I Feel Fine...

It's the end of the world as we know it. Evidently. Tomorrow, the 21st of May, 2011, is the last day on Earth for some faithful, while the rest of us will have to endure months of disasters and agony before the real end in October. Or Rocktober as I've been insisting people call it for years now. For some reason people have latched onto this 'last days' scenario and the media has gotten in on the act, giving far too much consideration and air time to crackpots who would otherwise be roundly ignored.
   So what are the crackpots going to do on Sunday?
   I mean, if these poor, misguided souls turn out to be right and they are assumed into Heaven, then I guess the rest of us have some thinkin' to do. But let's assume those who insist they'll be taken up to eat pork ribs with Jesus do what we all know they're going to and stay right where they are. What then?
   I'm pretty sure they haven't planned for anything on the 22nd - why would they? - so how are they going to face all the people they've been taunting for weeks now. Like, say, the paperboy (are there still paperboys?), who is going to want to finally be paid. Or the guy at the gas station who sells them Lotto tickets. Or their pastor, who led them to this conclusion. Or the media who absolutely must close the loop on this and take these people to task for not being raptured when they said they would.
   What exactly do you say when your apocalyptic predictions don't pan out?
   'Sorry' doesn't seem to cut it, and doing something stupid like those Heaven's Gate weirdos* is far too extreme. There has to be something halfway between a mumbled apology and mass suicide for these people to try to redeem themselves.
   I'm thinking they need to cook us all a nice apology ham. That would go a long way towards easing any hard feelings I might have regarding their smug, misguided superiority. I could go for some brownies too, I like 'em more cakey than fudgy. My truck could use a wash, I'd settle for that. But when Sunday rolls around and these people are still here with the rest of us unwashed heathens we can't let them skate by doing nothing, because they'll just start up all over again next time. Wither them with sarcasm and stern judgement so they'll think twice when they hear someone give an exact date for the end of the world. Losers.


* true story, the crazy leader of that cult graduated from my college alma mater. I waited to see if he would be in the 'deaths' section of the alumni magazine but he never made it.

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.

Return From Vacation

I know, 'vacation from what, deadbeat?' Anyway, I'm back. I'll post regular stuff tomorrow, but here are some short bits from my - extended - time lounging around DFW.

The mullet is not dead! Dee Snider can stop turning over in his grave. If he's dead. Which I don't think he is. I saw three mullets, though at first I thought it was four, but the first guy just changed his shirt. Really, I recognized the cap.
   A long, curly mullet under a camo cap, a Lesbian mullet on one of the ground crew seen from the airplane window, and a little kid mullet on some seven-year-old who obviously didn't know better.
   Long live the mullet!

A surprising number of people wear red sneakers. And by 'surprising' I mean any number other than zero. I thought Garrison Keillor was the only one, but I saw four different people wearing them.
   Perhaps it was the same pair of red sneakers, and these four people just switched them out when I wasn't looking?

Lots of people wave expansively across the airport terminal, but they seldom catch the eye of the person they're waving at. They end up walking over anyway, close enough to yell out the other person's name.

Some people shouldn't run in public.
   Some people definitely shouldn't run in public.
   Also, the half-run half-walk thing makes you look silly. Just say no.