It's hot in Texas right now. Matter of fact, it's been hot for weeks, looks to be hot for weeks more. Everything's bigger in Texas, even natural disasters.
The upshot of all the heat is a surge in electricity use, mainly for air conditioning. In Texas, as opposed to Southern California, the hottest part of the day usually arrives about 5 PM, which is that sweet spot when offices are still occupied and yet people are going home and turning up the home AC. You can imagine how far into the red the power dial goes at 5:15. Luckily Texas is its own power grid, but with temperatures at 110 in Dallas, even the best Texas-built power grid is going to get some heavy usage.
At work they've asked us to conserve electricity during the day. Since we don't store the electricity we don't use - no huge capacitors on the power grid - saving electricity at 9 AM doesn't help at 5 PM, but somehow I know if I point this out I'm going to be the asshole, the guy who's not the team player. So I shut up.
The things they want us to do are for the most part things I do anyway, like turning off the lights in the bathroom and break room, turning off the computer monitors when I go home, that kind of thing. But they've also asked for more austere measures. Like turning off hall lights. Or even working in your office with the lights off during the day.
I used to work around programmers, and some of them wanted the overhead lights off. They claimed it reduced eye strain. So does standing up and stretching for ten minutes every hour, and stretching isn't creepy. See, there's something gross and awful about sitting in a room with no lights on. I don't like it. My father used to sit in the living room with the lights off and watch TV and it just creeped me out to no end. It's what serial killers do, I'm convinced, in between luring college coeds into their windowless vans. Where there are also no overhead lights, not coincidentally. It brings to mind those horrible movies where the bad guy waits in the dark for the good guy to get home. Even cavemen brought torches into their caves, for God's sake, asking me to work with the lights off is asking me to flout fifty thousand years of civilization and common sense.
Work has changed because of the dark hallways. The whole place is subdued now, and you never know when you walk past an office if the person isn't there or if they're just creeping out with the lights off. Makes me uneasy, like I'm the doofus in the horror movie who goes into the basement without a flashlight to check the fuse box. You just know the slasher is going to gut him like a perch.
Maybe I'll bring a flashlight to work next week...
Showing posts with label crazy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crazy. Show all posts
Friday, August 12, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Passing The Torch
Last week my older niece got a job as a waiter.* Her younger sister starts the same job in a month or so.
I am now officially NOT the only person in my family to have been a waiter.
It's been my contention since I brought my first plate of lasagna to my first ungrateful and undeserving customer that everyone should have to work a food service job early on in life. Much like the Swiss have mandatory military service for all their citizens, we should have mandatory restaurant duty. You don't necessarily have to be a waiter, you could be a busser, a bartender, even a hostess, any job where you have to deal with the Great Unwashed on a daily basis.
See, having to deal with people on a decidedly unequal footing - your job is to bring them their food, presumably spit-free** - makes you realize how poorly you've been treating others. Slinging hash, or spaghetti, or burgers, or in my niece's case tortillas, brings you into contact with some genuine people. And by that I mean not only genuinely nice people, I mean genuine assholes. There are customers who come in the door looking to take their bad day out one someone, and since the waiter has the apron he's elected.
It's a learning experience for sure, not only in reading people and their intentions but also in controlling yourself. And in controlling your finances, and in managing not only your work but others' work as well. When you're first on the Tuesday evening shift and the cook is coming down off some righteous bud you need to plan for his inevitable screwing-up of the order and general lack of urgency to repair his own mistake. And at the same time your customers don't want to hear any excuses, especially lame ones about the cook being stoned off his ass. It's a PR job and the first acting gig I ever had.
It builds character. When you dance like a trained monkey for 15% or less, you learn to find inner validation. And then, when the night is done and the restaurant is closed and you're so tired you can't hardly stand up, you discover that everything - EVERYTHING - is the funniest thing you've ever heard. My best friends are people I worked with when I was a waiter. Good times, good times.
So congratulations to my nieces on their new adult jobs. Welcome to the working world, it sucks worse than you can possibly imagine. But if anybody gives you a hard time let me know, me and my boys will take care of it.
* waitress, server, waitron, wage slave, food getter... it's all good and all means the same thing
** no guarantees
I am now officially NOT the only person in my family to have been a waiter.
It's been my contention since I brought my first plate of lasagna to my first ungrateful and undeserving customer that everyone should have to work a food service job early on in life. Much like the Swiss have mandatory military service for all their citizens, we should have mandatory restaurant duty. You don't necessarily have to be a waiter, you could be a busser, a bartender, even a hostess, any job where you have to deal with the Great Unwashed on a daily basis.
See, having to deal with people on a decidedly unequal footing - your job is to bring them their food, presumably spit-free** - makes you realize how poorly you've been treating others. Slinging hash, or spaghetti, or burgers, or in my niece's case tortillas, brings you into contact with some genuine people. And by that I mean not only genuinely nice people, I mean genuine assholes. There are customers who come in the door looking to take their bad day out one someone, and since the waiter has the apron he's elected.
It's a learning experience for sure, not only in reading people and their intentions but also in controlling yourself. And in controlling your finances, and in managing not only your work but others' work as well. When you're first on the Tuesday evening shift and the cook is coming down off some righteous bud you need to plan for his inevitable screwing-up of the order and general lack of urgency to repair his own mistake. And at the same time your customers don't want to hear any excuses, especially lame ones about the cook being stoned off his ass. It's a PR job and the first acting gig I ever had.
It builds character. When you dance like a trained monkey for 15% or less, you learn to find inner validation. And then, when the night is done and the restaurant is closed and you're so tired you can't hardly stand up, you discover that everything - EVERYTHING - is the funniest thing you've ever heard. My best friends are people I worked with when I was a waiter. Good times, good times.
So congratulations to my nieces on their new adult jobs. Welcome to the working world, it sucks worse than you can possibly imagine. But if anybody gives you a hard time let me know, me and my boys will take care of it.
* waitress, server, waitron, wage slave, food getter... it's all good and all means the same thing
** no guarantees
Sunday, June 5, 2011
It's A Crazy Afterlife
Here's a question you can pose to your pastor on this fine Sunday morning. Or you can wait until this coming Friday or Saturday, if that's when your holy day falls.
Are crazy people crazy in the afterlife?
The first assumption is that an afterlife exists, let's agree that's the case. Let's further agree that people made crazy at some point in their life - by brain injury, drugs, what have you - will be restored to their previous non-crazy status in the afterlife. That leaves people who are born crazy. And these people do exist, talk to any mental health professional. What happens to them? Their natural state is disordered, it's the way their brains were wired during fetal development, nothing happened to them to make them crazy, it's just the way the are. The way they were meant to be.
Do they become non-crazy in the afterlife? If so, what was the point of them being crazy in this life? And don't spout me that 'God's ways are unknowable' stuff, if someone was naturally crazy in this life and they become non-crazy in the afterlife, there had to have been some point to it all, both to the being crazy and to the switch to non-crazy.
Let's extend this a bit. So far you've probably assumed I've been talking about someone schizophrenic or psychotic or manic-depressive, something relatively benign, at least from a social perspective. What about someone psychopathic? If that's a natural condition, and we have no reason to believe it's not, are there psychopaths in the afterlife? Why wouldn't there be? And if being a psychopath is their natural state, and assuming they haven't transgressed or been absolved of their transgressions, they should be in paradise with everyone else. But if they were, would the afterlife be a paradise? It might be for them, but what about for everyone else?
But let's assume that crazy people don't get into paradise. For some reason. Which would make paradise better for non-crazy people, but would automatically consign crazy people to damnation for no other offense than being true to their God-given nature. That hardly seems fair.
Go on, ask your religious professional, I want to hear what they have to say. Go ahead, I'll wait right here.
Are crazy people crazy in the afterlife?
The first assumption is that an afterlife exists, let's agree that's the case. Let's further agree that people made crazy at some point in their life - by brain injury, drugs, what have you - will be restored to their previous non-crazy status in the afterlife. That leaves people who are born crazy. And these people do exist, talk to any mental health professional. What happens to them? Their natural state is disordered, it's the way their brains were wired during fetal development, nothing happened to them to make them crazy, it's just the way the are. The way they were meant to be.
Do they become non-crazy in the afterlife? If so, what was the point of them being crazy in this life? And don't spout me that 'God's ways are unknowable' stuff, if someone was naturally crazy in this life and they become non-crazy in the afterlife, there had to have been some point to it all, both to the being crazy and to the switch to non-crazy.
Let's extend this a bit. So far you've probably assumed I've been talking about someone schizophrenic or psychotic or manic-depressive, something relatively benign, at least from a social perspective. What about someone psychopathic? If that's a natural condition, and we have no reason to believe it's not, are there psychopaths in the afterlife? Why wouldn't there be? And if being a psychopath is their natural state, and assuming they haven't transgressed or been absolved of their transgressions, they should be in paradise with everyone else. But if they were, would the afterlife be a paradise? It might be for them, but what about for everyone else?
But let's assume that crazy people don't get into paradise. For some reason. Which would make paradise better for non-crazy people, but would automatically consign crazy people to damnation for no other offense than being true to their God-given nature. That hardly seems fair.
Go on, ask your religious professional, I want to hear what they have to say. Go ahead, I'll wait right here.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Tales From My Past - I Voted For Gary
Back in 2003 I had been living in California for a little over a year, just settling in. In November of 2002 I voted in my first big California general election in which Gray Davis was re-elected Governor. Then in February 2003 someone started a recall effort. Some states allow the recall of elected officials, kind of a check and balance to the power wielded by those representatives.
But, remember, we'd just had an election in November, three months before. Just. Had. An. Election. The recall was sour grapes maneuvering by Gray Davis's high-ranking political opponents, not a grass-roots effort by concerned citizens, which is what a recall is for. These bastards were getting a recall because they lost the election, not because of any particular reason (though they came up with many). A total abuse of the recall/referendum process.
And they got their recall.
Since it was in California the entire thing became a circus, and I mean that literally. Clowns came out of the shadows and trapeze artists amazed the crowd and the ringmaster orchestrated everything. I'm positive there was a calliope somewhere to accompany all the zany action.
I was astounded, astonished, and dismayed. All this crass maneuvering and media manipulation shouldn't have surprised me but it did. Caught me with my pants down, metaphorically speaking. And then when the stripper girl and Ariana Huffington and Gary Coleman actually filed papers to get on the ballot, that's when I knew we'd officially gone too far.
The recall election rolled around in November, far too late for my tastes but they didn't ask my opinion. In order to save money - too late - the recall and special election were on the same ballot. You first voted for or against the recall, then, in the event the recall measure passed, you voted for your candidate of choice. Yeah, crazy, but that's the way they do it in Cali.
I figured that since they were making a complete joke of the electoral process I might as well do my part to make it a good one. So I voted against the recall - sour grapes doesn't mean you get to void the results of a legal election - and then I voted for Gary Coleman for Governor. He got about 10,000 votes too, not too shabby.
I actually wanted Sir Gary to be in the Governor's mansion, it would have been a real-life version of Diff'rent Strokes. And even though he was more than a little wacky, I don't think he could have done that much worse a job than the Governator ended up doing.
And, oddly enough, I can't think of any other semi-celebrity I would rather have had in public office. 'What 'choo talkin' 'bout, State Assembly?'
But, remember, we'd just had an election in November, three months before. Just. Had. An. Election. The recall was sour grapes maneuvering by Gray Davis's high-ranking political opponents, not a grass-roots effort by concerned citizens, which is what a recall is for. These bastards were getting a recall because they lost the election, not because of any particular reason (though they came up with many). A total abuse of the recall/referendum process.
And they got their recall.
Since it was in California the entire thing became a circus, and I mean that literally. Clowns came out of the shadows and trapeze artists amazed the crowd and the ringmaster orchestrated everything. I'm positive there was a calliope somewhere to accompany all the zany action.
I was astounded, astonished, and dismayed. All this crass maneuvering and media manipulation shouldn't have surprised me but it did. Caught me with my pants down, metaphorically speaking. And then when the stripper girl and Ariana Huffington and Gary Coleman actually filed papers to get on the ballot, that's when I knew we'd officially gone too far.
The recall election rolled around in November, far too late for my tastes but they didn't ask my opinion. In order to save money - too late - the recall and special election were on the same ballot. You first voted for or against the recall, then, in the event the recall measure passed, you voted for your candidate of choice. Yeah, crazy, but that's the way they do it in Cali.
I figured that since they were making a complete joke of the electoral process I might as well do my part to make it a good one. So I voted against the recall - sour grapes doesn't mean you get to void the results of a legal election - and then I voted for Gary Coleman for Governor. He got about 10,000 votes too, not too shabby.
I actually wanted Sir Gary to be in the Governor's mansion, it would have been a real-life version of Diff'rent Strokes. And even though he was more than a little wacky, I don't think he could have done that much worse a job than the Governator ended up doing.
And, oddly enough, I can't think of any other semi-celebrity I would rather have had in public office. 'What 'choo talkin' 'bout, State Assembly?'
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Next Stop... Skynet
I've been going to my local gym for years. It's in the basement of the old Pasadena Star News building, in the area once occupied by the printing presses, when those things were two-story-tall monster machines. It's a pretty cool space, three-level and very open. But lately things have been kind of not cool.
For most of the time I've been going I just hand over my gym ID card, the person behind the counter scans it, and I get to go in. Bada-bing, bada-boom, easy peasy lemon squeezy.
No more. The company has gone to a fingerprint reader. You key in a ten-digit number - probably people use their phone number - and then scan your right index finger. Up until now I have steadfastly refused to let them scan my fingerprints, I stick with the ID card. Except now they're not using the ID cards. If you don't want to use the fingerprint scanner you have to fork over a driver's license and let them look it up that way.
So now I'm on the horns of a dilemma. I don't want to use my driver's license - which is for driving not venue admission - yet I steadfastly object to letting a gym, of all businesses, take a record of my fingerprint so they can provide a service I've paid for. What the hell? The only reason they want my fingerprint is to make their extremely easy job - keeping the gate - even easier. Other than the company being lazy, there is absolutely no Goddamned reason they need a record of my fingerprints. AT. ALL. They're a fucking GYM!! I go there to sweat, not to create the next Manhattan Project. Biometric security should be the least of their concerns. How about working this hard to keep soap in the dispensers by the sink?
I can hear you asking 'What's the big deal, Don? It's just a gym.'
Which is my point exactly. It's just a gym. I don't want to come across as some crazy conspiracy theorist, but this is where the abrogation of our civil liberties starts. It's just a gym. So why do they want my fingerprint? That's the one definite personal identifier I can never change. And if I give it to them, they'll have a way to tie that biometric data to my name, my address, my phone number, and my credit records, all of which that gym also has.
Where does it stop? How much personal privacy do I have to give up just keep my heart from giving out on me when I'm 70?
If I want to keep working out there my choices now are down to two: fork over my driver's license every time, which is also none of their Goddamned business, or let them scan my fingerprint.
I'm going for the driver's license. Fuckers.
For most of the time I've been going I just hand over my gym ID card, the person behind the counter scans it, and I get to go in. Bada-bing, bada-boom, easy peasy lemon squeezy.
No more. The company has gone to a fingerprint reader. You key in a ten-digit number - probably people use their phone number - and then scan your right index finger. Up until now I have steadfastly refused to let them scan my fingerprints, I stick with the ID card. Except now they're not using the ID cards. If you don't want to use the fingerprint scanner you have to fork over a driver's license and let them look it up that way.
So now I'm on the horns of a dilemma. I don't want to use my driver's license - which is for driving not venue admission - yet I steadfastly object to letting a gym, of all businesses, take a record of my fingerprint so they can provide a service I've paid for. What the hell? The only reason they want my fingerprint is to make their extremely easy job - keeping the gate - even easier. Other than the company being lazy, there is absolutely no Goddamned reason they need a record of my fingerprints. AT. ALL. They're a fucking GYM!! I go there to sweat, not to create the next Manhattan Project. Biometric security should be the least of their concerns. How about working this hard to keep soap in the dispensers by the sink?
I can hear you asking 'What's the big deal, Don? It's just a gym.'
Which is my point exactly. It's just a gym. I don't want to come across as some crazy conspiracy theorist, but this is where the abrogation of our civil liberties starts. It's just a gym. So why do they want my fingerprint? That's the one definite personal identifier I can never change. And if I give it to them, they'll have a way to tie that biometric data to my name, my address, my phone number, and my credit records, all of which that gym also has.
Where does it stop? How much personal privacy do I have to give up just keep my heart from giving out on me when I'm 70?
If I want to keep working out there my choices now are down to two: fork over my driver's license every time, which is also none of their Goddamned business, or let them scan my fingerprint.
I'm going for the driver's license. Fuckers.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Creep Repellent
You know how you have mosquito repellent? Slather some on your arms and legs on a summer night and you might not get bitten and thus might not get malaria. There are those little electronic things you plug in that keep roaches and vermin out of your house. There are plastic owls you hang in your trees to keep bothersome birds away. We can buy all sorts of stuff designed to keep away things we don't want near us.
And yet creepy people still manage to get all up your grill, don't they?
I'm not talking about people with clipboards and an agenda, or homeless people, or those guys who set up a card table outside the grocery store. I don't mind those people, they want to accomplish something. I mean the guy with the obnoxious laugh and the big cowboy hat who sits right in front of you in the movie theater. Or the tipsy office gals who take the booth beside you at the restaurant and talk waaaaaay too loudly about their lady business. Or the guy in the grocery store who isn't following you around but just happens to be on every aisle you are. Or the guy who parks his beat-up white panel van just a little too close to the elementary school.
Wouldn't it be great if you could just whip out a can of something, spray it in the air, and these people would find somewhere else to be? You could watch your movie in peace, enjoy your meal, and even get your shopping done unmolested. Literally.
Only thing is, what if you were out and about and someone sprayed something in the air, and then you had an overwhelming urge to run away? How would you explain that one?
And yet creepy people still manage to get all up your grill, don't they?
I'm not talking about people with clipboards and an agenda, or homeless people, or those guys who set up a card table outside the grocery store. I don't mind those people, they want to accomplish something. I mean the guy with the obnoxious laugh and the big cowboy hat who sits right in front of you in the movie theater. Or the tipsy office gals who take the booth beside you at the restaurant and talk waaaaaay too loudly about their lady business. Or the guy in the grocery store who isn't following you around but just happens to be on every aisle you are. Or the guy who parks his beat-up white panel van just a little too close to the elementary school.
Wouldn't it be great if you could just whip out a can of something, spray it in the air, and these people would find somewhere else to be? You could watch your movie in peace, enjoy your meal, and even get your shopping done unmolested. Literally.
Only thing is, what if you were out and about and someone sprayed something in the air, and then you had an overwhelming urge to run away? How would you explain that one?
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Bliss
Sometimes I wish I was stupider.
Really. There are days I wish my mind would just turn off. Times I wish I had less ambition. Moments when I believe that I would be truly happier if I didn't think so damned much.
If I could just slog to work, then slog back home, eat dinner, turn on the tube and zone out for three hours or so until it was time to go to sleep to start the cycle all over again, I might have less stress. If I had nothing to strive for then I'd never be disappointed.
It seems that all I've been doing lately is fighting, both against myself and outside forces. I'm trying to get published and that's a definite uphill battle, I've been trying to get a decent job close to home - good luck on that - I've been trying to put together a business plan for a new venture my brother-in-law and I are starting, and that's a struggle. I know, the less-trodden path is the more rewarding, etc. etc. etc. But does it have to be such a rocky, frustrating road? Can't it be just a little bit easier?
I know - I'll commit a crime and get put in prison. I'm thinking some non-violent white-collar crime, nothing with blood or where anyone gets injured, that's just not right. There's no ambition in prison but to get out, which will happen eventually. Plus the days are nice and regimented, it's all done for you.
On second thought... if I went into prison the first thing I'd probably do is plan to break out. And since I'd have nothing but time I'd probably accomplish it. But then I'd get sloppy and get put back in the klink for making a stupid mistake like using my real name on a lease or something.
Better to walk the straight and narrow right now. It might be frustrating and full of disappointment, but at least it's honest.
Really. There are days I wish my mind would just turn off. Times I wish I had less ambition. Moments when I believe that I would be truly happier if I didn't think so damned much.
If I could just slog to work, then slog back home, eat dinner, turn on the tube and zone out for three hours or so until it was time to go to sleep to start the cycle all over again, I might have less stress. If I had nothing to strive for then I'd never be disappointed.
It seems that all I've been doing lately is fighting, both against myself and outside forces. I'm trying to get published and that's a definite uphill battle, I've been trying to get a decent job close to home - good luck on that - I've been trying to put together a business plan for a new venture my brother-in-law and I are starting, and that's a struggle. I know, the less-trodden path is the more rewarding, etc. etc. etc. But does it have to be such a rocky, frustrating road? Can't it be just a little bit easier?
I know - I'll commit a crime and get put in prison. I'm thinking some non-violent white-collar crime, nothing with blood or where anyone gets injured, that's just not right. There's no ambition in prison but to get out, which will happen eventually. Plus the days are nice and regimented, it's all done for you.
On second thought... if I went into prison the first thing I'd probably do is plan to break out. And since I'd have nothing but time I'd probably accomplish it. But then I'd get sloppy and get put back in the klink for making a stupid mistake like using my real name on a lease or something.
Better to walk the straight and narrow right now. It might be frustrating and full of disappointment, but at least it's honest.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Celebrity Sightings
Since I live in Pasadena, which is close enough to Los Angeles that you could spit on it - and I have - people from elsewhere ask which celebrities I've seen. I usually tell them that I could trip over a celebrity and not know who they were, but the truth is I have seen some celebrities over the years. Usually people had to point them out to me.
Monday, though, I saw a celebrity I did recognize immediately. So I did the thing they hate, which is I took a step back and craned my neck to get a better look and make sure that was who I thought it was. And it was. Victoria Jackson. In Von's. Buying vegetables and bread.
See, mostly I don't care about celebrities, but I actually like Victoria Jackson's work. So I was thinking that I should go up to her and tell her that, which was odd because I've never felt the urge to do that before. As I was trying to figure out a slick way to make it happen, I realized I was being a creepy stalker and she probably just wanted to go through the self-check aisle and get back to whatever it was she was doing before she realized she needed groceries. Probably making dinner, which even celebrities have to do. And then she was gone.
Because I know you're going to ask, yes, she was short. And, yes, she looks like she does on TV. Nice skin.
Here are a few other celebrities I've recognized, and where I saw them.
Outside Bungalow News, which is now closed:
Richard Moll
In the Target electronics department:
Dr. Drew Pinsky
At the Chateau Marmont
Demi Moore
Ashton Kutcher
At the Hollywood and Highland complex:
Ryan Seacrest
In the CNN building elevator:
Larry King
At Sabor, a cafe on Colorado Blvd. by the Dr. Drew Target:
Staci Greason
On Highland, right by his Mozza restaurants
Mario Batalli
Monday, though, I saw a celebrity I did recognize immediately. So I did the thing they hate, which is I took a step back and craned my neck to get a better look and make sure that was who I thought it was. And it was. Victoria Jackson. In Von's. Buying vegetables and bread.
See, mostly I don't care about celebrities, but I actually like Victoria Jackson's work. So I was thinking that I should go up to her and tell her that, which was odd because I've never felt the urge to do that before. As I was trying to figure out a slick way to make it happen, I realized I was being a creepy stalker and she probably just wanted to go through the self-check aisle and get back to whatever it was she was doing before she realized she needed groceries. Probably making dinner, which even celebrities have to do. And then she was gone.
Because I know you're going to ask, yes, she was short. And, yes, she looks like she does on TV. Nice skin.
Here are a few other celebrities I've recognized, and where I saw them.
Outside Bungalow News, which is now closed:
Richard Moll
In the Target electronics department:
Dr. Drew Pinsky
At the Chateau Marmont
Demi Moore
Ashton Kutcher
At the Hollywood and Highland complex:
Ryan Seacrest
In the CNN building elevator:
Larry King
At Sabor, a cafe on Colorado Blvd. by the Dr. Drew Target:
Staci Greason
On Highland, right by his Mozza restaurants
Mario Batalli
Thursday, June 3, 2010
I'm Still Not Satisfied
I'm fickle.
I've come to this realization slowly, but I think it's accurate. At least I'm fickle when it comes to work. Let me 'splain.
I've been at my contract gig for about eight weeks now, and I've been largely unsupervised. Not that I'm slacking off, but what I do is so different from what the others in the office do that they don't know enough about it to give me effective direction. However, having been in charge of contractors before, I know I would do things differently.
So I'm taking a point away from them for not supervising me or my work properly.
But today one of the managers was starting to take an interest in what I've been doing, and giving me some minimal instruction and direction. And while I was pleasant and nodded and agreed with what he was saying (I was doing it anyway), in the back of my mind I was thinking 'dude, just leave me alone.'
So I'm now taking a point away from them for trying to supervise me and my work.
See? Fickle.
Either I want them to treat me the way I treated contractors I was in charge of previously, or I don't. I can't have it both ways. But I want it both ways. I want to be unhappy no matter which way my fortunes turn. Can't they understand that?
Now I'm going to practice for tomorrow. I'm going to resent having the TV on, then I'm going to turn it off and resent it not being on. I'm going to be dissatisfied with my un-brushed teeth, then I'm going to brush them and be unhappy with that too. And then I'm going to be upset with my sink full of dishes, and when I put them all in the dishwasher I'm going to resent the fact that I have to turn it on.
Ahh... it feels good running a game no one can possibly win.
COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes back - 40 minutes, it took me 20 minutes to go 6 miles. That just ain't right.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 39 days
I've come to this realization slowly, but I think it's accurate. At least I'm fickle when it comes to work. Let me 'splain.
I've been at my contract gig for about eight weeks now, and I've been largely unsupervised. Not that I'm slacking off, but what I do is so different from what the others in the office do that they don't know enough about it to give me effective direction. However, having been in charge of contractors before, I know I would do things differently.
So I'm taking a point away from them for not supervising me or my work properly.
But today one of the managers was starting to take an interest in what I've been doing, and giving me some minimal instruction and direction. And while I was pleasant and nodded and agreed with what he was saying (I was doing it anyway), in the back of my mind I was thinking 'dude, just leave me alone.'
So I'm now taking a point away from them for trying to supervise me and my work.
See? Fickle.
Either I want them to treat me the way I treated contractors I was in charge of previously, or I don't. I can't have it both ways. But I want it both ways. I want to be unhappy no matter which way my fortunes turn. Can't they understand that?
Now I'm going to practice for tomorrow. I'm going to resent having the TV on, then I'm going to turn it off and resent it not being on. I'm going to be dissatisfied with my un-brushed teeth, then I'm going to brush them and be unhappy with that too. And then I'm going to be upset with my sink full of dishes, and when I put them all in the dishwasher I'm going to resent the fact that I have to turn it on.
Ahh... it feels good running a game no one can possibly win.
COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes back - 40 minutes, it took me 20 minutes to go 6 miles. That just ain't right.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 39 days
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Creepy Little Guy
There's been a little man haunting my dreams lately.
Seriously, the past week or so I've been seeing the same little guy in my dreams with alarming regularity. His face is thin, he has a bald head with 5 o'clock shadow on his face and scalp, big ears, and a toothy... well, not exactly a toothy grin so much as a he's showing his teeth like he's at the dentist. He's wearing a butterscotch-colored suit with leather shoulder patches that seems too large for him. His legs are about 2 feet long but his torso and arms are regular-sized. He's not a sinister figure, but he's not exactly comical either.
The first night I saw him he was a background figure, just a guy in a crowd scene but he was odd enough that I remember him and not the dream. The next night he was a little more prominent, and then night after that he was almost a featured extra. With no lines. That's when I realized that I'd seen him the previous two nights. Then the fourth night came and went and he wasn't there. But he was back the fifth night like an under-five player the producers have taken a liking to.
I don't know why he keeps coming back. It doesn't matter what kind of dream I'm having, he shows up. And I don't even remember the context of the dreams, but I do remember him. I'm getting concerned.
I haven't been eating badly, no hot sauce before bedtime so I don't think it's indigestion. I don't have a guilty conscience about anything so it's not that. For the life of me I can't figure out why I would keep seeing the almost-creepy little guy in my dreams. It could be that I expect to see him now, and so I do.
So far he hasn't said anything, and I'm not sure if I want him to or don't. He might make some sort of crazy pronouncement, like telling me to found my own nation or something. Which would fit in with a prior post of mine but would, honestly, creep me out like nobody's business. We'll see if he makes an appearance tonight.
Why couldn't my dreams be haunted by a supermodel?
Seriously, the past week or so I've been seeing the same little guy in my dreams with alarming regularity. His face is thin, he has a bald head with 5 o'clock shadow on his face and scalp, big ears, and a toothy... well, not exactly a toothy grin so much as a he's showing his teeth like he's at the dentist. He's wearing a butterscotch-colored suit with leather shoulder patches that seems too large for him. His legs are about 2 feet long but his torso and arms are regular-sized. He's not a sinister figure, but he's not exactly comical either.
The first night I saw him he was a background figure, just a guy in a crowd scene but he was odd enough that I remember him and not the dream. The next night he was a little more prominent, and then night after that he was almost a featured extra. With no lines. That's when I realized that I'd seen him the previous two nights. Then the fourth night came and went and he wasn't there. But he was back the fifth night like an under-five player the producers have taken a liking to.
I don't know why he keeps coming back. It doesn't matter what kind of dream I'm having, he shows up. And I don't even remember the context of the dreams, but I do remember him. I'm getting concerned.
I haven't been eating badly, no hot sauce before bedtime so I don't think it's indigestion. I don't have a guilty conscience about anything so it's not that. For the life of me I can't figure out why I would keep seeing the almost-creepy little guy in my dreams. It could be that I expect to see him now, and so I do.
So far he hasn't said anything, and I'm not sure if I want him to or don't. He might make some sort of crazy pronouncement, like telling me to found my own nation or something. Which would fit in with a prior post of mine but would, honestly, creep me out like nobody's business. We'll see if he makes an appearance tonight.
Why couldn't my dreams be haunted by a supermodel?
Monday, April 5, 2010
Doctors Don't Know
So I was thinking about stuff the other day, as I usually do, when a puzzle presented itself. I pulled out a few hairs on my leg - because that's what I do when I'm thinking - and I wondered how long it would take those hairs to grow back. Then I thought the whole thing through a little more and a question arose.
When someone shaves their legs, how does the hair know it's been shaved so that it can grow again?
If you're wondering how the hair knows when to stop growing you could always cop out and say 'genetics' and you'd probably be right. The hair on your legs is different from the hair on your head, and it only grows so long. But that still doesn't answer the first question, how does the hair know it's been shaved in the first place?
If you think about pulling the hair out that's different, there's nothing where there used to be something, so that's simple enough for the follicle to figure out. But if you just cut it off at the skin, how does the follicle realize the hair isn't as long as your genes say it should be? Something's gotta tell it, right? And then something has to tell it to start growing again.
Ask your doctor that one, I'll bet he doesn't know. You could also ask him why the human body still has an appendix, when keeping a vestigial organ that can get inflamed and burst and kill us seems like a negative evolutionary adaptation. Or ask him how Himalayan monks can raise their body temperature voluntarily to dry out soaking wet sheets that they've been wrapped in.
It's like a big game of Jeopardy without Alex Trebek, but nobody gets to know the answers.
When someone shaves their legs, how does the hair know it's been shaved so that it can grow again?
If you're wondering how the hair knows when to stop growing you could always cop out and say 'genetics' and you'd probably be right. The hair on your legs is different from the hair on your head, and it only grows so long. But that still doesn't answer the first question, how does the hair know it's been shaved in the first place?
If you think about pulling the hair out that's different, there's nothing where there used to be something, so that's simple enough for the follicle to figure out. But if you just cut it off at the skin, how does the follicle realize the hair isn't as long as your genes say it should be? Something's gotta tell it, right? And then something has to tell it to start growing again.
Ask your doctor that one, I'll bet he doesn't know. You could also ask him why the human body still has an appendix, when keeping a vestigial organ that can get inflamed and burst and kill us seems like a negative evolutionary adaptation. Or ask him how Himalayan monks can raise their body temperature voluntarily to dry out soaking wet sheets that they've been wrapped in.
It's like a big game of Jeopardy without Alex Trebek, but nobody gets to know the answers.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
I'm Back - And So's My Mojo
Okay, so it's still a little unsettled around here - it's not supposed to be this cold in SoCal - but I'm back and I can handle cold weather. You may recall a few weeks ago I was concerned that nothing strange had happened to me in a while. I think the Universe was taking pity on me, in preparation for my father's passing. Still tough to take, but things are getting back to normal. And I mean normal for me, not normal for you.
The weirdos are back.
Wheewww... That was me, heaving a huge sigh of relief. I was at the Post Office this morning, the big, fancy one down by City Hall, not the grody, tiny one down by RiteAid, mailing off a few query letters. I was standing in line beside that table they have, the one with all the forms you can fill out for everything, including voter registration. A puzzled-looking lady was standing there, filling out several forms. She wasn't particularly dirty, so she probably wasn't homeless, but she wasn't entirely present in the moment either, if you know what I mean. Her hair was scattered around, and she kept glancing up at every new person who entered as if they might want to steal something from her. I know the look, it's common among the crazy people who flock to me. Another clue was the very loud conversation she was having with herself; I was part of the conversation, I just didn't know it at the time.
'Temporary... temporary... what do they mean by temporary?'
'If I can just get these jerk-offs off my back...'
'What day... day... what's today? What day is it today?'
(a very kind older lady answered for me, not realizing I was supposed to be taking this bullet)
'Return? When? I don't know when I'm getting back from New York. Maybe I'll send a pizza back, take care of all this bullshit.'
All this while the line was slowly advancing. And guess who had just stepped to the front of the line when Crazy Lady finished filling out her forms? That's right, yours truly. She came up to me, reached out to touch me, thought better of it, then waved the forms at me.
'I'm gonna.... they told me to finish... when I finish with these just to go back to the first window. So I'm not cutting in front of you, okay?'
Of course I let her go, I would never impede one of my people in their daily lunacy. Besides, I was just glad to have them back.
The weirdos are back.
Wheewww... That was me, heaving a huge sigh of relief. I was at the Post Office this morning, the big, fancy one down by City Hall, not the grody, tiny one down by RiteAid, mailing off a few query letters. I was standing in line beside that table they have, the one with all the forms you can fill out for everything, including voter registration. A puzzled-looking lady was standing there, filling out several forms. She wasn't particularly dirty, so she probably wasn't homeless, but she wasn't entirely present in the moment either, if you know what I mean. Her hair was scattered around, and she kept glancing up at every new person who entered as if they might want to steal something from her. I know the look, it's common among the crazy people who flock to me. Another clue was the very loud conversation she was having with herself; I was part of the conversation, I just didn't know it at the time.
'Temporary... temporary... what do they mean by temporary?'
'If I can just get these jerk-offs off my back...'
'What day... day... what's today? What day is it today?'
(a very kind older lady answered for me, not realizing I was supposed to be taking this bullet)
'Return? When? I don't know when I'm getting back from New York. Maybe I'll send a pizza back, take care of all this bullshit.'
All this while the line was slowly advancing. And guess who had just stepped to the front of the line when Crazy Lady finished filling out her forms? That's right, yours truly. She came up to me, reached out to touch me, thought better of it, then waved the forms at me.
'I'm gonna.... they told me to finish... when I finish with these just to go back to the first window. So I'm not cutting in front of you, okay?'
Of course I let her go, I would never impede one of my people in their daily lunacy. Besides, I was just glad to have them back.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Maybe It's Me?
I think I'm giving off an odd vibe. Odder than normal, I mean. Usually I'm a magnet for strange people, crazy people, people with an agenda. I'm used to that, it's been that way for me for as long as I can remember. But I was just walking back from the gym now, and I had something odder than usual happen.
A guy tried to sell me groceries from the back of his car.
Seriously. On Colorado Blvd, a major thoroughfare in Pasadena. I was minding my own business, just going home, and I saw this guy messing around in the back of his little beater car. He had a collection of grocery bags - plastic not paper - and he just seemed to be rearranging them. As I approached he turned around, eased forward like Lefty the Salesman from Sesame Street, and asked me if I needed any apples or milk. I declined and moved on. It was like a very bad film noir, especially since it was 9 AM and I was wearing shorts and a sweaty shirt.
But I got to thinking, setting aside his rank amateurism - how did he know I wasn't a cop? - this guy has to be desperate, things for him have to have gotten very, very serious. Bad enough that it became a good idea to sell stolen groceries. (And I have no doubt that they were, in fact, stolen.) Economic recovery? Maybe it's not as close as the media wants us to believe.
And what is it about me that I look like the kind of guy who would buy a gallon of milk out of the back of a Yugo?
A guy tried to sell me groceries from the back of his car.
Seriously. On Colorado Blvd, a major thoroughfare in Pasadena. I was minding my own business, just going home, and I saw this guy messing around in the back of his little beater car. He had a collection of grocery bags - plastic not paper - and he just seemed to be rearranging them. As I approached he turned around, eased forward like Lefty the Salesman from Sesame Street, and asked me if I needed any apples or milk. I declined and moved on. It was like a very bad film noir, especially since it was 9 AM and I was wearing shorts and a sweaty shirt.
But I got to thinking, setting aside his rank amateurism - how did he know I wasn't a cop? - this guy has to be desperate, things for him have to have gotten very, very serious. Bad enough that it became a good idea to sell stolen groceries. (And I have no doubt that they were, in fact, stolen.) Economic recovery? Maybe it's not as close as the media wants us to believe.
And what is it about me that I look like the kind of guy who would buy a gallon of milk out of the back of a Yugo?
Friday, October 2, 2009
Tales From My Past - Crazy Lake Michigan
Before I relate this story, I swear it is completely, 100% true. I'll swear to God, Buddha, SpongeBob, whoever you want. I have a witness who was there for the whole thing.
A few years back my friend Sean and I were in Milwuakee, WI on a road trip. We'd flown into Chicago and accidentally happened upon Uno, the real one, where you order your pizza when you put your name on the waiting list. Say what you will about a New York pie, authentic Chicago pizza is awesome. After stuffing ourselves on three-inch-thick slices, we drove to Milwaukee, and on the way had to stop at the Mars Cheese Castle in Kenosha. It's a cool place, but it smells like fondue. And the building is constructed with cinderblock, not cheese, so it's kind of false advertising. If they say 'cheese castle' I expect the whole thing to be made of cheddar.
Anyway, we finished our business in Milwuakee and we had over half a day to kill before we had to be back at O'Hare in Chicago, so we went to Lake Michigan and rented bicycles. There's a bike path that winds around there, and even in August the wind off the lake was freezing cold. We got tired so we stopped at one of the park benches positioned every fifty yards or so.
We saw an old couple walking together - it's not just a bike path - and they stopped at the bench next to us and spoke to the people there. Those people looked kind of confused and amused, but I thought nothing of it. The couple then ambled over to me and Sean.
The man stood back, saying nothing, but the lady came over to us. She wore a pink and green pastel shirt, beige shorts, and she held her hands held up to her shoulders, palms down. She smiled. We smiled back. And then she said these exact words as she patted her hands on her shoulders.
"Goody goody, goody goody, goody goody goo."
Then she and her husband (I'm assuming) walked off. No explanation, they just went to the people sitting on the next bench over, and from the expression on those people's faces, the lady did exactly the same thing to them.
.....
Yeah. Freaky. And I swear it actually happened, Sean was right there for it, and to this day we are both completely at a loss to explain what the hell that was. Was she just bonkers and the guy was humoring her? Was she doing it on a dare? At her age? Was she marking us for death by ninjas at some time later in life? Who knows?
That whole trip was full of odd things. Like the homeless guy Sean wouldn't let me have a conversation with, or the Miller Beer mad scientist's lair, or the Brewers game, or the dangerous convenience store in the bad part of town. All stories for another time.
A few years back my friend Sean and I were in Milwuakee, WI on a road trip. We'd flown into Chicago and accidentally happened upon Uno, the real one, where you order your pizza when you put your name on the waiting list. Say what you will about a New York pie, authentic Chicago pizza is awesome. After stuffing ourselves on three-inch-thick slices, we drove to Milwaukee, and on the way had to stop at the Mars Cheese Castle in Kenosha. It's a cool place, but it smells like fondue. And the building is constructed with cinderblock, not cheese, so it's kind of false advertising. If they say 'cheese castle' I expect the whole thing to be made of cheddar.
Anyway, we finished our business in Milwuakee and we had over half a day to kill before we had to be back at O'Hare in Chicago, so we went to Lake Michigan and rented bicycles. There's a bike path that winds around there, and even in August the wind off the lake was freezing cold. We got tired so we stopped at one of the park benches positioned every fifty yards or so.
We saw an old couple walking together - it's not just a bike path - and they stopped at the bench next to us and spoke to the people there. Those people looked kind of confused and amused, but I thought nothing of it. The couple then ambled over to me and Sean.
The man stood back, saying nothing, but the lady came over to us. She wore a pink and green pastel shirt, beige shorts, and she held her hands held up to her shoulders, palms down. She smiled. We smiled back. And then she said these exact words as she patted her hands on her shoulders.
"Goody goody, goody goody, goody goody goo."
Then she and her husband (I'm assuming) walked off. No explanation, they just went to the people sitting on the next bench over, and from the expression on those people's faces, the lady did exactly the same thing to them.
.....
Yeah. Freaky. And I swear it actually happened, Sean was right there for it, and to this day we are both completely at a loss to explain what the hell that was. Was she just bonkers and the guy was humoring her? Was she doing it on a dare? At her age? Was she marking us for death by ninjas at some time later in life? Who knows?
That whole trip was full of odd things. Like the homeless guy Sean wouldn't let me have a conversation with, or the Miller Beer mad scientist's lair, or the Brewers game, or the dangerous convenience store in the bad part of town. All stories for another time.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm never going to go to a Halloween party dressed as a hobo. Sure, it's cute for little kids, with their shoe-polish beards and their little bindles on broom handles, wearing Dad's old clothes and too-big shoes. But things get different when you're an adult man.
I know that if I go to a Halloween party dressed as a hobo, I'm going to have a wreck in my car. This would be the one time I don't wear a seat belt and I'll be thrown free of the wreckage and I'll land in the bushes where my wallet will fall to the ground. When the paramedics find me they're going to assume that I'm a for-real homeless person who got hit while crossing the street. Instead of going to the good private hospital they'll take me to the crooked county hospital where they take uninsured homeless people.
The crooked hospital will grudgingly take care of me, but when I try to tell them that I'm not really homeless I was just wearing a Halloween costume, they'll assume that I'm delusional, just another crazy homeless guy. The more I protest the more they're going to think I'm totally nuts, and since I won't have my wallet I can't prove anything. And then when they try to call my family or friends nobody will answer the phone because they'll assume the call is from a telemarketer trying get one over on them by impersonating a crooked hospital.
When the crooked hospital finally realizes the mistake they made, instead of letting me go with an apology, they're going to decide to 'deal with' me. They know if they let me go I'll head straight for the cops and the newspapers and find a lawyer so I can put them in jail and then sue them into oblivion. They'll tell me they're letting me go, but they're really going to make me into Soylent Green.
This is why I usually dress in a toga for Halloween; if I have a wreck nobody's going to assume I'm a real Roman.
I know that if I go to a Halloween party dressed as a hobo, I'm going to have a wreck in my car. This would be the one time I don't wear a seat belt and I'll be thrown free of the wreckage and I'll land in the bushes where my wallet will fall to the ground. When the paramedics find me they're going to assume that I'm a for-real homeless person who got hit while crossing the street. Instead of going to the good private hospital they'll take me to the crooked county hospital where they take uninsured homeless people.
The crooked hospital will grudgingly take care of me, but when I try to tell them that I'm not really homeless I was just wearing a Halloween costume, they'll assume that I'm delusional, just another crazy homeless guy. The more I protest the more they're going to think I'm totally nuts, and since I won't have my wallet I can't prove anything. And then when they try to call my family or friends nobody will answer the phone because they'll assume the call is from a telemarketer trying get one over on them by impersonating a crooked hospital.
When the crooked hospital finally realizes the mistake they made, instead of letting me go with an apology, they're going to decide to 'deal with' me. They know if they let me go I'll head straight for the cops and the newspapers and find a lawyer so I can put them in jail and then sue them into oblivion. They'll tell me they're letting me go, but they're really going to make me into Soylent Green.
This is why I usually dress in a toga for Halloween; if I have a wreck nobody's going to assume I'm a real Roman.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
