Lunchroom Ettiquette

I'm not usually one to get my dander up about things (HA!), but sometimes it's good to vent. We're in this together, you know. We share space on this planet, in this nation, in this city, in this office building. In this lunchroom. The lunchroom everyone on this floor uses. Where the refrigerators are. And the microwaves. Where you heat up your vile, malodorous lunches full of things that any reasonable person might think deserved to be tossed out, not consumed. See what I'm saying here?
   I feel the need to remind people that while it is very green and eco-friendly to bring your lunch to work, some things you bring might be a bit more aromatic than your co-workers are used to. For instance, back when I worked at Indymac there were three ladies on the fourth floor – where my desk was - who used to bring their lunch all the time, they'd microwave their meals and chat for an hour. It was a good team-building exercise and kept their monthly bills under control. The only problem was they brought fish and cabbage every day. Each of them. Every. Day. And they'd nuke it for waaaaaay too long so the ammonia stink would permeate the entire floor. There's nothing like leaving to enjoy your own lunch and returning to an eye-watering stench that clings to the paint and seeps into the carpet.
   That was probably the worst, but there have been some pretty bad smells coming from various lunch rooms I've been around. And usually people are too polite – or too afraid of HR – to let their colleagues know just how repulsive and disgusting some of their food smells. So, to help co-workers across the country through this challenge, I've made a brief list of things you should never bring to a small, closed-in lunch room. Think of this as a gift from me to you.

   Stinky fish. Or stinky anything from the sea. Especially fish heads and re-heated shrimp.
Cabbage.
   Runny, smelly cheese. You might think it smells good, but after an hour or two in the trash the rinds start reeking.
Broccolli - mostly because I really hate broccoli, it doesn't particularly smell
   Anything homemade with liquid smoke. It just smells like you burned your house down.
Lutefisk. This goes with the fish prohibition above, but it's so processed it's not even really food any more. And it's got a special... funk all its own.
   Anything with too much garlic, which is defined as garlic you can smell through the paper bag.

Also, don't pop microwave popcorn and walk out of the kitchen. It always burns, and more than once has meant a fire drill for everyone else. You know who you are, dumb ass.

House In Order?

Some people I know, women mostly, have in mind exactly what they're looking for in a house: square footage, paint colors inside and out, two-story or one, decorating concepts, kinds of towels for the bathroom, number of bedrooms, all that stuff. This does not mean they're actually living in that dream home, but they do have a very definite picture in their minds.
   I don't have a vision of a home. Never have. For years now as far as I've been concerned I just needed a roof over my head, three hots and a cot. Anything else was just luxury.
   Back when I took a lot of art classes in high school and college we did create some floorplans, the idea was to teach us basic drafting and control to go with the crazy abandon art students arrive with. I came up with blue-sky kid stuff kinds of things, like a volcano secret lair with a firepole like Batman had and access to a subterranean river like the Avengers did. I also did one that resembled a beehive for some reason I can't recall now. Nothing serious. But the girls… they were on it. Sun rooms, kitchens (which I had neglected), conservatories, separate bedrooms for their three kids – they always seemed to want three kids – and huge closets and painted accent walls and swatches and samples and all that business. Jeez…
   Before now, and I mean right now, as I write this, I never saw how I suffered for that lack of vision. Nothing to strive for, as it were, no concept of where I was going. And I don't mean just with the house stuff, I mean generally, across the board. I've always known I wanted to be a published author, since I was about eight years old, but I never really had much more than a vague notion that I would write novels – maybe comic books if I was lucky - and then see my name in print. The middle bit I assumed would take care of itself (thinking just like the underpants gnomes). Same thing with getting married, having kids, leading a life of purpose, all that jazz; I knew I wanted to do those things, but I didn't really have a vision for how to accomplish them. I did all right, made a few bucks, got on TV a few times, met some nice people and went across the world. But I haven't yet mastered the things that really matter, or at least that I think should really matter.
   I know I'm not unique in this, most people in the world are just trying to get by day to day. But that doesn't mean that I have to join in with them. Goals with no plan are just dreams, after all. It takes a fair bit of planning and execution to bring about the things you want to see in your world.
   So here's the deal: at risk of sounding like a bad self-help infomercial, I'm going to start putting some effort into planning out how I'm going to achieve what I want. Trouble is, I haven't done the best job with this so far, so I'm not really certain how to start. I'll figure it out. I hope.

The Dude Abides

My friend Marna had to send her dog Tex to the great dog bed in the sky today. I read her memorial blog at work and immediately started to cry. I'm still am, kind of. I knew it was coming, Marna told me he was sick and not going to get any better, but that doesn't make hearing the news any easier.
   Marna fostered Tex, then fell in love with him and gave him his forever home. He was an older dog, but because he had white fur no one was ever really certain how old. Marna had two and half years with Tex, giving him a loving home and comfort in his dotage, just what a wise old man like Tex deserved. Sometimes I called him the Dude, after the main character in The Big Lebowski, because he was so mellow and easygoing. And when his sickness took the enjoyment of life from him, Marna had the courage to see him off with dignity.
   When you get a moment, read her tribute to him.

So long, buddy.

Jerry's Kids

Did you know the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon has been going for 45 years? I didn't either. Man... that's a long time. That's long enough to see eight Presidents, several energy crises, a few recessions, lots of military 'actions,' a moon landing and NASA's abandonment of that achievement, the construction and destruction of the World Trade Center, and the gradual replacement of the American family farm with big agribusiness. A long time.
   It's been on long enough that people take it for granted. Or ignore it. For my money, it hasn't been the same since Ed McMahon's been gone. I grew up listening to him calling out 'roll the timpani!' and pointing at the old analog number board. I remember it was a great big deal when they made it to $1 million. As the 24 hours progressed, Jerry went from the movie Jerry - wacky and loud and funny - to the fatigued, punchy, angry Jerry, who would look into the camera and dare you not to pledge a dollar. I always thought he would come to my house and shake me down if I didn't give any money. Good times, good times...
   I got to thinking, what else has been around for at least 45 years? No TV shows, except the nightly news. McDonald's, I suppose. IBM. The Rolling Stones. The military-industrial complex Eisenhower, of all people, warned us of. Chevy. Ford. Wal-Mart.
   Do you see how the things I can think of are large corporations, or things made possible by those corporations? That frightens me. The only permanent things are faceless entities run by anonymous bean-counters.
   Help me out here. There has to be something that's persisted for 45 years that isn't bound by corporations. Something pure and good and unstained by association with money-grubbing bastards. Right? Anybody got any ideas?

This is what I wrote last year on Labor Day. It still stands.

Let's Think About This

Here's a good topic for a lazy Sunday. Get your thinking caps on.
   Does omnipotence necessitate omniscience?
   If you think about it the other way around, just knowing everything (omniscience) does not in any way mean you have power over everything (omnipotence). Just like me knowing how photosynthesis works doesn't mean I can make it happen. Or to take it a step further, if Santa knows if you've been bad or good that doesn't mean that he's in any position to influence your choice between the two. If he were so inclined, which I presume he is not.
   However - if you're omnipotent, all-powerful with both the ability and the desire to manipulate the universe to suit yourself, does that mean you'd need to be omniscient to make your omnipotence work? How could you influence sub-atomic reactions if you didn't know everything about them before they happened? Or if you wanted to make galaxies collide, could you do that without a thorough understanding of celestial mechanics? And if you wanted to make two people fall in love... well, that would be a pretty tall order.
   You could say that I don't need to know everything about friction, resistance, force, mass and acceleration to throw a football, but, actually, I kind of do. It might be better to say that I don't need to know how my circulatory system works to have my heart keep beating. But if you're going to take that kind of approach to omnipotence - that being all-powerful doesn't mean you know about every little thing you have power over - doesn't that imply that you're not all-powerful? My heart beats no matter what I have to say about it, which means, de facto, I do not control it.
   So what's the big deal? This has theological implications, not the least of which is the concept of free will. If you accept the idea of an omnipotent God, and if you further suppose that omnipotence necessitates omniscience, does that mean God not only knows everything you're going to do, but has used his omnipotence to ensure you do it? Where's free will then? What's to keep me from robbing, stealing, and murdering all I want if some bearded guy in the clouds not only already knows about it, but has actually ordained that I do so.
   Got your mind twisted up enough yet? And you thought this was going to be something funny, didn't you?

Looking For Karma

I am, among other things, a professional actor. 'Professional' meaning that, unlike most actors in Hollywood, I've been paid - and quite a bit, actually, even if it wasn't a living wage. My tour-de-force was as Mold for Lennox Air Conditioners. I auditioned for Humidity, but evidently I reminded them more of Mold. I'd link to the truly amazing work I did, but it looks like Lennox has finally retired the clips.
   Since that gig paying jobs have been few and far between, although I did re-up on Mold twice, so that was money for nothing, which ain't bad. Like most actors, I'm always looking for paying work. I found a great opportunity, and I am officially asking for your help getting an audition.
   The gig is as the host of National Geographic's Known Universe. Since I'm a complete science nerd, this would be my dream job. Really. I always thought that Alan Alda's job on Scientific American Frontiers would be the ultimate, but he already booked the gig and he wasn't going to give it up, not for the likes of me. But I saw this hosting job posted yesterday and put myself in for it. All I have to do now is distinguish myself from the thousands of other actors who would love to have a regular gig like this too.
   Which is where you guys come in. I need all your good wishes and positive vibes that I get an audition, and then that I book the gig. Think 'sparkle fingers' or good mojo or healthy karma or prayers or quantum fluctuations, whatever you call it, sent my way.
   When I book the gig I'll give all of you credit for making it happen.

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

I'm concerned that when I eventually do encounter my evil twin - and believe me, it's bound to happen some day - he's not going to be nearly evil enough.
   They say everybody in the world has an exact double, and if watching hours of classic Star Trek and the occasional soap opera has taught me anything it's that evil twins abound. My mother insists that I was alone in the womb, but I have a feeling she's been holding out on me. Would you let your favorite child know he was one half of a cliche'd trope? Yeah, I wouldn't either.
   So let's say I'm on a rainy Paris street, or chasing bad guys through a seedy, neon-lit Tokyo alleyway, or on a quest for lost documents in the secret hallways that riddle Washington, DC - you know, situations with the highest odds of encountering your evil twin - and there he is. Me, only with a goatee. Unless I have one at the time, then me without a goatee. And he's cackling evilly, as evil twins do, and going on and on about how he's going to destroy me or take over the world, or both, and then a crack shows in his evil facade. Like his zipper is down. Or his evil goatee starts to peel off his chin because he didn't use enough glue. Maybe he has a lisp that's just comical instead of sinister, something like that. Sure would make it hard to take him seriously.
   I'd listen politely, and if he had a gun I'd certainly do whatever he demanded (within reason), but my heart just wouldn't be in it. And if he had a lisp I'd probably have a hard time not laughing at him. 'It's not you,' I'd have to insist while he tried to explain* his terrible, doomed-to-failure plan talking like a three-year-old.
   I mean, really, if you're stuck with an evil twin wouldn't you want him to be good at it?
   I want my evil twin to be one step away from complete world domination. One step because then I'd be the one to deny him success and we'd end up being the mortal enemies that evil twins should be. With my luck he'd be one step away from sweeping up at a movie theater - an evil movie theater, of course - and if I did anything to keep him from it I'd just be kicking the poor guy when he's down.
   So I'd be kind of nice to him, the way you're nice to relatives you don't really know, and he'd totally misinterpret that as genuine interest. And then he'd try to invite me to lunch, and I'd have to think of a creative excuse as to why that wouldn't work. Like maybe I stopped eating, just gave it up for some reason. Then he'd want my e-mail address or my cell number, and I'd think about giving him the wrong number but I'd get flustered and give him the real one and then I'd have to dodge his calls for weeks while he called 'to chat' or 'see what my bro is up to.' And if I answered the phone he'd just go on and on about how nobody wanted to be his henchman or listen to him explain his evil schemes, and I was the only one who really cared when in actuality I really wouldn't care. Not at all.
   I just don't want to be disappointed.

*Evil twins are obligated to explain their plans to the good twin, it's in the Constitution, I'm pretty sure. Somewhere towards the back.

Lightweight

I am, without a doubt, much more fit and healthy than I was, say, eight years ago. I moved out to California and gained a lot of weight. A lot. I was running from something or running to something, but the end result was I spent way too much time on my ass in my apartment. Alone. Eating. Now I'm fifty pounds lighter with way more muscle and I can climb the stairs without getting winded.*
   But I am slowly feeling the grind of the wheels of time.
   You know how I know I'm getting older? It's not the more visible gray strands in my hair or beard, or the lines at the corners of my eyes. It's not the slightly bulgy vein on my calf or the occasional gray chest hair - which I pluck out when I find it. No, it's a more depressing, obvious sign.
   I can't eat nearly as much as I used to.
   I'm not talking about my teenage years, when every boy is a human garbage can, or even my early twenties, which is just the teen years with permission to drink alcohol. No, I mean my late twenties, when I could still pack it away and yet I was old enough to know good food from bad. Cheap-ass prime rib at the run-down casino across from Cesars Palace? No thank you, I'll have plate after plate of Spanish tapas for free at a happy hour.
   Man, I used to be able to eat. Which was, of course, part of my big-fat-sucker problem eight years ago. But now not only am I not able to eat as much at one sitting, I'm just not inclined to either. I used to want to at least sample everything at a pot luck dinner. Now I just want my salad and some meat and cheese. maybe a little of that Jell-o ring with fruit and I'm finished. Time was when we would go to a Vegas buffet the idea was to double your money: if you paid ten dollars to get in you had to eat at least twenty dollars worth of food. Wholesale, not retail. Now I don't even want to go near the buffet, couldn't care less.
   It's insidious, this getting older. It takes what used to be a defining characteristic and turns it into a liability. Which, in this case, ain't so bad a thing. I don't need to eat like that any more, and I'm glad I don't.
   But still...


* which is good because the elevator STILL isn't fixed