, or in the mind-control beams the CIA sends all over Los Angeles, because the crazies were out in force. I'm wondering if I have some sort of tracking device that lets the weirdos know where I am.
On the way to work:
A woman in a sequined cream-colored evening gown - really - crossing the street against the light in Koreatown. She was definitely NOT tall or glamorous, and the gown was too big for her and worn and frayed at the hem. Nobody honked, we didn't want to draw her attention to us. But there was obviously a story there.
A guy running backwards down Wilshire. The sidewalk West of LaBrea is plenty wide enough for it, and I like to think he was trying to exercise his legs differently or something. But he was absolutely trotting opposite the way he was looking. I didn't stop to see how he handled the crosswalks.
At the post office:
A skinny, way-too-tan guy with long gray hair, wearing a tank top and little tiny running shorts that reminded me of Daisy Dukes, small and tight and cut up the side, threatening to flop open and show the world more than we're prepared to see. That was enough to qualify for the list, but it gets better. He had a prosthetic left leg and was wearing black socks with his green-and-yellow tennis shoes. I'm gonna cut the guy a break and say he was color blind or something. 'Course that doesn't explain the shorts.
Behind him, a Filipino woman in blinding pink scrubs, loudly explaining to the Post Office lady how she had absolutely nothing illegal, fragile, perishable, or illegal in her package. Nothing illegal at all. Did she mention that there was nothing illegal in it?
Behind me, a doofus-y guy who would cough self-consciously and then make a weird high-pitched mumbling sound. Not words but like pieces of baby talk. Then he'd be quiet for thirty seconds, cough again and mutter again. Twice. Then the cycle would repeat. He was buying a stamp. That's right. One stamp.
At the grocery store:
A really, really, really fat guy trying to sneak up on his friend. We're talking 350 + pounds of floppy-fat goober, mincing down the aisle like he was a ninja. He was about the same width side-to-side as he was front-to-back. Best of all, the guy he thought was his friend was not; he was 'sneaking' up on the wrong person.
A lady making her lunch out of things she bought at the deli counter. She'd gotten a prepared sandwich and potato salad and was enjoying both while she shopped. I'm assuming she intended to pay for them when she was done. Unless she was going through the self-service registers. Although... she's given me an idea for a way to economize during this economic downturn.
I have no idea why this assemblage decided to present itself to me all at once today. Maybe because it's a long holiday weekend? I'm kind of afraid to leave the house now, don't know what else is lurking out there.
On the way to work:
A woman in a sequined cream-colored evening gown - really - crossing the street against the light in Koreatown. She was definitely NOT tall or glamorous, and the gown was too big for her and worn and frayed at the hem. Nobody honked, we didn't want to draw her attention to us. But there was obviously a story there.
A guy running backwards down Wilshire. The sidewalk West of LaBrea is plenty wide enough for it, and I like to think he was trying to exercise his legs differently or something. But he was absolutely trotting opposite the way he was looking. I didn't stop to see how he handled the crosswalks.
At the post office:
A skinny, way-too-tan guy with long gray hair, wearing a tank top and little tiny running shorts that reminded me of Daisy Dukes, small and tight and cut up the side, threatening to flop open and show the world more than we're prepared to see. That was enough to qualify for the list, but it gets better. He had a prosthetic left leg and was wearing black socks with his green-and-yellow tennis shoes. I'm gonna cut the guy a break and say he was color blind or something. 'Course that doesn't explain the shorts.
Behind him, a Filipino woman in blinding pink scrubs, loudly explaining to the Post Office lady how she had absolutely nothing illegal, fragile, perishable, or illegal in her package. Nothing illegal at all. Did she mention that there was nothing illegal in it?
Behind me, a doofus-y guy who would cough self-consciously and then make a weird high-pitched mumbling sound. Not words but like pieces of baby talk. Then he'd be quiet for thirty seconds, cough again and mutter again. Twice. Then the cycle would repeat. He was buying a stamp. That's right. One stamp.
At the grocery store:
A really, really, really fat guy trying to sneak up on his friend. We're talking 350 + pounds of floppy-fat goober, mincing down the aisle like he was a ninja. He was about the same width side-to-side as he was front-to-back. Best of all, the guy he thought was his friend was not; he was 'sneaking' up on the wrong person.
A lady making her lunch out of things she bought at the deli counter. She'd gotten a prepared sandwich and potato salad and was enjoying both while she shopped. I'm assuming she intended to pay for them when she was done. Unless she was going through the self-service registers. Although... she's given me an idea for a way to economize during this economic downturn.
I have no idea why this assemblage decided to present itself to me all at once today. Maybe because it's a long holiday weekend? I'm kind of afraid to leave the house now, don't know what else is lurking out there.
Monday, May 3, 2010
The White Girl At Chipotle
You know, with all the craziness happening in Arizona, the last thing public discourse needs is another 'white folks vs. (fill in your ethnicity here)' talk. But, on the other hand, I do have to call 'em like I see 'em.
Since I've been a working man I haven't really had time to cook on weekdays. It's been sandwiches, chips, and Lara Bars for the most part. Which is also pretty much what I have for lunch. Day after day after day.
So after my fencing lesson today I decided I needed something different. Driving down Del Mar I headed for South Lake Avenue and its line of fast food restaurants. Chipotle beckoned me. And there I went. Inside I ordered my chicken burrito and got all my fixin's as the workers passed the tortilla down the line with efficiency and dispatch.
Then my burrito got to the one white chick, the last in the production line. She tried her best, really she did, but I'm not exaggerating when I say I could roll a burrito better than she could, and I've never worked in a place where that was my job. The other ladies behind the line - Hispanic all - waited patiently for the white chick to finish wadding up my meal and wrapping it awkwardly in foil.
I'm not trying to say that Hispanic women are better than white chicks at wrapping burritos... well, I guess I am saying that, but I don't mean it in a bad way. More to the point, what I'm saying is that I'd rather have someone good at their job making my oh-so-caloric meal, instead of someone just learning their job.
Bless her heart, the poor thing couldn't even scoop guacamole into a plastic cup. A job's a job, but some people just aren't cut out for food service. She probably should have stuck with Kohl's or some other white chick hangout.
COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes back - 40 minutes to my fencing lesson
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 68 days
Since I've been a working man I haven't really had time to cook on weekdays. It's been sandwiches, chips, and Lara Bars for the most part. Which is also pretty much what I have for lunch. Day after day after day.
So after my fencing lesson today I decided I needed something different. Driving down Del Mar I headed for South Lake Avenue and its line of fast food restaurants. Chipotle beckoned me. And there I went. Inside I ordered my chicken burrito and got all my fixin's as the workers passed the tortilla down the line with efficiency and dispatch.
Then my burrito got to the one white chick, the last in the production line. She tried her best, really she did, but I'm not exaggerating when I say I could roll a burrito better than she could, and I've never worked in a place where that was my job. The other ladies behind the line - Hispanic all - waited patiently for the white chick to finish wadding up my meal and wrapping it awkwardly in foil.
I'm not trying to say that Hispanic women are better than white chicks at wrapping burritos... well, I guess I am saying that, but I don't mean it in a bad way. More to the point, what I'm saying is that I'd rather have someone good at their job making my oh-so-caloric meal, instead of someone just learning their job.
Bless her heart, the poor thing couldn't even scoop guacamole into a plastic cup. A job's a job, but some people just aren't cut out for food service. She probably should have stuck with Kohl's or some other white chick hangout.
COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes back - 40 minutes to my fencing lesson
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 68 days
Saturday, March 6, 2010
For Your Convenience
Last night was sitting on the couch eating dinner, as I usually do since I don't have a dining table. What can I say? I'm a guy who lives alone, it never occurred to me that I should get a dining table. Still hasn't. Anyway, I tried to eat healthy, so I had some baby carrots, apple slices, dried cherries, walnuts, and a whole wheat English muffin with a little peanut butter on it. Proud of my dietary restraint, as I munched away I realized that I had spent a total of two or three minutes arranging my meal, because all of the food preparation had been done for me.
The carrots came already peeled and washed and in a bag, the apple slices too, the cherries had the pits and stems removed and the walnuts were already shelled. The English muffin came pre-sliced. I did have to stir up the peanut butter - I get the kind that separates - but that was the only real effort I had to expend, aside from plugging the toaster in.
Wasn't this a Twilight Zone episode? The one where modern man becomes so dependent on others to do menial tasks like peeling and slicing carrots that in the end he becomes irrelevant? When did I become so busy that I can't cut up an apple? Or slice my own English muffin?
And what about the packages these things come in? When I slice my own apple the only thing left is the core, which could become compost. If I did that sort of thing. Carrots would leave tips and stems and peels. But when I'm done with my pre-sliced apples, and carrots, and cherries, and walnuts, I have four plastic bags. Thick sturdy things with zip-tops, that don't biodegrade in the least. I hope hermit crabs find a nice home in them when they wash back up on the beach.
I'm not advocating a return to the 19th Century or anything - I'm not really down with the idea of eating what I kill - but, jeez, what is consuming all this convenience food freeing me up to do? Watch more TV? I do enough of that already, thank you very much.
Time to make my own sourdough starter, churn my own butter, and smoke a ham. Or maybe I'll just hit Jack-in-the-Box, COPS is on tonight...
The carrots came already peeled and washed and in a bag, the apple slices too, the cherries had the pits and stems removed and the walnuts were already shelled. The English muffin came pre-sliced. I did have to stir up the peanut butter - I get the kind that separates - but that was the only real effort I had to expend, aside from plugging the toaster in.
Wasn't this a Twilight Zone episode? The one where modern man becomes so dependent on others to do menial tasks like peeling and slicing carrots that in the end he becomes irrelevant? When did I become so busy that I can't cut up an apple? Or slice my own English muffin?
And what about the packages these things come in? When I slice my own apple the only thing left is the core, which could become compost. If I did that sort of thing. Carrots would leave tips and stems and peels. But when I'm done with my pre-sliced apples, and carrots, and cherries, and walnuts, I have four plastic bags. Thick sturdy things with zip-tops, that don't biodegrade in the least. I hope hermit crabs find a nice home in them when they wash back up on the beach.
I'm not advocating a return to the 19th Century or anything - I'm not really down with the idea of eating what I kill - but, jeez, what is consuming all this convenience food freeing me up to do? Watch more TV? I do enough of that already, thank you very much.
Time to make my own sourdough starter, churn my own butter, and smoke a ham. Or maybe I'll just hit Jack-in-the-Box, COPS is on tonight...
Monday, August 24, 2009
Crazy Guy Radio
The other day I saw a guy talking to himself out on Colorado Blvd. Usually I might think he was part of the Bluetooth generation and was just some oblivious douchebag talking loudly on the phone, but this guy had no phone or earpiece and he wore dirty, torn clothes, needed a haircut and some dental work, and was talking into his only possession, an empty Snapple bottle. He was one of those crazy guys who carry on a conversation alone.
I walked a few blocks further down Colorado where I saw a different guy talking to himself. He wasn't quite so obviously needy as the first guy, a little cleaner, a little less obviously insane. But as I stood by him waiting for the light to change, I couldn't help but notice he also didn't have a cell phone or earpiece, and he had his left arm wrapped over his head to press fingers on his right ear. Another crazy guy, carrying on a conversation alone. I walked on, the day a little bit sadder.
Then it me. There has to be Crazy Guy Radio, a way that obviously deranged people use to communicate with each other. The first guy must have been talking to the second guy, blocks away, even though neither of them had a telephone. So even though it looked like each was crazy, talking to someone who wasn't there, they actually were carrying on a legit conversation.
Maybe this is the case with every crazy person on the corner who talks to himself: he's really talking to someone else, but we can only hear one half of the conversation. And the reason they wear tin foil hats is to improve reception on the Crazy Guy Radio Network. It's obviously the only explanation.
Someone should organize crazy people who talk to themselves, so that during an emergency, when the phone lines go out, we can stay in communication. Of course, there's no guarantee any of it's going to make sense...
I walked a few blocks further down Colorado where I saw a different guy talking to himself. He wasn't quite so obviously needy as the first guy, a little cleaner, a little less obviously insane. But as I stood by him waiting for the light to change, I couldn't help but notice he also didn't have a cell phone or earpiece, and he had his left arm wrapped over his head to press fingers on his right ear. Another crazy guy, carrying on a conversation alone. I walked on, the day a little bit sadder.
Then it me. There has to be Crazy Guy Radio, a way that obviously deranged people use to communicate with each other. The first guy must have been talking to the second guy, blocks away, even though neither of them had a telephone. So even though it looked like each was crazy, talking to someone who wasn't there, they actually were carrying on a legit conversation.
Maybe this is the case with every crazy person on the corner who talks to himself: he's really talking to someone else, but we can only hear one half of the conversation. And the reason they wear tin foil hats is to improve reception on the Crazy Guy Radio Network. It's obviously the only explanation.
Someone should organize crazy people who talk to themselves, so that during an emergency, when the phone lines go out, we can stay in communication. Of course, there's no guarantee any of it's going to make sense...
Friday, July 17, 2009
Weirdo Intervention
You ever have a friend who believes wacky stuff? You know, things like bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster? Most people have a passing interest in these things, on the off chance they might actually exist. But everybody has at least one friend or acquaintance who BELIEVES, who is convinced that any day now we're going to be conversing with gray aliens or that Elvis is alive and pumping gas in Arkansas. Unless it goes too far it's actually kind of fun to have a crazy friend like that.
Now suppose that friend was substituting genuine religious belief - Catholicism, Buddhism, Islam, what have you - with their wacky theories. Like if they started attending the Church of the Chupacabra or Our Lady of Trolls Under Bridges.
I have a friend who's starting down that road, and I don't know what to do.
She's already into alternative, holistic things, which is not necessarily bad, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, but that willingness to walk the fringes leaves her open to swindlers and con artists who prey on trusting, vulnerable people. I'm not going to link to it - I don't want this charlatan to get any more web site traffic - but here is an excerpt from a for-real, no-shit description of one of the 'Therapy' sessions my friend paid $75 to attend.
'...some of the techniques go far back to ancient Atlantis and Lemuria. Using all our intuitive abilities, meditation, telepathic communication and … Happy Spirit, we will experience the great healing powers of the crystal energy...'
I have to call bullshit on this one. Or shenanigans, whatever. I just want to scream at my friend "Atlantis and Lemuria are FICTION!!! They're made up, they never existed!! Buying into this is like studying 'literature' from Middle Earth or Narnia or Dune!! It's not real!! It never will be real!!" As much as I would like it to be otherwise, telepathy is also just as much a fiction as shooting lasers from your eyes or guys who dress like bats and fight crime. And, jeez, don't get me started on all that crystals garbage...
On the other hand, maybe there's a money-making opportunity here. I could divorce myself from my conscience, abandon everything my parents taught me about right and wrong, and dive into the deep end of the 'alternative religion' pool. How about The First Church of Oz? I could reveal the Secrets of the Divine Tin Man. For a price.
Now suppose that friend was substituting genuine religious belief - Catholicism, Buddhism, Islam, what have you - with their wacky theories. Like if they started attending the Church of the Chupacabra or Our Lady of Trolls Under Bridges.
I have a friend who's starting down that road, and I don't know what to do.
She's already into alternative, holistic things, which is not necessarily bad, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure, but that willingness to walk the fringes leaves her open to swindlers and con artists who prey on trusting, vulnerable people. I'm not going to link to it - I don't want this charlatan to get any more web site traffic - but here is an excerpt from a for-real, no-shit description of one of the 'Therapy' sessions my friend paid $75 to attend.
'...some of the techniques go far back to ancient Atlantis and Lemuria. Using all our intuitive abilities, meditation, telepathic communication and … Happy Spirit, we will experience the great healing powers of the crystal energy...'
I have to call bullshit on this one. Or shenanigans, whatever. I just want to scream at my friend "Atlantis and Lemuria are FICTION!!! They're made up, they never existed!! Buying into this is like studying 'literature' from Middle Earth or Narnia or Dune!! It's not real!! It never will be real!!" As much as I would like it to be otherwise, telepathy is also just as much a fiction as shooting lasers from your eyes or guys who dress like bats and fight crime. And, jeez, don't get me started on all that crystals garbage...
On the other hand, maybe there's a money-making opportunity here. I could divorce myself from my conscience, abandon everything my parents taught me about right and wrong, and dive into the deep end of the 'alternative religion' pool. How about The First Church of Oz? I could reveal the Secrets of the Divine Tin Man. For a price.
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