Wouldn't That Ruin Your Pants?

I was in Lowe's this morning, buying ant poison and a flashlight* and when I was checking out I noticed a laminated sheet posted by the register that listed the most shoplifted items in the store. They call it 'shrink' but they mean 'five-finger discount.' There were the expensive things, like drills, and easily-concealed things, like drill bits, but I'll give you one guess as to the fourth-most-shoplifted item in that particular store. Go ahead, you'll never get it. I'll stand right here while you decide ... not gonna even try? Okay, fine, be that way. I'll just tell you.
   Circular saw blades.
   Ouch. Talk about your dangerous items to steal. I can think of two reasons these would be a challenge to shoplift: they're big and they're sharp. Really, really, really, really sharp. They're freakin' saw blades, they're designed to cut wood or ceramic or melamine or whatever is unfortunate enough to get in their path. Plus they're eight-inch diameter rigid steel disks, they're not going to fold up and slip in your back pocket, they'd have to fit on your chest like one of those discs from Tron.
   Think about it. Who's going to shoplift a circular saw blade? My mother? Well - she actually might, but my point is women aren't the ones stealing these things. Guys are. Contractors who come into Lowe's in paint-spattered jeans and sweat-soaked t-shirts. Not carrying a purse to slip the random saw blade into, and nothing extra to conceal a stolen item. Just the jeans. Can you imagine trying to walk out of a store with a circular saw blade shoved down your pants? You'd have not just the paranoia of getting caught, you'd have the paranoia of that saw blade getting loose and slicing your butt to ribbons. Your butt if you're lucky...
   And yet, it happens enough that circular saw blades feature prominently on the list of 'shrink.' I guess when you're desperate enough you'll find a way to steal almost anything.


* two entirely unrelated projects

Ill At Ease

I went to a technology conference/expo/trade show/whatever today. I've been to these things before, you go to a convention center, you walk down aisles of prefab booths, you talk to people for five minutes about their business, you move on. It's something I don't think my grandfather would have been familiar with - especially not the technology aspect* - but it's common now. And, in all honesty, I don't know that the investment companies put forward to attend these things matches any return they might get. Seems like an awful lot of chatting and not a lot of doing.
   After a few mintues wandering the aisles and smiling at vendors I was never going to talk to, I noticed two things that bothered me about the environment. I've noticed this before, but now I could finally put a name to what I felt after all these years.
   First, there was a lot of schoolyard-style sizing up, like Jets and Sharks facing off across an alley. Vendors eyed badges for names and titles, attendees scanned the booths for candy and free stuff, and the mood felt moments away from a fist fight breaking out. I was uncomfortable and aside from the tension I couldn't say why. Then it hit me: everybody was assessing everyone else in terms of what one person might be able to do for another. They weren't interested in talking to people to find out more about them individually, we were all avatars of ourselves, attendees and vendors, reprentatives of our demographic bands instead of human beings. Very off-putting, because I could feel the curiosity follow me as I walked the aisles, which then turned to curt dismissal when the vendors saw I wasn't interested. Like making eye contact with all the girls at the middle school dance but not asking any of them onto the floor, I wasn't making myself popular.
   Second, and as a corollary to the first observation, I realized after about ten mintues of people watching that, like me, almost no one in the room actually wanted to be there. Maybe it was a reaction to the dull mood, but I got the distinct impression that we were moments away from a stampede for the exits. It felt like the time I was caught in a pool hall when a fight broke out, all eyes on the door and every man for himself. Kind of poisonous.
   I'm curious to know if that mood is a result of something the organizers did, or if it generated spontaneously from the people in attendence. Probably it was a synthesis of both, but if you could figure out why that happened, you could start a business to prevent it from happening. Put a little math to it, a little rigor, and you could charge a pretty penny to make sure conferences succeed, instead of go down like the one I was just at.



* he had the biggest Rolodex I've ever seen, yellowed index cards packed with names and numbers in faded pencil and blue pen that had bled out over time. If you don't know what a Rolodex is you're a true child of the digital age.

Deadly Day At Dusty Creek

With a flick of his finger Marshall Sherman lifted his hat off his forehead, which let him get a better view of the Goolsby boys, all three of them.
   He and they faced off from opposite ends of Main Street, the Marshall down by the Chinese laundry, the Goolsby Boys up past Billings' wainwright shop. All three of the brothers hated the Marshall, but the oldest one, Hiram, hated him most of all. The Marshall had sent him to Dodge City for horse stealing, and Hiram had been sentenced to hang for the crime.
   Clearly the authorities in Dodge City had failed that execution.
   With Hiram back the boys were out for revenge, and with three-to-one odds it looked like the Marshall was mere heartbeats away from finding a spot in the cemetery with all others who had ever crossed the Goolsbys.
   "I'm a merciful man, Marshall," Hiram said, glaring down Main Street with his one good eye. "If you clear out of Dusty Creek, I might not shoot you in the back."
   "You know I can't do that, Hiram," the Marshall drawled. "Dusty Creek is where I keep all my stuff."
   Agonized groans erupted from behind sacks of grain destined for the mill.
   Hiram spat, his fingers twitching on the handles of his revolvers. "Are you having fun at my expense?"
   "Wouldn't dream of it," the Marshall replied. "I'd never have a battle of wits with an unarmed man."
   The dance hall girls watching from the top floor of The Trail's End Saloon frowned, then backed from the window when Hiram glared at them.
   "All right, that sounded like an insult," Hiram said. He looked at his brothers who both nodded slowly. "Though it has a familiar ring."
   The Marshall wiped at his forehead, suddenly all too aware of the heat. And the eyes of all the townsfolk. "Well, I never could get anything by you. Which isn't odd considering you... the fact that you've only got the one..."
   Hiram bristled and one of his brothers pulled his revolver. The Marshall caught glimpses of several townspeople turning away, going back to their everyday tasks.
   "Hold on, wait a minute," the Marshall urged. "I... I meant to say that... uh... I could never get anything by you, except on your right side. Because that's the eye you lost when... oh..."
   Shutters closed on the saloon, the blacksmith went back to hammering out horse shoes, and even Wing in the Chinese laundry returned to stirring the vat of unmentionables from the whorehouse.
   "Looks like you're dying out here, Marshall," Hiram said. He raised his revolver and fired once, dropping the Marshall where he stood.
   "I'd call that a mercy killing," Hiram sneered. Giggles sounded from the top floor of the saloon, and the showgirls looked down admiringly.
   Mayor Green plucked the silver star from Marshall Sherman's corpse and approached Hiram Goolsby. "There's a vacancy, and horse thief or not I think you might be the man for the job."
   Hiram raised his still-smoking revolver to his lips and blew. "I aim to please."

Vega$ Opportunity

So I was stuck in traffic today - crap, crap, crapitty, crap, crap - and I was thinking that it would be really cool not to have to drive to get where I wanted to go. Driving's for chumps. And then I got to thinking about how somebody like Frank Sinatra used to take a helicopter between LA and Vegas back in the good old days. And then I got to thinking that I could really use a helicopter of my own, except that I don't have anywhere to park it around my apartment.
   Then I got to thinking, why should I want to be like Frank Sinatra, when I could be him? Figuratively speaking, of course. Sure would beat what I've been doing for the past decade.
   See, back in the day Frank was Vegas and Vegas was Frank. Sure, he was mobbed-up, but even if they were killers, the Mafia kept Vegas running like a top. Now it's all corporate and weaselly and about the bottom line. What Vegas needs is another Frank to come through and clean house. Since Frank is gone, God rest his soul, I'm willing to take up the mantle.
   I look good in a tuxedo - really - and I like to hang out with my cronies and have a good time. I can't sing, not a note, but I'm not gonna let that hold me back. I'm gonna take Vegas by storm, you'll see posters of me where you used to see posters of Danny Gans.
   And I pledge to you, the first thing I'm gonna do as the new Chairman of the Board is put a stop to this whole Celine Dion madness. Somebody has to take charge and it might as well be me. No thanks necessary, it'll be my pleasure.

COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes      back - 45 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 40 days

Things I Wish Were True

Remember when you were a kid and everything was possible? You made Superman's cape out of a blanket tied around your neck and you were convinced that if you jumped off the roof just right you could fly. Or when you got a new pair of sneakers you knew you could run twice as fast as the day before. And it was true. The world was nothing but possibilities and all you had to do was want something bad enough to make it happen.
   As an adult - purportedly - I forget how it was back when I was shorter and smaller. I forget that imagination and perseverance make everything happen. Even impossible things become only highly improbable when you look at them the right way. So here's a list of things I wish were true, because I believe some day they all will be.

Every New Yorker takes a moment each day to look up and realize how cool it is to be living where they do.

LA drivers either speed up when they're supposed to or slow the hell down when it's appropriate, not the other way around.

For one year everyone gets exactly what they want for their birthday.

I make my living as a novel writer.

Chocolate cake is used as currency. Delicious, edible currency.

The pain of losing a parent goes away.

People and whales have a conversation about everything that's been going on for the past few hundred years and they forgive us.

Spats come back in style, at least for billionaires wearing waistcoats.

People stop and think for ten seconds about the consequences of what they're about to do.

The lazy and sly stop preying on the gullible and trusting.

Love is easy.

I figure out what that light switch in the other bedroom actually does.

People stop and think for ten seconds about the consequences of what they're about to say.

Those without get what they need, those with too much give what extra they have freely.

Someone figures out a limerick that rhymes 'Nantucket' with something that isn't dirty.



That's it for now. I'm sure I'll think of more later.

COMMUTE - there - 40 minutes      back - 37 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 47 days

Tales From My Past - Truck Driver

A while back I worked on a military base, and not too far from that base was one of those truck driving schools. If you stay up late enough at night you see ads for them on TV, sometimes in them middle of the day when proper folks are holed up in their cubicles, slaving away for the Man.
   Anyway, I had always wanted to learn how to drive an 18-wheeler, you never know when something like that is going to come in handy. You're at a party, for instance, and the host decides to pack up and move right then, and needs someone who knows how to drive a truck. I would be the only one to raise my hand when the frantic question comes 'anybody here know how to drive a big rig?'
   I was interested enough to write the number down from the billboard as I drove in one morning, and I called them that afternoon. The guy on the other end was kind of disinterested, bored almost, when he answered the phone. I told him I wanted to learn how to drive a rig, and asked how much it cost to learn.
   He asked me if I had a valid driver's license. I said I did. His voice perked up and he got a little interested.
   He asked me how many moving violations I'd ever had. I told him none. He got more interested in the conversation.
   He asked me how many misdemeanor offenses I'd been convicted of or plead guilty to. I told him none. He got far more interested.
   He asked me how many felony convictions I'd ever had or plead guilty to. I told him none. He got downright excited.
   I could almost see him dancing around his office as he explained to me that someone with my clean record could practically write his own ticket, that once I made it through truck driver's school I could find a gig with almost any major company in the nation. And if the stars aligned and everything worked out, I might be able to get that company to remit me the cost of school, assuming, of course, that I kept a clean record as a professional driver.
   It was at this point that I became uncomfortable. I didn't want to become a professional driver, I'm happy with my Class C. All I ever wanted was to know how to drive a big rig, not to actually do it for a living. The guy on the other end of the phone was ready with career placement for a career I didn't want. Still, I was willing to play along, I said I still didn't know how much it cost, and that was the deciding factor. The wheels in my mind were turning, and I figured I could just pay for the classes and then not show up on test day or something.
   The guy let the guillotine drop. Fifty-five hundred dollars. With no financial aid to speak of. Holy crap, I was thinking it was a couple hundred bucks, tops. Like driver's ed in high school or something. I told the guy I'd have to think about it, I didn't know if I could get my hands on that kind of money. At least I wasn't lying about that part. When he hung up I could feel his disappointment radiating out through the phone line.
   To this day I still don't know how to drive an 18-wheeler. Maybe if I did I'd be employed right now.

The Joy Of Manual Labor

I started working when I was 8 years old. Growing up in Texas, 'working' meant serving as slave labor for my grandfather; you name the menial task and I probably did it. Of course there was mowing grass, raking leaves, edging lawns, pruning roses, and picking vegetables. But there was also shingling roofs, pouring cement, tilling the earth, turning the compost pile, cutting down trees, and weeding beds of okra, which is such a revolting task I challenge anyone who hasn't done it to try it and tell me that's not the worst job ever.
   I moved to Pasadena in February, 2002. Since that time I have not done one lick of manual labor. Not even a tiny bit. Sure, I've cleaned my apartment, done the dishes, and killed spiders, but none of that counts. There's no lifting involved, no bending, no real cursing, not the creative kind of epithets that seem more appropriate outdoors. I missed working outside, but it's kind of like missing the taste of some familiar food you can't get in a foreign country; after so long you don't even remember what the thing was really like in the first place.
   Well, this morning I reminded myself. I just finished four hours of manual labor around my mother's house. I wasn't certain I would remember what to do, but when I got that hoe in my hand things just fell into place. It was like old times, walking the yard, raking leaves, getting my hands really dirty and letting them stay that way for hours. And I'm a little sore too, across my back and down my legs, but it's a good sore, the kind of ache that lets you know you've accomplished something.
   Maybe when I get back to Pasadena I'll become a gardener or something. At least then I'll have something to show for all my work.

Geniuses And Construction Workers

I live about a mile, more or less, from CalTech. This is the place where my hero Richard Feynman spent most of his academic career, and it's the place where the guys from Big Bang Theory are supposed to work. And the math guy from NUMB3RS too. It's a big-brain kind of place, where researchers ask all sorts of important questions about the way the world works, from economics to cosmology.
   It's also a place where people appreciate a good, cheap carne asada taco, and they're not afraid to rub elbows with construction workers to get one.
   Just on the outskirts of CalTech there's a small, independent convenience store, Papa George's. It's crammed with the regular convenience store stuff, but they have a kitchen too, where they make fast, cheap Mexican food and the staff's first language is Spanish. It's the kind of place where the local gardeners stop in for lunch, crowding the parking lot with work trucks. So you know it's good.
   The other day I was there to buy a Lotto ticket - you can't win if you don't play - and I witnessed an amazing confluence of different social strata. The regular guys were there for lunch, construction workers covered with dust, fresh from their work putting up a new building for CalTech; they were speaking Spanish and joking around as blue-collar guys do. Right beside them were two guys who had quite obviously never worked with their hands in their entire lives, and with their crazy hair and neglected wardrobe, they were also quite obviously CalTech professors; they were talking mathematics, and joking around as nerdy math guys do.
   Both sets of men were waiting for exactly the same thing, three carne asada tacos to go. When the cook put the bag on the counter and announced 'tres tacos, carne asada,' one construction worker went for it, and one of the professors did too. I thought for sure there was going to be trouble, by which I mean I thought I'd see a construction worker punch a nerd.
   Turned out the professor also spoke Spanish - not very well, I could tell - and conflict was avoided when they consulted their numbered receipts. But I was just amazed that two men who would otherwise certainly never have met - ever - shared a brief laugh together over the fact they ate exactly the same thing.
   Makes me wish more people went to Papa George's for lunch, we might have less trouble in the world.