Judgement Day

This my 666th post to this blog. Really. I don't feel particularly evil but I must be since this is my 666th post. There you are, some nice circular logic to start off with.
   You know we just had a judgement day come and go with nary a person raptured up into the sky. But there's another one coming - they assure us it's for reals this time - in October, just a few months away. Which got me to thinking: do I really want to chance going to meet my maker without being absolved of my sins? I've got a skeleton or two in my closet that might just keep me from being raptured, assuming they check that sort of thing. I better come clean. I'm not Catholic but I do approve of the sacrament of confession, it keeps you honest.

So in honor of my 666th post, here are my confessions, in no particular order.

I'm not big-boned, I really am fat.
   I'm the one who threw the spit wad
I bought beer for minors in college. I actually made some decent walking-around money too.
   You know that thing, that one time, that you thought someone else did? I did it.
I never thought Gore Vidal's articles in Playboy were very good.
   I used to pee off the balcony of my apartment when it rained at night.
I don't care about the Spurs or the Cowboys. The latest plot twists of 90210 concern me more, and I don't even know what channel that show's on.
   I didn't take complete advantage of the opportunities that were presented to me in college. Like Mary Ellen - her real name - I could have totally hit that and I never did.*
I stole the office chair I'm sitting in right now.
   I think most newborns are ugly. Except my nieces and nephew, of course.
I was cruel to Dave when he needed kindness. But he was a real dick so it's actually not that bad.
   I didn't like M*A*S*H without Frank Burns. Just didn't work.
As a font, Garamond doesn't do it for me.
   Pussy Galore? Who names their kid... oooohhh... I just got it...


* words of advice given to me by a wise Okie friend of mine: 'Every piece of tail you turn down puts you one behind for the rest of your life.'

Peanut Butter Baron

I have friends in Australia. They live there, I mean, not just visiting. Family friends who emigrated years ago and are now citizens. They love their adopted country and with good reason, I've been to Australia and it's a pretty cool place. But there's one thing...
   They can't get peanut butter candy there. The kids who were born here in America miss the bad-for-you-but-oh-so-good empty calories that is a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, for example. I've sent them care packages before, I need to send another one.
   My sister hosted a German exchange student last year, Lara, who could eat her weight in peanut butter if you let her. In an interesting coincidence, she can't get peanut butter in Germany, or Reese's Peanut Butter cups either. So my sister has sent her the big-ass Costco jars of PB to brighten the dreary Teutonic winter.
   But the fact that people in Australia and Germany can't get simple junk food we take for granted here seems like it might be a business opportunity. There has to be a bigger market than one former exchange student in Germany and four adults in Australia, there's got to be all kinds of expats and visitors and what have you all across this globe just drooling for the chance to get their chocolate into some peanut butter that they can't find in their own country.
   And I could be the guy to give it to them. The Tony Montana* of peanut butter, if you will. Or the Nino Brown**, if you prefer. I could be the Godfather of peanut butter product imports, spreading out my creamy favors like Jif on white bread. I would be - literally - the candy man.
   I'd build my empire like Andrew Carnegie, one crushed soul at a time, until I amassed wealth and power far outstripping that of small third-world nations. And as I gained more and more money and influence I'd realize how terribly shallow and unfulfilling my ambitions had been, and I would end up alone and friendless in an echoing mansion built with the profits from my peanut butter empire. My last words would be 'green machine' mumbled through lips almost plastered shut with peanut butter.
   Yeah... I got it all planned out. First you get the peanut butter, then you get the power, then you get the women...



* from Scarface, the one with Al Pacino not the one with Paul Muni
** from New Jack City, with Wesley Snipes, who is in prison for tax evasion now

Delayed Compassion

My grandmother wasn't a very nice person.
   I'm talking about my father's mother, who lived a block away from us when I was growing up. I spent my childhood enslaved to her and my grandfather, doing all sorts of manual labor for 25 cents an hour. She was a child of the Depression, one of the 'Feminine Mystique' generation, and generally sullen, resentful, and spiteful. Not to mention openly racist, but that wasn't her so much as the times she grew up in.
   After my grandfather died it fell to me to take care of her, which meant I just did the same thing I always did, mowed her lawn and cut limbs and weeded and all sorts of other things. She didn't drive, so she stayed by herself in her big house, waiting for visitors and emerging for graduations and holidays. It was kind of sad, actually, she'd been so mean and objectionable that she spent the last few years of her life mostly alone.
   It wasn't until just today that I realized how awful that time of her life must truly have been. Sure, she had the telephone, and she loved her San Antonio Spurs on TV, but she spent 99 percent of her time all by herself. No visitors, family only on special occasions, a visit from a Lutheran minister once every few months to take communion. I knew all this at the time - how could I not - but I was still so close to my decades-long servitude that it didn't matter to me.
   Now it makes me want to weep. No one should have to live like that, not even a bitter, hateful old woman who never did anything for anyone else. Time and distance have given me perspective and softened my own hard feelings.
   I feel sorry for her now, trapped that way, in a suburban prison largely of her own making. And it makes me realize the prison I'm building around myself, isolated, alone, becoming increasingly disconnected from people. I don't want to go out like that. I want a house filled with friends and family, I want people to drop by at all hours, I want to live my last days with noise and clamor and company, not bitter and alone, waiting for the end to come.
   Cross your fingers I'll get my wish.

How Do You Know?

I was watching Hamlet this past weekend, the Kenneth Branagh version, which is in Technicolor and totally rocks, and I specifically noted the line Hamlet says to Horatio, when they're chasing Hamlet's father's ghost in Act 1 - 'there are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosphy.' Truer words were never written.
   For instance, I can tell when a woman I know is pregnant. Happens all the time - the part where I can tell, not the part where women I know get pregnant. Nobody believes that I can do this, so the last time it happened I wrote down the day and time when I took at look at one of my former employees and thought 'she sure looks pregnant.' She didn't have a big belly, she may not even have known herself that she was expecting, something about her just... changed. I could look at her and tell she was different. Fast forward about four months and she announces that she is, indeed, with child. Out of my wallet I whipped out the yellow post-it I'd written the day and time on, just to prove that I knew. Somehow, I knew.
   You ever have that sensation like something is crawling up your neck or across your ear and then five minutes later someone calls you? Obviously something is telling you that someone is thinking about you, or talking about you (or both), but there's no way you could say for sure what that something is. You just know.
   Or how about when you're waiting for your name or ticket to be drawn at a raffle, and you know, you just know that your name is the one they're going to pick next. Happened to me last December when I was at my city District meeting and they were pulling names out of the hat for Rose Bowl tickets. Somehow, some way, I knew that when they were reaching for the fourth pair of tickets that they would call my name. And they did. Don't know how I knew, but I did.
   So there's something working here. Scientists say that until you have hard and fast proof nothing of the sort exists, but experientially - anecdotally - you know it's true. At least it happens to me a lot, I don't know about the rest of you.
   I just wish I could make money at it. But they don't pay you the big bucks because you can tell the doorbell's going to ring.


COMMUTE: there - 40 minutes      back - 36 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 60 days

Socrates Walks Into A Bar...

Hey, buddy, what can I get you?
   Ah, that is the question, is it not?
Uh... right. Beer?
   Is this beer refreshing?
Yes.
   Is this beer delicious?
Uh-huh.
   Is it your opinion, then, that I would find this beer thirst-quenching?
Well... sure. Look, pal, I don't got all day.
   And how do you know that I, in particular, enjoy beer?
You just look like a beer kind of fellow.
   Yet I look like no other person in here, and I see many of them drinking beer.
Maybe you're right, how about a tequila sunrise?
   Is this tequila sunrise refreshing?
All right, that's it. When you want to stop being a wise ass, let me know.
   No wait, don't go. I'm sorry, it's just... I use questions with my students, and it's hard for me to turn off at the end of the day.
No harm done, pal.
   Socrates.
Harvey.
   You're a virtuous man, Harvey.
People have called me worse. So you're a teacher?
   Do I look like a teacher?
Jeez, you just said...
   Sorry! Sorry! Okay, I'm turning it off. Seriously. This time for real.
All right. What'll it be?
   That's a tough one. You know what I'd really like?
The only thing I know is that I don't know.
   Ah... you got me there.
People think that because I'm a bartender I don't read.
   Man, I'm parched.
There is no one thirstier than you.
   Another good one.
I got a lot of time during the day.
   I'll take that beer. You got any pistachios back there?

Off The Grid?

I have friends in Australia who recently made the investment in wind and solar power, enough that they took their house entirely off the grid. That's right, no bill from Australian Con Ed, or whatever they call it over there. They also collect rainwater that they use on their plants and to wash clothes, so they're really close to being entirely self-sufficient, no reliance on local utilities at all.
   I know what you're thinking, good for them, but how many people have the time, money, or perseverance to see that sort of thing through? Aren't we all still stuck on the grid?
   Not so fast. I've been reading Scientific American, listening to NPR, surfing the web and generally paying attention to things, and I think as a society we're pretty close to a major change in infrastructure.
   Just like the Internet changed content delivery for all media - music especially - there is a coming revolution in the way homes will generate and store power that will have effects far beyond keeping the porch light on. There are now solar generators in development that will electrolyze water, putting they hydrogen produced into fuel cells stored underground. Already there are smaller-sized wind generators that produce more than enough wattage to power a home. Jay Leno has several of these wind generators, as a matter of fact, he uses them to power his gigantic warehouses full of expensive cars, and the excess he feeds back into the grid. One of the richest men on television actually gets a check back from SoCal Edison every month.
   Just like the Internet took content generation out of the hands of a very small number of producers, publishers, and record labels, in the next few years we're going to see immense changes in the way power is generated.
   So what?
   It's a growth industry, for one, so if you're an investor - or job-seeker - that's something to look at. It's also a vast, inevitable unknown. When suburban communities, office buildings, and baseball stadiums regularly generate far more power than they consume, what will happen to the utilities? Will they go out of business? Will they change their business to something else? What are we going to do with all that extra energy?
   Interesting times.

It's Not The End Of The Decade

I've seen all sorts of 'Decade in Review' stuff on TV these past two days, and I've let it go. But the more I think about it, the more I hate it. It's not the end of the decade, just like the year 2000 was not the start of the new millennium.
   Our Western method of noting the years begins with the birth of Christ, or at least when people generally assume Jesus was born. The whole CE-BCE academic conceit aside - don't get me started on that one - the Gregorian calendar begins with the year 1. There is no year 0. Since a decade is ten years, the first decade would have ended on Dec 31st, 10, and the next decade would have begun on Jan 1st, 11. This means the first century would have ended on Dec 31st 100, the second century would have begun on Jan 1st, 101, etc. etc. etc. The second millennium began on Jan 1st, 2001, which means the first decade of that millennium ends next year, on Dec 31st, 2010.
   Is it so hard to get this right?
   And don't try to tell me that if everybody thinks the decade ends on the last day of 2009 that makes it so. The truth cannot be altered by ignorant consensus. If I get a bunch of morons together who all agree that the sky is yellow, that does not mean that when I step outside I'm going to look up to see a lemon heaven. The sky is blue, no matter what people say otherwise, and this is not the end of this decade, even though all the jackasses on TV say it is.
   Maybe I'll be less cranky with the new decade. You know, in 2011.

Where's My X-Ray Vision?

If you're a science geek you've no doubt been following the progress of the Large Hadron Collider, and you know that it's once again operational, and set to come up to full power some time next year. If you're not a science geek, you've probably heard about those crazy particle physicists who are trying to smash protons together over in Switzerland (and France, the thing is huge). It's the largest science experiment ever, it's the largest machine ever built, and is the most expensive pure research project ever. Some misinformed souls also think that when it comes up to full power, the LHC will create a black hole that will destroy the Earth; they've even tried to get court injunctions against turning it on. This is all just ignorant panic and crazy talk, and hides the truth of the real purpose of the LHC.
   It's designed to give people super-powers.
   Stay with me on this one. The LHC is a colossal undertaking, huge tunnels and giant magnets and elementary particles slamming into each other at the speed of light. It cost $9 billion - that's billion with a capital B - and involves the coordination of people and materials from Europe to North America to Asia to Africa to Antarctica (really). Who else could manage that but some sort of evil genius like Lex Luthor or Blofeld?
   I've stripped away the veil, haven't I? It all makes sense now. There's no way that scientists and governments could come together to see a project through almost 40 years of planning and construction... but an evil genius could. An evil genius is almost obligated to do that kind of thing. And all this 'Higgs boson' talk, it's just a smoke screen. It's obvious to any thinking man that the real purpose behind this whole endeavor is to make regular people into super-powered heroes. Why else go to all the trouble? For science? Yeah, sure...
   So I want my super-powers. And I want something cool, not something lame. No giant stilts or some gloppy glue gun, I want wings - angel wings, not bat wings - or the ability to turn my skin to steel or super-speed or control over the elements. Something like that.
   It's only a matter of time, once the LHC powers up all the way next year. Watch the skies...

iPod Hijinks

A few weeks back the owner of my apartment building decided that the time had come to replace some of the worn exterior wood bits. This meant that for about two weeks straight there were carpenters all over the place, with saws going, wrenches turning, hammers banging, the whole works. I got used to seeing the guys, and since I was one of the few people around during the day they got used to seeing me. We even had a few conversations about my car, and I got used to being around people once again.
   Then they were gone, and I was alone. Bereft, as it were. No more racket interrupting my concentration, no more trucks blocking the entrance, no more Big Gulp cups on the stairs.
   So this morning I was headed out to the gym, wearing my iPod. While I do wear it at the gym, I rarely wear it any other time, so this was unusual. I was walking down the stairs, iPod kicking it old school with a little Public Enemy, Flavor Flav with 'Can't Do Nuttin' for You Man', a jaunty little ditty if ever there was one. Like many people do when they think they're alone, I was singing along, which I thought was humming, or maybe whispering.
   But I wasn't alone. I rounded the corner and came face-to-face with the plumber. He was coming up the stairs as I was going down and we met in the middle. Since he was the one with the toolbox I stepped out of the way and he kind of raised an eyebrow at me.
   'Gotta love the Flavor,' he said as he climbed to the second floor.
   Perfect. There's nothing like an extremely white guy like me getting caught rapping. Kind of pathetic and presumptuous at the same time. Guilty, as charged.
   I turned the iPod off until I got to the gym.

Makeup Sponges and Cigarette Butts

When you do a job, any job, you generate a certain kind of debris. Working in an office you generate sheets of paper (especially in a 'paperless' office) and pens with no ink. If you're a chef you generate compostable wet garbage like the ends of carrots or chicken bones, if you're construction worker it's sawdust and stray nails. Every profession generates its junk, even the performing arts, it just took me a little thinking to find out what that was.
   Given my status 'between assignments' I've had to drop acting classes; yes, oddly enough for someone in LA, I'm an actor, you can see my tour de force here. Anyway, it's been a month or more, and it took me a while to notice what I wasn't noticing, if you catch my drift. Since an actor doesn't produce anything - besides pure genius, I mean - I didn't think there were any by-products to the process. Then I realized the weeks since I'd been backstage at a theater was the exact same time since I'd seen any discarded makeup sponges or cigarette butts. The place used to be a wasteland of beige filter tips with matching foundation-stained sponges, like crab apples dropped from a gnarled, twisted stump of a tree. And if the theater played host to young Hollywood, with its one-note emoting and abominable line readings, you'd likely end up hip-deep in debris. But that hasn't been a problem since I dropped my classes.
   It's been a while since I've seen anybody smoking at all, as a matter of fact (except the H-1B workers behind an office building), when I used to see actors smoking all the time, especially the young, greasy, desperate wanna-bes. And I haven't seen a used, carelessly discarded makeup sponge at all since I last left the theater.
   Does this mean that actors in general and young actors in particular are dirty, thoughtless people, more concerned with how other people see them than with picking up after themselves? Of course it does. Does that make them bad people? Only the sloppy ones, the rest of us are pretty decent folks. Unless they're more successful than we are, then they're evil bastards.

To Boldly Go...

A few weeks back I turned off my cable service - told you I would - and now my TV is pure antenna. I have line-of-sight to the transmitters on Mt. Wilson about 5 miles away, so I get many, many stations crystal clear and perfect. And on one of those channels last night, I re-discovered the original Star Trek.
   Years ago, back when I was in elementary school, I discovered Trek at after-school care. I found myself alone in the Lego room one day, wandered out to the TV room where people were gathered, took one look at the show - it was the one with the rock-eating monster protecting her babies - and I was hooked. Hooked like a perch on a worm, like a duck on a junebug, like a runway model on smack. I watched every episode from then on, forgetting Legos and even abandoning Lincoln Logs. I managed to convince my mother to take me to one of the first Star Trek conventions, where I got a windbreaker and a copy of the Starfleet Technical Manual. Yeah, I was a wee little nerd.
   In the intervening years Paramount has put out movie after movie, and done series after series. But I gotta tell you, none of them match classic Trek. I haven't seen an episode with the original cast in years, and this was actually very well written, Shatner was a far better actor than he's given credit for, James Doohan was excellent, and even if I found faults with the direction and editing, the whole thing was waaaaay better than I remember it being.
   So now, decades later, I'm going back to where it all started. Classic Trek. The wee little nerd inside me is jumping for joy.

Robotic Seniors

I've written before about how the Japanese concern me, what with their penchant for talking toilets and their creepy human-like robots. Well now they've gone too far again, this time with human-assist mechanics intended for old people. Japan has a lot of old people, and they're only going to get more as their population ages, so recently they unveiled three new mobility assist devices. Two strap to a person's legs to help them walk, and the other is designed to sit on and zip around. The first two look kind of silly, but that's no concern if it helps people get around, and the other one... well, I just don't see how grandma is going to balance well enough to use it.
   But the point is that once again the Japanese are messing with the natural order of things.
   See, the thing about getting older is that you get wiser and sneakier. Craftier. You've seen more things and had more experience, so you're better equipped - mentally - to get one over on people. The trade off is you get feebler, sometimes slowly, sometimes alarmingly quickly. But now the Japanese are inventing stuff to help old people stay stronger for longer. A noble pursuit, at first glance, but think about it for a moment. With these things strapped to them, old people, naturally sneakier to begin with, are going to stay strong and vital far longer than they otherwise would. I'm not sure I want a crafty, cybernetic codger who can kick my ass.
   Young people are stronger but stupider, old people are smarter but weaker. It's the way of things, like the change in seasons or the slow decline of NBC as a viable TV network. If we start making old people into Six Million Dollar Men and Women, what's left for the young people of the world? Around here kids in their twenties are already pretty much worthless, the one thing they have is their youth and vitality, if you take that away Lord knows what will happen. I'd say there could be revolution in the streets, but there'd probably be a squadron of elderly peacekeepers with their cybernetic parts ready to dispense justice with a good helping of common sense advice.

Seven Steps to World Domination

While I have the opportunity for self-examination I've been thinking of new and different careers. I've been applying for jobs, but that's kind of the problem, they're just jobs, something to make rent and keep me off the street during working hours. But I didn't really have an answer to the question 'what is my passion?' After some consideration, and long, embarrassing conversations with myself, I realized that my passion had been staring me in the face, I just refused to acknowledge it.
   I took one of those career tests and the answer came up 'evil genius.' That's right, I'm suited for a life pursuing world domination, a la Lex Luthor or Auric Goldfinger.

So just what does it take to be an evil genuis? I thought it over and came up with a seven-item checklist:
   1. Not just smart, but scary smart. They know all the capitals of all the states, and they can recite them backwards in reverse alphabetical order.
   2. Hired goons. An evil genius never soils his hands when there are people who do that for a living. Besides, stupid hired goons make a smart man seem even smarter by comparison.
   3. Unlimited funds. You never see an evil genius counting pennies or searching pay phones for change. When you need a weather control module or a tachyon converter, you can't go budget.
   4. A scarred past. Evil geniuses did not grow up with loving parents and cuddly pets. They were beaten by their carny father and sold to Gypsies by their mother.
   5. A physical oddity. Nothing like a hunchback or no legs, that would make them more tragic than evil. Baldness seems like a common evil genius trait, and a scar of some sort, or maybe a cybernetic part, like a hand or an eye or something.
   6. Cheating death. Any evil genius worth his salt has seemingly fallen to his death, been exploded in the secret base, or been devoured by his own tank of starving piranhas time after time after time. If there's no inescapable death to escape from, how smart an evil genius are you?
   7. A pure and noble enemy. An evil genius is only as evil as his enemy is good. If there's no one to contend against, what's the point of being an evil genius?

Thus far I'm 0 for 7. I have some work to do.