I have bemoaned my impending old-man-hood from time to time, citing the little ways I know that I'm becoming a codger well before I should. I just got my next big sign.
I show up at the bank five minutes before it opens.
This morning I had to deposit my paycheck - I don't use direct deposit in order to control my company's cash flow - but needed to work out first. And I woke up so early I had to wait for the gym to open, but I did that at home. I got my sweat on, slowly since I've been sick lately, and then I got in the truck and rolled bank-ward.
Only after I was nearly there did I realize that the bank might not be open quite yet. It was ten till nine. When I got there, sure enough, the bank doesn't open until 9 AM. So I sat in the parking lot filling out my deposit slip until the nice lady opened the door.
Two guys beat me to the door, both of them well past retirement age. I was standing in line behind white-haired geezers who had been out of the work force longer than I have been in. Yup, just me, the tellers, and two chatty old men who had probably been up three or four hours by that time.
So had I.
I swear, my time is shifting earlier and earlier in the day. I never have slept as long as most people - which used to concern me until I realized that's my normal - but I'm waking up earlier than I ever have before.
Pretty soon I'll be eating dinner at 4:30 PM and trimming my ear hair before I go listen to retirees like the Rolling Stones perform their 'Before We Break A Hip' tour.
It's not a matter of if my transformation will take place, but of how long I have before I start wearing black socks with sneakers and talking to people who aren't there. Maybe next week?
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Monday, October 31, 2011
Unclear On The Concept
I was at my sister's house this Halloween, watching TV as my brother-in-law handed out candy. It's been a very, very long time since I participated in a kids' Halloween, for the last decade or so it's been grown-up parties where people drink just a bit too much, behave awkwardly and rack up a list of regrets they'll need to apologize for the next day. So past time to get back to the innocence of kid-centric night.
But I noticed a disturbing trend. None of the kids seemed to get the concept behind 'trick or treat.' It was like they hadn't been completely briefed on what they were expected to do, so they were kind of winging it, making it up as they went along.
Seriously. There were kids who'd say it before they knocked. Or some kids would knock or ring the bell and mutter 'trick or treat' under their breaths. Or some wouldn't knock at all or say 'trick or treat' and the only way we knew they were there was because they'd yell back to their parents 'no one's home.'
What happened to the good old days? We knew how to trick or treat. If the light's on you run up to the front door, you ring the bell, and when the person opens the door you scream 'TRICK OR TREAT!!' at the top of your lungs. That's how you do it, none of this half-assed mumbling, or, worse still, ring the bell and just stand there with your pillowcase hanging open like someone owes you a handful of the good candy, the kind you only give to little kids.
There was one group - just one - who knew how to ring the bell and yell 'TRICK OR TREAT!' And, guess what, that group was the one my sister was chaperoning. They rang the bell before coming back inside. Everyone else failed by smaller or larger degrees.
Shouldn't there be a class or something? A remedial lecture for the Trick-or-Treat clueless? Hell, put it on the Web, make sure these kids know how the evening's supposed to go. How come they're not learning life skills?
But I noticed a disturbing trend. None of the kids seemed to get the concept behind 'trick or treat.' It was like they hadn't been completely briefed on what they were expected to do, so they were kind of winging it, making it up as they went along.
Seriously. There were kids who'd say it before they knocked. Or some kids would knock or ring the bell and mutter 'trick or treat' under their breaths. Or some wouldn't knock at all or say 'trick or treat' and the only way we knew they were there was because they'd yell back to their parents 'no one's home.'
What happened to the good old days? We knew how to trick or treat. If the light's on you run up to the front door, you ring the bell, and when the person opens the door you scream 'TRICK OR TREAT!!' at the top of your lungs. That's how you do it, none of this half-assed mumbling, or, worse still, ring the bell and just stand there with your pillowcase hanging open like someone owes you a handful of the good candy, the kind you only give to little kids.
There was one group - just one - who knew how to ring the bell and yell 'TRICK OR TREAT!' And, guess what, that group was the one my sister was chaperoning. They rang the bell before coming back inside. Everyone else failed by smaller or larger degrees.
Shouldn't there be a class or something? A remedial lecture for the Trick-or-Treat clueless? Hell, put it on the Web, make sure these kids know how the evening's supposed to go. How come they're not learning life skills?
Sunday, October 23, 2011
What They Want*
By now I'm sure you've heard of the 'Occupy' protests, first on Wall Street in the city so nice they named it twice, New York, New York, then gradually all across the country and the globe. People from many different walks of life, with many different agendas, are camping out close to the places where people with power exercise that power, and they're not going to leave until they're heard.
The media doesn't know what to make of this. Still, after several weeks and burgeoning numbers the news anchors and talking heads just can't wrap their minds around such a radical, populist uprising. It's kind of frightening to those who think they're in charge, when there's no central argument to try to refute, there's no effective way to marginalize and minimize these people. In my mind I had a bit of a role to play in this, given my appeal to the wealthy just a few days before the 'Occupy Wall Street' protest started. If I actually did, I can say I'm proud to have helped.
But people still ask 'what do they want?' as if delivering one thing on a Santa-bound wish list could satisfy the protestors. 'What do they want?' really means 'how do we make them go away?' Well, I think I have some insight into this. Allow me to explain what I believe the 'Occupy' protestors really want:
Everyone's encountered a bully in their lifetime. The big doofus-y kid in middle school who trips you going down the hall, and even though the teachers see it they don't do anything. That kid. The jerk, the kid who thinks he's beyond discipline, who thinks he doesn't have to follow the same rules everyone else does.
So you confront him. You tell him to leave you alone. He asks what, specifically, has he done that you want to keep from happening. You tell him not to trip you any more. So he knocks your books out of your hands. And when you ask him not to do that, he hits your pencil while you're trying to take notes. And when you ask him to let you take notes in peace he aims for your nuts when you're playing dodge ball. You're dancing to his tune, until you realize that addressing things one at a time isn't going to get you anywhere. You realize that there is one over-arching consideration, one broad-spectrum request you can make that will cover every transgression this bully can throw at you.
Stop being a dick.
That's what the 'Occupy' protestors want. They want those people in charge of the economy - bankers especially but governments too - to just stop being dicks. That's a general enough mandate that people understand to mean any behavior that goes beyond the bounds of common decency. There's no need to list individual grievances because that diminishes the message.
It's really straightforward, mainstream media. There's not much more to it, you wealthy few who hold the purse strings of the global economy. It is just as simple as that. You know what it means, don't pretend you don't. Just listen to the message, mull it over, consider it carefully, and then act on it.
Stop being a dick.
* It's been two months since I last posted. I was kind of running dry there for a while and I needed to lay off. While I was not blogging I realized I came across inspiration at least once a day, proving that there is still water in the well.
The media doesn't know what to make of this. Still, after several weeks and burgeoning numbers the news anchors and talking heads just can't wrap their minds around such a radical, populist uprising. It's kind of frightening to those who think they're in charge, when there's no central argument to try to refute, there's no effective way to marginalize and minimize these people. In my mind I had a bit of a role to play in this, given my appeal to the wealthy just a few days before the 'Occupy Wall Street' protest started. If I actually did, I can say I'm proud to have helped.
But people still ask 'what do they want?' as if delivering one thing on a Santa-bound wish list could satisfy the protestors. 'What do they want?' really means 'how do we make them go away?' Well, I think I have some insight into this. Allow me to explain what I believe the 'Occupy' protestors really want:
Everyone's encountered a bully in their lifetime. The big doofus-y kid in middle school who trips you going down the hall, and even though the teachers see it they don't do anything. That kid. The jerk, the kid who thinks he's beyond discipline, who thinks he doesn't have to follow the same rules everyone else does.
So you confront him. You tell him to leave you alone. He asks what, specifically, has he done that you want to keep from happening. You tell him not to trip you any more. So he knocks your books out of your hands. And when you ask him not to do that, he hits your pencil while you're trying to take notes. And when you ask him to let you take notes in peace he aims for your nuts when you're playing dodge ball. You're dancing to his tune, until you realize that addressing things one at a time isn't going to get you anywhere. You realize that there is one over-arching consideration, one broad-spectrum request you can make that will cover every transgression this bully can throw at you.
Stop being a dick.
That's what the 'Occupy' protestors want. They want those people in charge of the economy - bankers especially but governments too - to just stop being dicks. That's a general enough mandate that people understand to mean any behavior that goes beyond the bounds of common decency. There's no need to list individual grievances because that diminishes the message.
It's really straightforward, mainstream media. There's not much more to it, you wealthy few who hold the purse strings of the global economy. It is just as simple as that. You know what it means, don't pretend you don't. Just listen to the message, mull it over, consider it carefully, and then act on it.
Stop being a dick.
* It's been two months since I last posted. I was kind of running dry there for a while and I needed to lay off. While I was not blogging I realized I came across inspiration at least once a day, proving that there is still water in the well.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Call Me Ricky
I've done it again.
A while back I posted about a predicament entirely of my own making. Seems one of my neighbors started calling me 'Dan' and I never corrected him, figuring that there was no way we'd live near each other long enough for that to be an issue. Fast forward six years and Bob was still calling me 'Dan' and I had let it go on so long that I couldn't correct him without it becoming obvious that I was negligent, dismissive prick.
It's happening again.
At work there's a lady - whose name I do not know, and I'm fairly certain we've never been formally introduced - who called me Richard. She did this in passing a few weeks ago and I wasn't certain she was talking to me. So I let it slide.
Then she did it again a week or so later. Again, not looking at me, but I was the only male in the room so unless 'Richard' is a mouse in someone's pocket she was talking to me.
She did it again Monday. Richard. Not looking at me but clearly couldn't be talking to anyone else. I don't even know where that comes from, the initial on my ID badge, which I wear diligently, is a big bold 'D.' There must be another devilishly handsome, generously endowed man named Richard who resembles me wandering the office from time to time. It's really the only explanation.
I am half-tempted to let this one go too. Not because I can't be bothered to correct her... well, not entirely for that reason... but because I want to explore why she calls me by someone else's name. She hasn't looked at me once when she's using the wrong name, so I suspect she doesn't really know my name, and is using the wrong one to prompt me to correct her. And if that's the case I absolutely cannot. It's the principle of the thing.
I'm thinking of it as a science experiment. Sure... let's go with that.
A while back I posted about a predicament entirely of my own making. Seems one of my neighbors started calling me 'Dan' and I never corrected him, figuring that there was no way we'd live near each other long enough for that to be an issue. Fast forward six years and Bob was still calling me 'Dan' and I had let it go on so long that I couldn't correct him without it becoming obvious that I was negligent, dismissive prick.
It's happening again.
At work there's a lady - whose name I do not know, and I'm fairly certain we've never been formally introduced - who called me Richard. She did this in passing a few weeks ago and I wasn't certain she was talking to me. So I let it slide.
Then she did it again a week or so later. Again, not looking at me, but I was the only male in the room so unless 'Richard' is a mouse in someone's pocket she was talking to me.
She did it again Monday. Richard. Not looking at me but clearly couldn't be talking to anyone else. I don't even know where that comes from, the initial on my ID badge, which I wear diligently, is a big bold 'D.' There must be another devilishly handsome, generously endowed man named Richard who resembles me wandering the office from time to time. It's really the only explanation.
I am half-tempted to let this one go too. Not because I can't be bothered to correct her... well, not entirely for that reason... but because I want to explore why she calls me by someone else's name. She hasn't looked at me once when she's using the wrong name, so I suspect she doesn't really know my name, and is using the wrong one to prompt me to correct her. And if that's the case I absolutely cannot. It's the principle of the thing.
I'm thinking of it as a science experiment. Sure... let's go with that.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Hobby Shopping
I've decided I need a hobby.
Writing doesn't count because that's an avocation, I'm talking about a hobby, something that sucks up precious cash and occupies precious time. My father used to build things out of wood, my sister used to scrapbook, one of my friends collects Star Wars stuff. A hobby takes up space, requires you to purchase tools that you can use nowhere else, and usually produces things that also take up space. And that you load in the back of the station wagon and try to sell at craft fairs.
While I was pondering my next hobby I realized that although a cellar full of canned tomatoes does count as a hobby - assuming I had a cellar - what I really needed was a DANGEROUS hobby. Something that adrenaline junkies would look at and say 'whoa, dude, you may want to re-think that one...' So here they are:
Nude Beekeeper - bears are nude when they forage in tree stumps for honey, can I do any less?
Noisy Rattlesnake Handler - and I mean I would be noisy, not the snakes. I figure I'd stomp around, play the cymbals, anything to make the snakes angry.
Robot Builder - not the 'Battlebots' kind of robots, though, as much as I appreciate circular saw blades on remote-controlled vehicles. I mean I'd create robots that could think, and that would develop souls. Or Skynet, I haven't decided yet.
Nude Lion Tamer - this is pretty much the same as nude beekeeping, except I'd replace the bees with lions. And lions don't make honey. But they make great rugs.
Ghostbuster - this isn't dangerous for the ghost hunting so much as for the copyright infringement. But who you gonna call?
Rocket Car Valet - as tough as it is to keep these things in a straight line on a salt flat, how difficult would they be to jockey into a standard parking spot? And do they even have keys?
Graffiti Librarian - aside from having to lurk around railroad rights-of-way and underpasses, taggers don't generally like outsiders taking note of their work, much less trying to find the appropriate Dewey Decimal classification.
Writing doesn't count because that's an avocation, I'm talking about a hobby, something that sucks up precious cash and occupies precious time. My father used to build things out of wood, my sister used to scrapbook, one of my friends collects Star Wars stuff. A hobby takes up space, requires you to purchase tools that you can use nowhere else, and usually produces things that also take up space. And that you load in the back of the station wagon and try to sell at craft fairs.
While I was pondering my next hobby I realized that although a cellar full of canned tomatoes does count as a hobby - assuming I had a cellar - what I really needed was a DANGEROUS hobby. Something that adrenaline junkies would look at and say 'whoa, dude, you may want to re-think that one...' So here they are:
Nude Beekeeper - bears are nude when they forage in tree stumps for honey, can I do any less?
Noisy Rattlesnake Handler - and I mean I would be noisy, not the snakes. I figure I'd stomp around, play the cymbals, anything to make the snakes angry.
Robot Builder - not the 'Battlebots' kind of robots, though, as much as I appreciate circular saw blades on remote-controlled vehicles. I mean I'd create robots that could think, and that would develop souls. Or Skynet, I haven't decided yet.
Nude Lion Tamer - this is pretty much the same as nude beekeeping, except I'd replace the bees with lions. And lions don't make honey. But they make great rugs.
Ghostbuster - this isn't dangerous for the ghost hunting so much as for the copyright infringement. But who you gonna call?
Rocket Car Valet - as tough as it is to keep these things in a straight line on a salt flat, how difficult would they be to jockey into a standard parking spot? And do they even have keys?
Graffiti Librarian - aside from having to lurk around railroad rights-of-way and underpasses, taggers don't generally like outsiders taking note of their work, much less trying to find the appropriate Dewey Decimal classification.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Creepy From The Heat
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...
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...
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Dear Mr. Rich Person
Dear Mr. Rich Person:
I’m not writing to people who are just reasonably well-off, or to people who simply have more money than I do. No, I’m writing to you, the fabulously wealthy individuals who are in charge of our economy. I know, I know, it makes you uncomfortable to hear that, and some of you may not even understand it completely, but you are the straw that stirs the drink, if the straw were your out-of-all-proportion influence in politics and the economy and the drink were the fate of every American who does not share your incredible good fortune. You know who you are, you’re the multi-millionaire on your way to being a billionaire, you’re the person who needs to find ways around campaign financing laws to contribute to your candidate – of either party. You’re the person who is part of the one thing our Founding Fathers loathed more than anything else and tried with all their might to keep from growing upon our shores: an hereditary aristocracy. Multi-generational wealth, unearned and undeserved, has given you a kind of leverage and influence not seen since the Robber Barons of the late Nineteenth Century. It’s you I’m talking to.
You’re treading a thin line, you have been for the past few decades, and you’re courting disaster. The thin line is the tissue-thin space between dissent and anarchy, and the disaster you’re courting is the breakdown of the very system that made possible the circumstance you were born into.
You see, America needs a strong middle class. It’s vital to everything we’ve come to expect from our modern economy. A large, thriving middle class not only makes the goods that your company sells, they buy the goods other companies sell. For the most part people don’t need much, but when they feel comfortable in their situation they’re more than willing to part with a few of their hard-earned dollars and line your pockets with even more filthy lucre. A strong, large, vibrant middle class provides the grease that keeps the American economy turning, which provides you the fabulous wealth you in no way deserve.
When you break down the middle class, as you have done in the past three decades by keeping wages stagnant and eliminating jobs and generally ignoring the fates of most of the human beings in this nation, you erode the very base of the pyramid you teeter atop. This is a lesson the French aristocracy learned too late back in the Eighteen Century – power to govern always derives from the consent of the governed. And if you think you’re not governing just because you haven’t run for or been elected to office you’re making another mistake.
Mr. Rich Person, if for no other reason than enlightened self-interest, you absolutely must start paying attention to your responsibilities to preserve American society. It’s not all about you, despite everything you’ve come to expect over the past three decades. When the haves get most of the economic pie and the have-nots fight for crumbs, sooner or later the have-nots are going to realize there are far more of them than you, and they can just take as much pie as they want. Mr. Rich Person, you need to realize that we really are all in this together, and in a very tangible sense your continued safety and prosperity requires tending to and assuring the safety and prosperity of those less fortunate than you.
Don’t worry, even though this newfound and unfamiliar civic responsibility means you’ll make less money than you did before, you’ll still make far more than you can possibly spend in your lifetime. But you’ll enjoy the added benefit of not being the first against the wall when the revolution comes.
Sincerely,
-- your friend Don
I’m not writing to people who are just reasonably well-off, or to people who simply have more money than I do. No, I’m writing to you, the fabulously wealthy individuals who are in charge of our economy. I know, I know, it makes you uncomfortable to hear that, and some of you may not even understand it completely, but you are the straw that stirs the drink, if the straw were your out-of-all-proportion influence in politics and the economy and the drink were the fate of every American who does not share your incredible good fortune. You know who you are, you’re the multi-millionaire on your way to being a billionaire, you’re the person who needs to find ways around campaign financing laws to contribute to your candidate – of either party. You’re the person who is part of the one thing our Founding Fathers loathed more than anything else and tried with all their might to keep from growing upon our shores: an hereditary aristocracy. Multi-generational wealth, unearned and undeserved, has given you a kind of leverage and influence not seen since the Robber Barons of the late Nineteenth Century. It’s you I’m talking to.
You’re treading a thin line, you have been for the past few decades, and you’re courting disaster. The thin line is the tissue-thin space between dissent and anarchy, and the disaster you’re courting is the breakdown of the very system that made possible the circumstance you were born into.
You see, America needs a strong middle class. It’s vital to everything we’ve come to expect from our modern economy. A large, thriving middle class not only makes the goods that your company sells, they buy the goods other companies sell. For the most part people don’t need much, but when they feel comfortable in their situation they’re more than willing to part with a few of their hard-earned dollars and line your pockets with even more filthy lucre. A strong, large, vibrant middle class provides the grease that keeps the American economy turning, which provides you the fabulous wealth you in no way deserve.
When you break down the middle class, as you have done in the past three decades by keeping wages stagnant and eliminating jobs and generally ignoring the fates of most of the human beings in this nation, you erode the very base of the pyramid you teeter atop. This is a lesson the French aristocracy learned too late back in the Eighteen Century – power to govern always derives from the consent of the governed. And if you think you’re not governing just because you haven’t run for or been elected to office you’re making another mistake.
Mr. Rich Person, if for no other reason than enlightened self-interest, you absolutely must start paying attention to your responsibilities to preserve American society. It’s not all about you, despite everything you’ve come to expect over the past three decades. When the haves get most of the economic pie and the have-nots fight for crumbs, sooner or later the have-nots are going to realize there are far more of them than you, and they can just take as much pie as they want. Mr. Rich Person, you need to realize that we really are all in this together, and in a very tangible sense your continued safety and prosperity requires tending to and assuring the safety and prosperity of those less fortunate than you.
Don’t worry, even though this newfound and unfamiliar civic responsibility means you’ll make less money than you did before, you’ll still make far more than you can possibly spend in your lifetime. But you’ll enjoy the added benefit of not being the first against the wall when the revolution comes.
Sincerely,
-- your friend Don
Sunday, August 7, 2011
It Was An Accident, I Swear
I haven't had the television on in about three days.
I swear it's an accident. Not planned. Last time I had the idiot box* up and running was Thursday night. It was the 'So You Think You Can Dance' results show. Yes, I do watch that, wanna make something of it? I didn't think so...
Anyway, Friday I was in Austin and after I got back that night the TV just didn't come on. I read the Silmarillion (I have a first edition). Last night, Saturday, I was busy with busy work and whatnot and before I knew it the clock showed 9:30 PM and COPS was good and over. Crap, I missed my favorite show. Or favorite non-dance related show. And today, Sunday, there's just nothing to watch in the first place, aside from me getting busy writing and more busy work. So no TV today so far either.
I think it's the longest stretch I've gone without TV, without either being on an international flight or being stuck somewhere awful. And you know what? It doesn't bother me. Except for missing COPS and shirtless meth addicts trying to escape officers of the law, that's always good for a laugh. Oh, and NASCAR is on cable for 2/3 of the season, so I'm missing that too. I think I may have been a rum runner in a previous life, it's the only explanation I have for why I like to watch cars making left turns for 500 miles.
I got rid of cable going on two years ago, haven't missed it except for Cartoon Network - I loves me some Venture Brothers - and I don't get ABC or PBS here at my house. So very slowly I've been involuntarily weaned from the vast wasteland.
I think I'm better for it. But, honestly, I think it's good to have time alone with your own thoughts. I think too many people are uncomfortable with what's running through their heads and they find it easier to find external validation. But when you spend quiet time with yourself you learn what's important to you, and what's important at all. Kind of scary, actually, which is why people would rather avoid it. I think I'm going to jump in with both feet.
The TV's staying off more often than it's coming on.
* which is actually an idiot flat panel, but that doesn't roll off the tongue quite as elegantly
I swear it's an accident. Not planned. Last time I had the idiot box* up and running was Thursday night. It was the 'So You Think You Can Dance' results show. Yes, I do watch that, wanna make something of it? I didn't think so...
Anyway, Friday I was in Austin and after I got back that night the TV just didn't come on. I read the Silmarillion (I have a first edition). Last night, Saturday, I was busy with busy work and whatnot and before I knew it the clock showed 9:30 PM and COPS was good and over. Crap, I missed my favorite show. Or favorite non-dance related show. And today, Sunday, there's just nothing to watch in the first place, aside from me getting busy writing and more busy work. So no TV today so far either.
I think it's the longest stretch I've gone without TV, without either being on an international flight or being stuck somewhere awful. And you know what? It doesn't bother me. Except for missing COPS and shirtless meth addicts trying to escape officers of the law, that's always good for a laugh. Oh, and NASCAR is on cable for 2/3 of the season, so I'm missing that too. I think I may have been a rum runner in a previous life, it's the only explanation I have for why I like to watch cars making left turns for 500 miles.
I got rid of cable going on two years ago, haven't missed it except for Cartoon Network - I loves me some Venture Brothers - and I don't get ABC or PBS here at my house. So very slowly I've been involuntarily weaned from the vast wasteland.
I think I'm better for it. But, honestly, I think it's good to have time alone with your own thoughts. I think too many people are uncomfortable with what's running through their heads and they find it easier to find external validation. But when you spend quiet time with yourself you learn what's important to you, and what's important at all. Kind of scary, actually, which is why people would rather avoid it. I think I'm going to jump in with both feet.
The TV's staying off more often than it's coming on.
* which is actually an idiot flat panel, but that doesn't roll off the tongue quite as elegantly
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Flat Earther
I had a brief 'discussion' on Facebook today. A friend posted some ignorant right-wing comment about being glad Florida was requiring drug tests for welfare recipients. I posted my objections, chief among them being the patronizing and racist assumption that all welfare recipients are drug users, or at least potential drug users. I mean, really, when you hear 'welfare' is the image that comes to mind 'Good Times' or 'Waltons'? Be honest.
My friend's friend posted how she was happy about the legislation, what do you have to be afraid of if you're not using drugs, things like that. I responded with the proposition that testing for drugs before you can get public assistance assumes that you are taking drugs in the first place and need to be caught, it's a presumption of guilt. Which is against the 5th, 6th, and 14th amendments to the Constitution. She argued that it's common knowledge that people on welfare wear designer clothes and drive new cars, completely avoiding addressing my point and perpetuating yet another racist sterotype. The discussion degenerated from there.
Every fact you can find on the Web, every statistic from governmental sources, every actual study posted shows that people are on welfare for two years or less, they're usually single mothers in dire straits not drug dealers gaming the system, and that most never go back.
Yet this myth persists of the welfare cheat getting rich from public assistance, and some people will not be dissuaded from it, no matter how reasoned the discourse. It's like trying to convince a flat-earther that the world is, in actual fact, round. No matter the evidence you place in front of him, he's still going to insist that his version of things is the right one.
This is the problem we face in politics and society today. Willful ignorance. Flat-earthers. People who are so invested in being right that they refuse to entertain the possibility that they might be wrong. It's childish, really, and divisive. Why try to understand the larger societal problems that create the need for welfare, when you can just repeat ad hominem attacks that would make Archie Bunker blush?*
We need to get past this, we need to stop insisting we're right and start listening to why we might be wrong. Then we might get something accomplished.
* seems I'm on a 70's TV kick today, just go with it.
My friend's friend posted how she was happy about the legislation, what do you have to be afraid of if you're not using drugs, things like that. I responded with the proposition that testing for drugs before you can get public assistance assumes that you are taking drugs in the first place and need to be caught, it's a presumption of guilt. Which is against the 5th, 6th, and 14th amendments to the Constitution. She argued that it's common knowledge that people on welfare wear designer clothes and drive new cars, completely avoiding addressing my point and perpetuating yet another racist sterotype. The discussion degenerated from there.
Every fact you can find on the Web, every statistic from governmental sources, every actual study posted shows that people are on welfare for two years or less, they're usually single mothers in dire straits not drug dealers gaming the system, and that most never go back.
Yet this myth persists of the welfare cheat getting rich from public assistance, and some people will not be dissuaded from it, no matter how reasoned the discourse. It's like trying to convince a flat-earther that the world is, in actual fact, round. No matter the evidence you place in front of him, he's still going to insist that his version of things is the right one.
This is the problem we face in politics and society today. Willful ignorance. Flat-earthers. People who are so invested in being right that they refuse to entertain the possibility that they might be wrong. It's childish, really, and divisive. Why try to understand the larger societal problems that create the need for welfare, when you can just repeat ad hominem attacks that would make Archie Bunker blush?*
We need to get past this, we need to stop insisting we're right and start listening to why we might be wrong. Then we might get something accomplished.
* seems I'm on a 70's TV kick today, just go with it.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Like Sand Through The Hourglass...
I'm getting old.
I know that I've lamented my impending old-man-ness* from time to time... all right, I've done it frequently, but the process is speeding up. I can feel my dewy youth slipping away like the orderly who steals your pills from your dresser when you're just resting your eyes. I've noticed my slide by several factors:
I listen to NPR almost exclusively. All right, I admit I've been doing that for over a decade, but that just shows you how early I began my descent into advanced old-man-ity.*
I harbor a secret longing nostalgia for 70's AM radio. Which I guess isn't secret any more. I wasn't old enough to have any say in what we listened to in the car, and my parents really, really, really liked lame music, so that's what we listened to. Lame AM 70's radio. Lately I've been appreciating Abba and Hall and Oates. I may need someone to put me out of my misery before I discover Leo Sayer again.
I do a killer Fred Mertz impression. I did it just this afternoon, dead-on perfect. It's only a matter of time before I too wear my pants rib-cage high like Fred, and not in a mocking way.
I talk to myself in the grocery store. 'Big deal,' you say, 'lots of people do that to remember what they need to buy.' But talking to myself while running errands is the preliminary stage before I start muttering all the time. And start chewing an imaginary mouthful of something. And get huge tufts of hair growing out of my ears.
Sweet things are too sweet. I understand there is more sugar in prepared food now than there used to be, but I'm losing what used to be an epic sweet tooth. When I was in the full bloom of youth I could almost polish off an entire pie. So maybe aging prematurely isn't entirely bad.
I understand how governmental policies from twenty years ago have shaped the society we have now. If that doesn't make me an old man before my time, I don't know what else would. Reganomics is directly responsible for the mess we're in now, and if you want I can tell you exactly why. And get off my lawn, you stupid kids!
I have a lawn.
I know how escrow works.
I know how to navigate State and Federal bureaucracy to establish a business and pay taxes.
I go to the post office at least once a week.
There's nothing I can do about it. I'm done. Gone. Might as well get me a Hoveround and a helper monkey. Really. At least the helper monkey, I've always wanted a helper monkey. His name would be Mr. Chimps, which is a reference to a 72-year-old film. Old men fondly remember old films.
ADDENDUM: I think Saturday Night Live is funny again. For years, decades, it was definitely not at all funny, in any way. It's funny again. I think maybe it's because they stopped trying to do 'Saturday Night Live' and just started doing funny stuff again. Or maybe I'm just old...
* old-man-dom? old-man-itude?
I know that I've lamented my impending old-man-ness* from time to time... all right, I've done it frequently, but the process is speeding up. I can feel my dewy youth slipping away like the orderly who steals your pills from your dresser when you're just resting your eyes. I've noticed my slide by several factors:
I listen to NPR almost exclusively. All right, I admit I've been doing that for over a decade, but that just shows you how early I began my descent into advanced old-man-ity.*
I harbor a secret longing nostalgia for 70's AM radio. Which I guess isn't secret any more. I wasn't old enough to have any say in what we listened to in the car, and my parents really, really, really liked lame music, so that's what we listened to. Lame AM 70's radio. Lately I've been appreciating Abba and Hall and Oates. I may need someone to put me out of my misery before I discover Leo Sayer again.
I do a killer Fred Mertz impression. I did it just this afternoon, dead-on perfect. It's only a matter of time before I too wear my pants rib-cage high like Fred, and not in a mocking way.
I talk to myself in the grocery store. 'Big deal,' you say, 'lots of people do that to remember what they need to buy.' But talking to myself while running errands is the preliminary stage before I start muttering all the time. And start chewing an imaginary mouthful of something. And get huge tufts of hair growing out of my ears.
Sweet things are too sweet. I understand there is more sugar in prepared food now than there used to be, but I'm losing what used to be an epic sweet tooth. When I was in the full bloom of youth I could almost polish off an entire pie. So maybe aging prematurely isn't entirely bad.
I understand how governmental policies from twenty years ago have shaped the society we have now. If that doesn't make me an old man before my time, I don't know what else would. Reganomics is directly responsible for the mess we're in now, and if you want I can tell you exactly why. And get off my lawn, you stupid kids!
I have a lawn.
I know how escrow works.
I know how to navigate State and Federal bureaucracy to establish a business and pay taxes.
I go to the post office at least once a week.
There's nothing I can do about it. I'm done. Gone. Might as well get me a Hoveround and a helper monkey. Really. At least the helper monkey, I've always wanted a helper monkey. His name would be Mr. Chimps, which is a reference to a 72-year-old film. Old men fondly remember old films.
ADDENDUM: I think Saturday Night Live is funny again. For years, decades, it was definitely not at all funny, in any way. It's funny again. I think maybe it's because they stopped trying to do 'Saturday Night Live' and just started doing funny stuff again. Or maybe I'm just old...
* old-man-dom? old-man-itude?
Friday, July 29, 2011
Were I A Billionaire...
Everybody wants to have lots of money, and most of us don't want to have to do anything to get it. That would be the best, tons of cash in a Scrooge McDuck-style money bin just free and clear. I'd dive and cavort and everything else Scrooge McDuck does but without all the bother of actually having to manage my money.
There are, according to Forbes Magazine which tracks these things, 1,011 billionaires in the world. Aside from being a complete socio-economic travesty and an insult to hard-working people across the globe, the fact that there are over one thousand billionaires means it's becoming increasingly common. The possibility exists, is what I'm saying. I could be one of them.
But what do you do with $1 billion in assets? I mean, really. When you have more than enough for any ten lifetimes, what do you do with it? You could endow libraries, like Andrew Carnegie, or you could support crackpot political movements that pretend to help the very people they're screwing the most, like the Koch brothers. So I sat and pondered what I would do if I had the money to do anything at all.
Build a Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang car. One that really flies.
Endow pure scientific research projects. But the scientists have to call me 'Uncle Moneybags' on weekly video conferences broadcast over the web.
Punch Alan Greenspan in the nose. And kick Phil Gramm in the nuts. Bastards ruined our economy for no good reason...
Go to Vegas and procure midget hookers, then make them carry my luggage.
Buy lots of ranch land and raise gigantic armadillos, ones big enough for kids to ride, then take over the kiddie-ride industry.
Go to clown college. Then flunk out.
Teach an army of gorillas sign language, then send them all to school to get their MBAs. Then get them jobs at every major US corporation. And then when anyone at that corporation puts forward some illegal, immoral, or just plain stupid idea the gorilla gets to rend them limb from limb. That ought to cut down on the shenanigans in corporate America.
Make a Summer blockbuster that doesn't completely suck.
Learn how to mambo. Because 'mambo' sounds funny.
Start a World Family Reunion, that everyone has to attend, all six billion of us. We're all related, after all, if you go back far enough. People don't remember that enough.
Buy up all the TV air time for one day and just turn it off. All of it, every channel. You people need to figure out what to do without the idiot box flashing at you every two seconds.
See? My wants are few, my needs even fewer. I could probably do all that with just a couple of billion dollars, no need for $50 billion or anything outrageous.
There are, according to Forbes Magazine which tracks these things, 1,011 billionaires in the world. Aside from being a complete socio-economic travesty and an insult to hard-working people across the globe, the fact that there are over one thousand billionaires means it's becoming increasingly common. The possibility exists, is what I'm saying. I could be one of them.
But what do you do with $1 billion in assets? I mean, really. When you have more than enough for any ten lifetimes, what do you do with it? You could endow libraries, like Andrew Carnegie, or you could support crackpot political movements that pretend to help the very people they're screwing the most, like the Koch brothers. So I sat and pondered what I would do if I had the money to do anything at all.
Build a Chitty-Chitty Bang-Bang car. One that really flies.
Endow pure scientific research projects. But the scientists have to call me 'Uncle Moneybags' on weekly video conferences broadcast over the web.
Punch Alan Greenspan in the nose. And kick Phil Gramm in the nuts. Bastards ruined our economy for no good reason...
Go to Vegas and procure midget hookers, then make them carry my luggage.
Buy lots of ranch land and raise gigantic armadillos, ones big enough for kids to ride, then take over the kiddie-ride industry.
Go to clown college. Then flunk out.
Teach an army of gorillas sign language, then send them all to school to get their MBAs. Then get them jobs at every major US corporation. And then when anyone at that corporation puts forward some illegal, immoral, or just plain stupid idea the gorilla gets to rend them limb from limb. That ought to cut down on the shenanigans in corporate America.
Make a Summer blockbuster that doesn't completely suck.
Learn how to mambo. Because 'mambo' sounds funny.
Start a World Family Reunion, that everyone has to attend, all six billion of us. We're all related, after all, if you go back far enough. People don't remember that enough.
Buy up all the TV air time for one day and just turn it off. All of it, every channel. You people need to figure out what to do without the idiot box flashing at you every two seconds.
See? My wants are few, my needs even fewer. I could probably do all that with just a couple of billion dollars, no need for $50 billion or anything outrageous.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Food Confidence
Have you ever had a sandwich prepared by a surly food service worker?
How did that make you feel about the meal you paid for? Because today I felt suspicious, which kind of made me surly myself.
When you walk into a restaurant or fast-food joint, usually you're greeted with a smile, perhaps an over-enthusiastic one or a sarcastic one, but still a smile. When I was a waiter it was my job to be friendly even if I hated your guts from the moment you walked in. Especially if I hated your guts.
Obviously this was part of our training, if for no other reason than a smile prompts bigger tips. It really does, I made an experiment of it one weekend.
But there's a better reason why food service workers are friendly. It gives the customer confidence that no one's going to do something to their food. A meal prepared by a surly worker is inherently no better or worse than a meal prepared by a similarly-skilled friendly worker. But if the guy making your sandwich isn't smiling you're pretty sure he's up to something. With your food. That you're going to put in your mouth.
All this ran through my head today as I watched the frowning lady at Schlotzky's make my sandwich. I couldn't see her hands, which totally bothered me. What kind of morning did she have that made her that frowny? Was it her kids? Her dog? Her husband who I might resemble closely enough that revenge on me would be revenge on him? Why wasn't she happy making my meal? Or at least less upset? What was she doing back there? To my Deluxe Original?
I'm not ashamed at all to say that when I got back to my desk at work I double-checked my sandwich before I took a bite. Nothing amiss so I proceeded with the eating. But it's only maybe the second or third time I've ever felt the need to do that. If she'd just smiled a little, tiny bit, even for a moment, I would have been more at ease.
So smile, food service workers, if for no other reason than to give the rest of us false hope you're not doing anything weird with our sandwiches.
How did that make you feel about the meal you paid for? Because today I felt suspicious, which kind of made me surly myself.
When you walk into a restaurant or fast-food joint, usually you're greeted with a smile, perhaps an over-enthusiastic one or a sarcastic one, but still a smile. When I was a waiter it was my job to be friendly even if I hated your guts from the moment you walked in. Especially if I hated your guts.
Obviously this was part of our training, if for no other reason than a smile prompts bigger tips. It really does, I made an experiment of it one weekend.
But there's a better reason why food service workers are friendly. It gives the customer confidence that no one's going to do something to their food. A meal prepared by a surly worker is inherently no better or worse than a meal prepared by a similarly-skilled friendly worker. But if the guy making your sandwich isn't smiling you're pretty sure he's up to something. With your food. That you're going to put in your mouth.
All this ran through my head today as I watched the frowning lady at Schlotzky's make my sandwich. I couldn't see her hands, which totally bothered me. What kind of morning did she have that made her that frowny? Was it her kids? Her dog? Her husband who I might resemble closely enough that revenge on me would be revenge on him? Why wasn't she happy making my meal? Or at least less upset? What was she doing back there? To my Deluxe Original?
I'm not ashamed at all to say that when I got back to my desk at work I double-checked my sandwich before I took a bite. Nothing amiss so I proceeded with the eating. But it's only maybe the second or third time I've ever felt the need to do that. If she'd just smiled a little, tiny bit, even for a moment, I would have been more at ease.
So smile, food service workers, if for no other reason than to give the rest of us false hope you're not doing anything weird with our sandwiches.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
An iPhone Failure
You know what I do with my iPhone?
I make phone calls.
Yup, kickin' it old school. I actually like to talk to people instead of typing at them. I do send and receive the occasional text message, I'm not a complete Luddite, but I really do prefer to talk with a real human being.
I have a game or two to while away the odd free moment or two, but I haven't paid for a single app and I probably never will. And, no, one of those games is not 'Angry Birds.'
I don't like being tagged in pictures and I don't tag anyone else, I don't take pictures with my phone because I don't want anyone to know where I've been. I don't use the compass or the GPS or anything on my iPhone that has the remotest possibility of talking back to me.
I just want a freakin' phone.
And before you start in with the 'so why did you buy an iPhone, you big hypocrite?' I can tell you it's an old one, which I got for $49 from ATT when I moved. Fifty bucks for a new phone and I'll take what they give me.
If you need to reach me, give me a call, I may not answer any text messages.
I make phone calls.
Yup, kickin' it old school. I actually like to talk to people instead of typing at them. I do send and receive the occasional text message, I'm not a complete Luddite, but I really do prefer to talk with a real human being.
I have a game or two to while away the odd free moment or two, but I haven't paid for a single app and I probably never will. And, no, one of those games is not 'Angry Birds.'
I don't like being tagged in pictures and I don't tag anyone else, I don't take pictures with my phone because I don't want anyone to know where I've been. I don't use the compass or the GPS or anything on my iPhone that has the remotest possibility of talking back to me.
I just want a freakin' phone.
And before you start in with the 'so why did you buy an iPhone, you big hypocrite?' I can tell you it's an old one, which I got for $49 from ATT when I moved. Fifty bucks for a new phone and I'll take what they give me.
If you need to reach me, give me a call, I may not answer any text messages.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm concerned that I might suddenly develop see-through vision.
I don't mean x-ray vision, not like I can see bones or spleens or what have you. I'm concerned that I might suddenly develop the ability to see people as if they had no clothes on, like the X-Ray Specs they used to advertise on the back of comic books.
On first consideration that might seem to be a pretty cool thing, especially when you think of supermodels or Playboy playmates or the hot chick checking groceries. But then, after a moment's consideration I realized that I've never actually seen a supermodel in person, and the only Playmate I've seen was a coked-out wreck fifteen years ago at the Dallas Fantasy Fair, and though she had a booming bod her face looked like what you'd expect a coked-out Playmate stuck at the Dallas Fantasy Fair would look like. Not good. Not good at all.
Then you consider all the homeless guys and truckers and transsexual-looking people you see in a week (or at least that I see in a week) and the opportunity to see the occasional MILF or college cheerleader with no clothes on doesn't seem like a very good trade-off.
And the thought of going to the local Wal-Mart and seeing the sagging, jiggling, varicose-veined train wrecks there would make me want to claw my eyes out.
God invented Indonesian sweat shops so that we Americans could have the clothes our flabby bodies need to hide our excesses and indiscretions. And I'm fine stopping right there, no need to look any further.
I just don't see how Superman does it...
I don't mean x-ray vision, not like I can see bones or spleens or what have you. I'm concerned that I might suddenly develop the ability to see people as if they had no clothes on, like the X-Ray Specs they used to advertise on the back of comic books.
On first consideration that might seem to be a pretty cool thing, especially when you think of supermodels or Playboy playmates or the hot chick checking groceries. But then, after a moment's consideration I realized that I've never actually seen a supermodel in person, and the only Playmate I've seen was a coked-out wreck fifteen years ago at the Dallas Fantasy Fair, and though she had a booming bod her face looked like what you'd expect a coked-out Playmate stuck at the Dallas Fantasy Fair would look like. Not good. Not good at all.
Then you consider all the homeless guys and truckers and transsexual-looking people you see in a week (or at least that I see in a week) and the opportunity to see the occasional MILF or college cheerleader with no clothes on doesn't seem like a very good trade-off.
And the thought of going to the local Wal-Mart and seeing the sagging, jiggling, varicose-veined train wrecks there would make me want to claw my eyes out.
God invented Indonesian sweat shops so that we Americans could have the clothes our flabby bodies need to hide our excesses and indiscretions. And I'm fine stopping right there, no need to look any further.
I just don't see how Superman does it...
Friday, July 22, 2011
If I Were A Blues Musician...
If I were a blues musician I'd have a great nickname. Because all blues musicians have great nicknames, like Blind Lemon Jefferson, T-Bone Walker, or Lightnin' Hopkins. If you have a cool nickname people treat you better, they move aside when you pass by, they hold doors open for you. Mostly, though, you get that cool nickname on your tombstone so people 100 years from now can pass by your grave and wonder how cool that guy was to get a nickname like 'Jelly Roll.'
So I decided to cut out the middleman - and, coincidentally, all the tragedy and pathos of being an actual blues musician - and come up with my own blues nickname. I tried to think of things that define me, or at least that others might think define me.
Scratchin' Don H.
Needs a Shave Hartshorn
Junk Food Hartshorn
Don 'Cut the Damn Grass' Hartshorn
Knee Poppin' Don
Old Man Groan Hartshorn
Don 'Too Much Mayonnaise' Hartshorn
The Bellybutton Lint Kid
White Guy Rhythm Hartshorn
Bad Haircut Don
Don 'Pays Bills On Time' Hartshorn
Sullen Resentment Hartshorn
Inappropriate Mutterin' Don
One of those just has to fit. I'll go to local jazz clubs and get the emcee to announce me over the microphone, see which one has the right reverb.
So I decided to cut out the middleman - and, coincidentally, all the tragedy and pathos of being an actual blues musician - and come up with my own blues nickname. I tried to think of things that define me, or at least that others might think define me.
Scratchin' Don H.
Needs a Shave Hartshorn
Junk Food Hartshorn
Don 'Cut the Damn Grass' Hartshorn
Knee Poppin' Don
Old Man Groan Hartshorn
Don 'Too Much Mayonnaise' Hartshorn
The Bellybutton Lint Kid
White Guy Rhythm Hartshorn
Bad Haircut Don
Don 'Pays Bills On Time' Hartshorn
Sullen Resentment Hartshorn
Inappropriate Mutterin' Don
One of those just has to fit. I'll go to local jazz clubs and get the emcee to announce me over the microphone, see which one has the right reverb.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Feeding The Five-Year-Old In Me
Guess what I had for dinner? Go on, I'll give you three guesses and I'm positive you're never going to figure it out.
A hot dog wrapped in a tortilla with cheese and some salsa?
Jeez... first try...
Yup, I ate a tortilla-wrapped hot dog for dinner. With some cantaloupe and grapes on the side. For lunch I had lemonade and yogurt and some bread pudding (not really sweet, but it's very good. From Sun Harvest.) For breakfast I had iced tea and Pop Tarts, the chocolate chip kind, which are much more honest than the fruit-flavored kind which pretend not to be the candy they so obviously are.
I'm regressing back to my childhood. When I was five this was what I thought it would be like to be an adult and to feed myself. Not junk food, not really (except for the Pop Tarts and hot dog), but not the most nutritious day I've had in my life either.
I don't know, lately I just can't be bothered. Either I'll go days subsisting on fruit and vegetables because I just can't quite make it to the grocery store for animal protein, or I end up raiding the pantry for whatever's in there that might go well together. No middle ground. I'm waiting for the 'leftover lemon chicken - ranch style beans' night that will inevitably happen some time soon.
I can cook meals. Really. I used to be a cook, years ago. I can make fifteen pans of lasagna and four-hundred-fifty hand-breaded cheese sticks and work the ovens and stoves on the line. And still have time to read to orphans. I'm good. But I'm terribly, terribly lazy, especially when the meal is only for me, myself and I. I dread what's going to happen to me next. When I was five I thought a stellar breakfast would be Lucky Charms but with all the pesky cereal bits taken out. I pined for a bowl of just Lucky Charms marshmallows but my mother foiled my efforts to bring my dreams to life.
Now that I'm good and grown I might just need to make that happen. Although maybe that's a cry for help...
A hot dog wrapped in a tortilla with cheese and some salsa?
Jeez... first try...
Yup, I ate a tortilla-wrapped hot dog for dinner. With some cantaloupe and grapes on the side. For lunch I had lemonade and yogurt and some bread pudding (not really sweet, but it's very good. From Sun Harvest.) For breakfast I had iced tea and Pop Tarts, the chocolate chip kind, which are much more honest than the fruit-flavored kind which pretend not to be the candy they so obviously are.
I'm regressing back to my childhood. When I was five this was what I thought it would be like to be an adult and to feed myself. Not junk food, not really (except for the Pop Tarts and hot dog), but not the most nutritious day I've had in my life either.
I don't know, lately I just can't be bothered. Either I'll go days subsisting on fruit and vegetables because I just can't quite make it to the grocery store for animal protein, or I end up raiding the pantry for whatever's in there that might go well together. No middle ground. I'm waiting for the 'leftover lemon chicken - ranch style beans' night that will inevitably happen some time soon.
I can cook meals. Really. I used to be a cook, years ago. I can make fifteen pans of lasagna and four-hundred-fifty hand-breaded cheese sticks and work the ovens and stoves on the line. And still have time to read to orphans. I'm good. But I'm terribly, terribly lazy, especially when the meal is only for me, myself and I. I dread what's going to happen to me next. When I was five I thought a stellar breakfast would be Lucky Charms but with all the pesky cereal bits taken out. I pined for a bowl of just Lucky Charms marshmallows but my mother foiled my efforts to bring my dreams to life.
Now that I'm good and grown I might just need to make that happen. Although maybe that's a cry for help...
Friday, July 15, 2011
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
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
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
There's Your Problem Right There
I was just in Sears, where I haven't been in quite a while. The last time was, I believe, before December 2006. I can't exactly remember why I was in Sears then, but I know I visited right before I went to Australia, and that was December 2006. So it's been a few years. I know that the company is facing financial problems and management problems, and I think I may have found the root cause.
Their clerks are clueless.
This is not to say they were impolite, quite the contrary, the three I talked to were very pleasant, and even eagerly helpful. They just didn't know what was in the store. I went in looking for one esoteric, rare thing - a deep root feeder for trees - and one ridiculously easy thing - an air compressor. I talked to three people because the first guy didn't know home and garden, and the home and garden guy didn't know hardware, not even enough to know an air compressor isn't hardware. So I bounced around from clerk 1 to clerk 2 to clerk 3, only to find - eventually - that neither of the things I wanted was in the store right then. I'm still not sure what clerk 1 did besides direct people to the other clerks.
Time was you went into Sears and dreaded asking a question because the clerks would quiz you about things you weren't prepared to answer. 'I'm looking for a deep root feeder.' 'Oh yeah? What kind of tree? How tall? What kind of soil do you have? What's your water pressure like? Is the tree on the North or South side of the house?'
But I gotta tell you, getting the third degree from guys who knew waaaaay too much about deep root feeders was one thousand times better than Blank Stare Larry, who had never heard of a deep root feeder in his online chat room, much less seen one in person.
Is this a problem with Sears' hiring practices, with its training, or with the quality of people available to work? I'm thinking it's a combination of all three, but mostly probably the hourly rate, which has to be supremely crap-tacular. You get what you pay for after all, and if you're not paying much you'll get exactly that.
Another part of the problem might be that people these days don't know how to do anything. By the time I was fifteen I'd changed tires, framed storage sheds, used a chainsaw (probably a little too much), rigged a rope bridge, replaced an exhaust system, changed oil, hammered shingles, run a roto-tiller, chopped down trees, etc. etc. etc. I think Blank Stare Larry couldn't recognize a deep root feeder because he had no idea that such a thing was possible, let alone that people had been doing it since the 50's.
This has to change. People need to know stuff and they need to know how to do stuff. I guess it's up to me...
Their clerks are clueless.
This is not to say they were impolite, quite the contrary, the three I talked to were very pleasant, and even eagerly helpful. They just didn't know what was in the store. I went in looking for one esoteric, rare thing - a deep root feeder for trees - and one ridiculously easy thing - an air compressor. I talked to three people because the first guy didn't know home and garden, and the home and garden guy didn't know hardware, not even enough to know an air compressor isn't hardware. So I bounced around from clerk 1 to clerk 2 to clerk 3, only to find - eventually - that neither of the things I wanted was in the store right then. I'm still not sure what clerk 1 did besides direct people to the other clerks.
Time was you went into Sears and dreaded asking a question because the clerks would quiz you about things you weren't prepared to answer. 'I'm looking for a deep root feeder.' 'Oh yeah? What kind of tree? How tall? What kind of soil do you have? What's your water pressure like? Is the tree on the North or South side of the house?'
But I gotta tell you, getting the third degree from guys who knew waaaaay too much about deep root feeders was one thousand times better than Blank Stare Larry, who had never heard of a deep root feeder in his online chat room, much less seen one in person.
Is this a problem with Sears' hiring practices, with its training, or with the quality of people available to work? I'm thinking it's a combination of all three, but mostly probably the hourly rate, which has to be supremely crap-tacular. You get what you pay for after all, and if you're not paying much you'll get exactly that.
Another part of the problem might be that people these days don't know how to do anything. By the time I was fifteen I'd changed tires, framed storage sheds, used a chainsaw (probably a little too much), rigged a rope bridge, replaced an exhaust system, changed oil, hammered shingles, run a roto-tiller, chopped down trees, etc. etc. etc. I think Blank Stare Larry couldn't recognize a deep root feeder because he had no idea that such a thing was possible, let alone that people had been doing it since the 50's.
This has to change. People need to know stuff and they need to know how to do stuff. I guess it's up to me...
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Thai Menu Guy
There are a few things I miss about SoCal, right now I mostly miss the temperate climate, and of course I miss Trader Joe's - the two nearest to me are in Santa Fe and Albuquerque, not even really close enough for a road trip, that's a three-day excursion. I do miss the weirdos too, though I suppose I'm just used to my Texas weirdos so they don't seem all that weird to me. But yesterday I found myself missing the most improbable thing, something I would never have dreamed had found a spot in my heart.
I miss the Thai menu guy.
Not the guy himself, because, as my SoCal friends are well aware, you never actually see the Thai menu guy. You look away for one moment and when you turn back - BAM! - your bare door knob has become a place to hang the menu for a Thai restaurant. He's a ninja, that Thai menu guy, a shadow moving in the darkness, a whisper on the wind as he passes.
And it's not just the Thai menu guy, although he certainly does leave more than his share. There was the local pizza place menu guy, and the Mexican restaurant menu guy, and the soba noodle place menu guy, and the Cuban menu guy, and even the Jamaican menu guy. It was kind of comforting to come back to my apartment and find a batch of menus hanging on the front gate. It was like menu Christmas. Well, maybe more like Chanukah, where you get presents they're just not amazingly great presents. Menus are good but they don't solve the financial crisis.
I don't get menus on my door here in Texas. From time to time I'll get a folded card for someone who wants to mow my grass or power wash my driveway, but no menus. No friendly reminders that I don't have to cook for myself, and no half-heard swish as the menu ninja escapes into the moonless night.
I miss the Thai menu guy.
Not the guy himself, because, as my SoCal friends are well aware, you never actually see the Thai menu guy. You look away for one moment and when you turn back - BAM! - your bare door knob has become a place to hang the menu for a Thai restaurant. He's a ninja, that Thai menu guy, a shadow moving in the darkness, a whisper on the wind as he passes.
And it's not just the Thai menu guy, although he certainly does leave more than his share. There was the local pizza place menu guy, and the Mexican restaurant menu guy, and the soba noodle place menu guy, and the Cuban menu guy, and even the Jamaican menu guy. It was kind of comforting to come back to my apartment and find a batch of menus hanging on the front gate. It was like menu Christmas. Well, maybe more like Chanukah, where you get presents they're just not amazingly great presents. Menus are good but they don't solve the financial crisis.
I don't get menus on my door here in Texas. From time to time I'll get a folded card for someone who wants to mow my grass or power wash my driveway, but no menus. No friendly reminders that I don't have to cook for myself, and no half-heard swish as the menu ninja escapes into the moonless night.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Under My Skin
Maybe I'm a little sensitive, maybe a little touchy, or maybe - just maybe - I'm a touch too polite. Living the Golden Rule and all, it just aggravates me when people don't think of others when just a moment's consideration would go so far.
Here, in no particular order, are various impolite things that have gotten under my skin lately.
In the car:
The douchebag in the Cadillac Escalade in front of me flicking his cigarette ash out the sunroof.
Same douchebag veering across three lanes of traffic to make an exit.
The battered green LeBaron making a right turn from the left lane. Just go a few blocks down, turn around and come back. Nothing you have on your agenda is more important than my life.
The flattened aluminum cans falling like raindrops from the flatbed trailer pulled by the wheezing and laboring Ford utility pickup. You can't be environmentally conscious about recycling if you're littering for miles on your way to the reclamation station.
In the grocery store:
Every woman who's ever pushed a grocery cart in a grocery store. The place is packed full of people, you're not alone. Get the hell out of the center of the aisle. Watch the men, see how they stay out of each other's way? Do that.
Morbidly obese people elbowing people out of the way to get to the diet soda. You're not fooling anyone, and you're only making your condition worse.
Serving sushi in the middle of a South Texas Summer, right at the front of the store. So many things wrong with this idea it's hard to know where to begin the list.
The person who forgets his coupons until he's already paid for his groceries with his debit card, so the clerk has to give him cash back. Seems like some sort of scam to me.
At the Post Office:
The passport office is that one over there. With the big label that says 'Passport Office.' Don't get snippy with the clerks because you waited in the wrong line.
Mr. Impatient who shows up at the Post Office at noon on a weekday and is put out when he has to wait more than two minutes. Of course if all the passport people weren't in the wrong line...
The same Mr. Impatient who gets testy when the postal clerks run through their list of added services. It's their job to ask, so don't get all pissy about it, just say 'No, thank you' like your parents taught you when you were three.
In the gym:
Mr. Smell-Good. The slightest spritz of Axe body spray makes you smell like an Armenian pimp, practically drowning in it clears the room. Just take a bath like a normal person, Junior.
The Chatty Kathies on the treadmill. It's a gym, not a coffee shop, and you're yelling to be heard over the whir of the machines. I can hear every icky detail of your lady-parts surgery story, and I'm twenty feet away.
The Creeper standing by the water fountain, trying to be slick while he watches the hot chicks on the eliptical machines. Gonna get yourself arrested there, Peeping Tom.
Here, in no particular order, are various impolite things that have gotten under my skin lately.
In the car:
The douchebag in the Cadillac Escalade in front of me flicking his cigarette ash out the sunroof.
Same douchebag veering across three lanes of traffic to make an exit.
The battered green LeBaron making a right turn from the left lane. Just go a few blocks down, turn around and come back. Nothing you have on your agenda is more important than my life.
The flattened aluminum cans falling like raindrops from the flatbed trailer pulled by the wheezing and laboring Ford utility pickup. You can't be environmentally conscious about recycling if you're littering for miles on your way to the reclamation station.
In the grocery store:
Every woman who's ever pushed a grocery cart in a grocery store. The place is packed full of people, you're not alone. Get the hell out of the center of the aisle. Watch the men, see how they stay out of each other's way? Do that.
Morbidly obese people elbowing people out of the way to get to the diet soda. You're not fooling anyone, and you're only making your condition worse.
Serving sushi in the middle of a South Texas Summer, right at the front of the store. So many things wrong with this idea it's hard to know where to begin the list.
The person who forgets his coupons until he's already paid for his groceries with his debit card, so the clerk has to give him cash back. Seems like some sort of scam to me.
At the Post Office:
The passport office is that one over there. With the big label that says 'Passport Office.' Don't get snippy with the clerks because you waited in the wrong line.
Mr. Impatient who shows up at the Post Office at noon on a weekday and is put out when he has to wait more than two minutes. Of course if all the passport people weren't in the wrong line...
The same Mr. Impatient who gets testy when the postal clerks run through their list of added services. It's their job to ask, so don't get all pissy about it, just say 'No, thank you' like your parents taught you when you were three.
In the gym:
Mr. Smell-Good. The slightest spritz of Axe body spray makes you smell like an Armenian pimp, practically drowning in it clears the room. Just take a bath like a normal person, Junior.
The Chatty Kathies on the treadmill. It's a gym, not a coffee shop, and you're yelling to be heard over the whir of the machines. I can hear every icky detail of your lady-parts surgery story, and I'm twenty feet away.
The Creeper standing by the water fountain, trying to be slick while he watches the hot chicks on the eliptical machines. Gonna get yourself arrested there, Peeping Tom.
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