Deconstruction

So it didn't happen. No earthquakes, no disasters, no one assumed bodily into Heaven. No Rapture, other than Blondie's 1981 hit featuring Fab Five Freddy* and white-girl-awkward rapping.
   The media phenomenon is over, and I fully expect the story to fade into nothingness except on NPR. The chances anyone is going to re-interview those hoping to be taken away are very small. Follow-up is woefully lacking in American media these days.
   But I think there are some really big questions that remain. And I don't mean 'how hard should we laugh at these poor, misguided fools.' The answer to that is 'very hard indeed.' Can't let 'em get away with it, not for a minute.
   I'm wondering what is missing or malfunctioning in our society that a sizable minority of people would be so disaffected and lonely that they would not only expect to be taken into Heaven, but that they would long for it?
   To quote Willy Loman** 'attention must be paid.'
   I've had crappy jobs, crappy co-workers, crappy bosses, been laid off, fired, lost a parent, lost love, and generally lived life less fortunate than a few but far more fortunate that most. I've never once had things so bad that I prayed for God to spirit me away. That seems one step removed from suicide to me.
   So why have so many people been so adamant for so long that yesterday was the day they were going to leave the rest of us behind? What is it about their lives here and now that is so lacking they want to abandon everything in such a dramatic yet unlikely way?
   Yes, they're crackpots. Yes, they're weak-willed and gullible. They're also the tail of the bell curve of common opinion, the thought leaders, if you want to label them with corporate-speak. They may be nuts, but nuts are often the leading indicators of public sentiment. Take John Brown, the 19th Century abolitionist. By all accounts a true radical and undeniably tetched, he led an armed rebellion in 1959 intending to do away with slavery once and for all. Yes, he was nuts, but he was also a good two years ahead of the rest of the country. If he had just waited twenty-four months or so for the Civil War to have started, he would today be remembered as a Northern patriot instead of as a possible traitor.
   Same thing with these nutso Rapture people. We don't have to listen to their message, but we really need to listen to their mood. They're done with dead-end jobs and corporate greed and incompetent government and everything that's tainted life at the beginning of the 21st Century, but they're not the only ones. They're far from alone. There's a disaffected tide rising in America, and it's only a matter of time before it rolls into a tsunami of revolt. Don't think it can't happen, because it's happened often in America and it will absolutely happen again, sooner rather than later. And all it would take to ease the tension is for those in charge to stop, collaborate and listen for once.
   Attention must be paid.



* remember him? You should, you culture-less heathens. He's not the guy in the white tux either.

** how 'bout him? Remember him? 'Death of a Salesman' by Arthur Miller? And, no, Arthur Miller is not Tennessee Williams. For one thing, Arthur Miller had an affair with Marilyn Monroe, while Tennessee Williams would likely have traded corseting tips with her, if you know what I mean...

Clean Up, Clean Up

I'm back in Pasadena today, and I was out driving around to re-stock the pantry, to buy my lotto tickets (you can't win if you don't play) and to try to get my truck out into the rain to knock some of the dust off it. It's two days after the Rose Parade - which I'd kind of forgotten about since Saturday to tell you the truth - and the guys are out in the rain and cold tearing down the bleachers they put up just weeks ago. It's a sight I'd seen before, I've lived here a while. But something struck me as I drove down Colorado Blvd.
   The streets aren't nearly as trashed as they have been in years past.
   Immediately after the Rose Parade, when people either go home, go to a local restaurant, or head for the Rose Bowl, Colorado Blvd. looks like someone drove by and dumped a city's worth of garbage on every street corner. Most of the littering is not malicious (except for the silly string and tortillas), merely careless and the result of packing over a million people along a 5 mile parade route. And the litter usually lingers for days, even though city crews make the effort to clean up quickly.
   This year, though, the streets are almost spotless. For streets, anyway. The sidewalks still have some of the taped-off squares people use to reserve their spots, but I don't see a lot of silly string debris, or the tiny scraps from sugar or ketchup packets, or the paper wrapped around straws... It's almost like people suddenly became more courteous and conscientious.
   Sure, the city crews could just be very efficient and cleaning like demons, but I prefer to think that people are thinking about others and behaving themselves better. Maybe it's misguided, but it makes me feel better about humanity.

Light-Up

I grew up on the border between suburbia and the country. My grandparents built in a new subdivision on the extreme Northern edge of San Antonio in the early 60's, in what had been ranchland and cotton fields. But it was close to Randolph AFB, which is where my grandparents would get their care and services during their twilight years. And by that I mean their dotage, not when they turned into vampires, which they did not do. So far as I know.
   In order to draw prospective residents so far out of town, the city council - WWII veterans all - decided to host a Christmas light-up. The idea was to festoon the town in bright lights and maybe the people who came out would decide to buy a half acre and become residents. It worked, the town grew. Later on my parents bought a house a block away from my grandparents. And by the time I was in my early 20's San Antonio had grown up to touch Windcrest, our small incorporated city, and the cow pastures and cotton fields gave way to more tract homes and strip malls. So maybe the founders' idea worked just a bit too well.
   During my childhood - what I call the 'indentured servant years' - I created Christmas for my parents and grandparents, I put out plywood elves and big plastic Santas, I attached lights to bushes and trees, I hung from the eaves to string lights from the house and set timers to make it all come together seamlessly. Mostly seamlessly. The neighbors did the same and for as long as can remember back the entire community participated, even goig so far as to make the water tower look like a giant candle. The effort was well worth it, as Windcrest became well-known for its Christmas lights. As I became old enough to drive the sheer number of people became a nuisance, as it took three times as long to get around than it did any other time of year because of the gawkers.
   But the years wore on. The original residents, those retirees who had built the town, died off. The light-up tradition died with them. I watched as slowly the Windcrest Christmas tradition became block after block of dark houses.
   This year it's different. There are cars stretching down the block, there are traffic jams and it's difficult for emergency vehicles to get by. Just like old times. It could be that people my age, those who remember the old times, have bought houses here, it could be the City Council is trying harder to make it a happening, it could be that hard times have made people appreciate once again the simple pleasures of driving around to look at Christmas decorations. The reason doesn't matter to me. The people are back, lots of them, and it's good to have my suburban streets clogged with gawkers once again.
   Merry Christmas, families in cars and trucks, enjoy the lights and come back next year. There are no more open lots for you to pick to build your 1960's suburban dream home, but we like you here anyway. Take the tradition back with you wherever you're from and pass it on. Maybe we can take this sucker global.

Get My Line Straight

Back in middle school we had a PE teacher, Coach Washington - or Carwch Warshintin as he would have pronounced it - who would not stand for any nonsense. He was a Vietnam vet, had a steel plate in his head and bridgework he would remove when he wanted to demonstrate proper blocking techniques. I remember him ranting during football practice with a mouth full of popcorn, bridgework in his pocket, and little yellow flecks escaping the space where he teeth should have been, raining down on Joey Guererro's white helmet. There were many things Carwch Washintin would not abide, but if he had to pick one thing he absolutely would not tolerate it would have to be sloppy line-standing. I can still see him now, hands raised to shoulder-height, gesturing like he was directing a plane on a runway, bellowing his catch phrase 'Get my line straight, get my line straight.'
   If he's still alive today, Cawrch Warshintin must be positively beside himself. People just don't know how to line up any more.
   In cars, for instance, I've noticed a definite tendency for people to stop well back of the white stripe on the pavement. This goes for stop signs or stop lights. I just don't understand what they're saving that space for, the white stripe is there for a reason, to tell you where to put the nose of your car.
   Or the people behind those people. When did it become the rule of the road to leave a complete car length between you and the car in front of you? In LA we need to squeeze as many cars as possible into a small space, and if some douchebag is keeping a 'safety zone' of twenty feet in front of him, that means I'm not going to make this light. And I really need to make this light.
   What about in line at the convenience store? Since when when does ten feet away from the person in front of you constitute being in line? Are people that socially awkward that they're afraid of offending a stranger by properly lining up? Maybe they all have ugly wallets. If I had an ugly wallet I wouldn't want anyone to see it either.
   We need to take lessons from the Russians. And not today's Russians, Soviet-era Russians. Those folks knew how to line up.

Thou Shalt Not Covet

Think back to when you were ten years old, try to remember your Christmas list. Mine probably had GI Joes on it, maybe an Evel Knievel bendy doll with a wind-up crash car you could sail off the curb, an SST car, probably Hot Wheels, maybe a game or two. But I remember I really wanted Micronauts, especially the Baron Karza figure, a pound or two of black plastic bad guy who could totally pound the rest of the Micronauts, even Acroyear. I really wanted the Baron. Bad. And his horse too, whose name I can't remember. You could make a centaur out of the Baron and his horse, for God's sake! And they had rocket launchers! What kid wouldn't want that? I know I wanted it. Bad. Really bad.
   I didn't get the Baron. Aside from a life lesson in learning how to deal with disappointment, that Christmas day was also the last time I really, really, really wanted something in that childlike, desperate way. Maybe it was the disappointment of not getting the one thing I hoped I would get – but I got underwear, of course – or maybe it was just part of growing up. I never really ached for a material possession like that again.
   Until now.
   See, back in 2008 Nike provided the shoes for the US Fencing team. The shoes were kick-ass and the US Olympic Fencing team kicked ass. Coincidence? I think not.
   Nike was supposed to release the Ballestra fencing shoe that year to the general public but it didn't happen. I even wrote to them, asking when the shoe was coming out but the customer service stooge had no idea what I was talking about.
   Fast forward two summers. It's 2010 and I see an announcement that the Nike Air Ballestra is finally coming out, on the shelves in July. Be still my heart. I got on the Leon Paul web site and watched the video, which included the shoe's designer. Yes, I watched a video about a shoe. And it was good.
   It was like a light went on over my head and someone punched me in the chest. BAM! My Damascus moment. The instant I saw them I wanted those shoes. Bad. Really bad. Ten-year-old-at-Christmas bad.
   Now I know what coveting is, because I am coveting. Coveting like a motherf*cker, and I'm beginning to understand why it's prohibited in the Ten Commandments. The fact that the shoes are $175 makes it a little easier to ignore that little voice in my head that squeaks 'buy the damn shoes.' But I'm not made of stone.
   You will be mine, Nike Air Ballestra. Oh, yes. Sooner or later you will be mine.

The Way It Should Be

I'm home from work right now, I have to go in late because the EDD (California unemployment office) is calling 'between 10 AM and 12 PM' and I have to be home to take the call. Kind of like the cable guy except I don't have to let any suspicious characters into my apartment.
   I gotta say, I've missed getting up when I feel like it and working on stuff that interests me. I got into a good rhythm with my writing over the past months of being 'between assignments' and it's nice to get back to it, even if it's only for a morning.
   Right now I'm working on a proposal for a children's ABC book that would benefit animal charities by donating 51% of the authors' after-tax profits. In the hour and a half or so that I've been working on it today I've gotten more done than in the previous five or six days of after-hours struggle. Not working just works out better.
   I was talking this over with a friend who is also 'between assignments' and we came to the conclusion that about 30 hours of work a week is good. Go in about 10 or 11 and get done about 4-ish. You really only have 4 or 5 good hours of work in you anyway, why waste the other 4 hours pretending to work while you surf the 'Net? Get in, do your thing, get the hell out, that's what I say. The old 8-hour (now 9- or 10-hour) work day is designed for factory production, three shifts of 8 hours each, for a round-the-clock factory cycle. People don't operate that way, we need to re-think this whole 'be absent from your homes and families for 10 hours a day' thing, it's a bunch of crap.


COMMUTE: there - haven't left yet      back - haven't left yet.
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 59 days

It's True

I've been 'between assignments' for a while now, and I've gotten into a routine that avoids rush hours and high-traffic times. I'm out and about during the between times, when there are fewer people on the roads, in businesses, everywhere. And I've noticed a few things.

   1. Old people really do swerve when they drive. Even though there are far fewer cars on the road during the day, I fear for my life more at 2 PM than I did at 5:30. Lane markers aren't suggestions, grandpa.
   2. If you wear wool slacks and a dress shirt to the grocery store in the middle of the day, the staff assumes you're there to buy a birthday cake or party supplies. Seriously, I get more directions to the bakery department than I ever did in the evening.
   3. There are plenty of post office clerks at 10:30 in the morning. Three people in line, three windows open. And the clerks are friendly. After 3 they go down to two clerks, no matter how many people are in line, and not a smile in sight. 'Splain that one.
   4. Leaf blowers. Are. Everywhere.
   5. Shifty-loking, shady people stick out. Very few full-sleeve tattoos out and about before nightfall. No facial piercings gleaming in the noonday sun.
   6. Those people hanging out in the coffee shop all day, hogging the wireless internet? Your suspicions are confirmed, they really don't have anything better to do. Trust me on this one.
   7. Public works repairs happen during the business day. And they always happen on the street I'm travelling, at exactly the worst time. It's like those guys have a map of places I go and they plot their repairs according to my schedule.

I'll share more as things come up.

Bookstore Revelation

I live two blocks from the greatest independent bookstore in the entire universe, Vroman's. It's a Pasadena staple, been there forever, and if you're a book person this is the place to go. Forget Borders, forget Barnes and Noble, Vroman's is what those poser 'booksellers' want to be when they grow up. Yeah, Vroman's does have a coffee place attached to it, I forgive them.
   I was perusing the stacks the other day when I was witness to a great discovery, like when Galileo pointed his telescope at Jupiter and saw four moons. I watched a little kid discover The Little Rascals.
   The little boy was maybe eight - unless he was a really tall six-year-old - and he was dragging behind his mother who was scanning the stacks. He clearly wanted to be anywhere else doing anything else, but since he was eight he had to be with his mother. I felt for him, I recall many a trip to Sears with my own mother, where we'd spend ten minutes picking out pants for me and half an hour in the bra section for her. Pure torture.
   He was running his fingers down the line of books, not reading just occupying time, when he stopped short. He looked up at his mother and then picked up the book, which had the black-and-white pictures of The Little Rascals on the front. They were little kids, just like him, but in funny clothes and not in color. His mother moved on but he stayed there, flipping through the book, mesmerized.
   His mother came back, saw that he was actually reading a book and asked him about it. He showed it to her, and she explained the Little Rascals, how it was a very old movie series and something she liked when she was little. The boy looked up at her hopefully and asked if they could buy that book, and he beamed from ear to ear when his mother said yes. Later I saw them looking at the DVDs, no doubt trying to find the 'Our Gang' comedies.
   And so it begins, another generation hooked on Spanky, Alfalfa, Darla, Buckwheat and all the rest of them. Now if we can only get them interested in the 'Abbot and Costello Meet...' monster movies we'll have accomplished something.

Straight Guys Who Like Musicals

We have a newcomer to our meeting tonight. Go on, stand up. Don't worry, it's okay, you're among friends.
   Hi, everyone.
    Hi.
   What do I... I mean... I never... God this is so hard...
   It's okay, really. You know what to do, you've seen it in enough movies, right?
   I guess so. Just... oh, God, what would my father think...
    We're ready when you're ready. You just have to make the first step.
   Okay. Whew.... okay. Hi, everyone.
    Hi.
   My name is Don, and I'm a straight guy who likes musicals.
   Hi, Don...
   It all started with Singing in the Rain. You know, with Gene Kelly? I saw it when I was a kid, couldn't have been more than eight.
    Statistics show that the younger straight guys are exposed to musicals, the easier it is for them to be hooked.
    What about gay guys?
    They're born with it. Like being able to color-coordinate things and having a fabulous design aesthetic.
   Makes sense. Anyway, it was on Saturday afternoon, you know? Back when there were only three channels and after cartoons there were either monster movies, Abott and Costello, or musicals.
    Those were the days.
   Yeah. Little Rascals sometimes, too. So I was eating a baloney sandwich, with the crusts because men liked the crust, but with Miracle Whip and cut diagonally because that's the way my mother did things, when I see this guy splashing around in puddles. My mother didn't like me splashing, but here was a guy on TV not only doing it, but singing while he was doing it.
    Gene Kelly. One of the best. Singer, dancer, and actor.
    No shit. Like the Brett Favre of straight Hollywood triple-threats. Brett Favre? Green Bay Packers? Two SuperBowls, one win? Nine-time Pro Bowler?
    Hmm... doesn't ring a bell.
    Played his first year for the Falcons?
    Oh! That Brett Favre!
   Yeah. So after that first taste, the first forbidden look at a grown, heterosexual man singing and dancing in a movie, I was hooked. I saw them all, An American In Paris, On the Town, Top Hat, Shall We Dance. All of them. But I couldn't let anybody know.
    Your secret shame.
   Exactly. Every Saturday I had to tell my friends I was grounded, or that I had to help my grandparents or something. It was hard, living a double life. I managed to suppress it for most of high school. But then in college a girlfriend dragged me to see the theater department's production of Guys and Dolls, and I was off the wagon. After that, it was anything goes. All That Jazz, A Chorus Line, The Lion King. Even... God help me... High School Musical. I'm so ashamed...
    It's okay. Really. We've all been there.
   Thanks. It's good to finally be able to talk about this. I mean... I thought I was alone. I thought I was the only one.
    You're among friends.
   A few weeks ago I went to see Wicked. Great show.
    You didn't go alone, right? Did you at least go with a girl?
   Absolutely.
    Was she hot?
    Like you wouldn't believe. Beautiful eyes.
    Nice rack? Hot ass?
   Well, you know, kind of the whole package... I'm not sure I should be telling you...
    Got a picture?
   No, but she has a myspace page... wait a minute. I'm not showing you guys!
    Well, we might like musicals, but we are straight.
   Yeah. Yeah. Thanks for understanding, guys. It's good to talk.
    Seriously, about this chick you took to Wicked, one a scale from one to ten...
   Aren't you supposed to have sugar cookies?