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.
Showing posts with label money. Show all posts
Showing posts with label money. Show all posts
Friday, July 29, 2011
Friday, February 18, 2011
OMG
You ever have one of those days when you see one thing, and then all you see for the rest of the day is that same thing, over and over and over? It'll happen with numbers, for instance, you see 37 early in the morning and then it's nothing but 37 for the rest of the day. Or you see a lady with a yellow dress and then you see the same yellow on every third person. It's either some grand synchronicity or you just have that thing on the brain. I'm putting my money on synchronicity. Why? you ask. Well, I'll tell you...
This morning I got up early to work out. As I'm walking to the gym, what do I see but some distracted woman in a minivan parked in front of the driveway of the old folks' home across the street, texting. I suppose it's a saving grace that she wasn't driving, but she was blocking out the food delivery truck. How she missed that huge vehicle in her rear-view I don't know. Unless, of course, she wasn't paying attention. Which she wasn't.
Coming out of the gym, which is by the cooking school, I see another distracted woman, a student judging by her white coat and gray pants, texting while walking across the street. She was still in traffic when the light changed. She did not get run over, but only barely.
At the grocery store, a distracted woman was texting while parked so close to my truck that I couldn't squeeze between the two vehicles, let alone open my door to get in. I did not give her finger or take a crowbar to her rear window, though I desperately wanted to. Homey don't want to go to jail, after all.
While pumping gas what do I see but a distracted woman half-in half-out of a parking space, paused to finish texting. While she was taking care of business a line of three cars formed, all of them trying to get to the pumps, which she was blocking.
Just now, in the rain (which makes all Angelenos insane in the membrane) yet another distracted woman pulled over to the side of the road, texting. Problem is, she pulled over into a red-zone bus stop, and seemed genuinely surprised and upset when the bus driver honked at her repeatedly and flashed his lights. Maybe she wanted to give everyone waiting for the bus a ride in her Lexus?
Perhaps I'm just looking for it, maybe I'm sensitive to it, or maybe it's the rain. Or a full moon. But this is just stupid. There's no text you're receiving or sending that's worth risking your life, let alone mine. Especially mine.
Kind of makes me wonder what's coming up tomorrow. Chimney sweeps? That would be cool, to see chimney sweeps everywhere. Or C.H.U.D.S. Or monkeys with tin cups full of $100 bills, ready for me to collect. That would be especially cool. Let's make that last one happen, Universe.
This morning I got up early to work out. As I'm walking to the gym, what do I see but some distracted woman in a minivan parked in front of the driveway of the old folks' home across the street, texting. I suppose it's a saving grace that she wasn't driving, but she was blocking out the food delivery truck. How she missed that huge vehicle in her rear-view I don't know. Unless, of course, she wasn't paying attention. Which she wasn't.
Coming out of the gym, which is by the cooking school, I see another distracted woman, a student judging by her white coat and gray pants, texting while walking across the street. She was still in traffic when the light changed. She did not get run over, but only barely.
At the grocery store, a distracted woman was texting while parked so close to my truck that I couldn't squeeze between the two vehicles, let alone open my door to get in. I did not give her finger or take a crowbar to her rear window, though I desperately wanted to. Homey don't want to go to jail, after all.
While pumping gas what do I see but a distracted woman half-in half-out of a parking space, paused to finish texting. While she was taking care of business a line of three cars formed, all of them trying to get to the pumps, which she was blocking.
Just now, in the rain (which makes all Angelenos insane in the membrane) yet another distracted woman pulled over to the side of the road, texting. Problem is, she pulled over into a red-zone bus stop, and seemed genuinely surprised and upset when the bus driver honked at her repeatedly and flashed his lights. Maybe she wanted to give everyone waiting for the bus a ride in her Lexus?
Perhaps I'm just looking for it, maybe I'm sensitive to it, or maybe it's the rain. Or a full moon. But this is just stupid. There's no text you're receiving or sending that's worth risking your life, let alone mine. Especially mine.
Kind of makes me wonder what's coming up tomorrow. Chimney sweeps? That would be cool, to see chimney sweeps everywhere. Or C.H.U.D.S. Or monkeys with tin cups full of $100 bills, ready for me to collect. That would be especially cool. Let's make that last one happen, Universe.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Go Ahead And Collect
The State of California is broke.
This is not really news to anyone, unless you're like most of the rest of the country and couldn't give a rat's ass about California, its fruits and nuts, and its problems. And God bless you if you don't care, I wish I couldn't.
But I live here - for now - and the massive budget shortfall has sparked some drastic measures to try to make up that revenue. I'm talking specifically about the terrifically monstrous increases in traffic fines effective this year.
For instance, if you got caught talking on a cell phone last year, the fine was $25. Arguably not a deterrent and almost laughable. This year, however, the fine is.... wait for it... $148. That is a TIMES SIX increase in the penalty. In-freaking-sane. Failure to notify the DMV of an address change? $214. Park in a handicapped spot and you're not actually handicapped? $1000. Run a red light? $436. Which is also in-freaking-sane because running a red light is the only way to make a left in most of LA.
Aside from pure shock value, raising the traffic fines this much has to be the stupidest thing I've ever seen California do. And I've lived here nine years (sheesh).
Let me 'splain...
I wasn't there, but I know how this came about. Some nimrod bureaucrat was told to find revenue that is not subject to legislative oversight or voter approval. They came up with traffic fines. Some douchebag MBA in Sacramento then looked at the number of, say, cell phone citations and came up with a number. We'll call it 10,000. They said to themselves 'self, if there are 10,000 cell phone violations at $25 each, that's $250,000 to the state. Hmm... what if we raised the fine to, I don't know, $148? Wow! We'd get almost $1.5 million! Hokey smokes! Let's do that!"
And so they raised the rates, assuming that the number of violations would at least remain constant. It won't, but let's give them that one, let's assume that 10,000 citations last year will mean 10,000 citations this year. That doesn't mean they're actually going to get $1.5 million dollars, though.
This flawed bureaucratic thinking ignores one fundamental part of this equation. Nobody has that kind of money.* The state can write all the citations it wants, but with the fines raised this much people just aren't going to pay. Really. It happened with overpriced mortgages and it's going to happen with this.
Think about it. If you make $50,000 a year gross, that means you'll net about $40,000 after taxes, at least in California, or about $3300 a month. You're in a hurry to get into Wal-Mart (for some reason) and you park in the handicapped spot. You come out to find a ticket for ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS on your windshield, or 2.5% of your ANNUAL take-home pay.
Would you pay it? Of course not. Nobody else will either.
So then what? The state is counting on that $1.5 million from cell phone citations to cover their other gross incompetence in other areas. But they're going to collect an even lower percentage of citations this year than ever before. Which means they'll have to spend money to hire people to go after the money they're owed. Which they're not going to get. And California goes deeper into the crapper, waiting for home prices to come back, which is also not going to happen.
You couldn't mismanage this worse if you'd planned it out ahead of time.
* Unless you're an investment banker, and if you are your time against the wall is coming, trust me. I'm serious.
This is not really news to anyone, unless you're like most of the rest of the country and couldn't give a rat's ass about California, its fruits and nuts, and its problems. And God bless you if you don't care, I wish I couldn't.
But I live here - for now - and the massive budget shortfall has sparked some drastic measures to try to make up that revenue. I'm talking specifically about the terrifically monstrous increases in traffic fines effective this year.
For instance, if you got caught talking on a cell phone last year, the fine was $25. Arguably not a deterrent and almost laughable. This year, however, the fine is.... wait for it... $148. That is a TIMES SIX increase in the penalty. In-freaking-sane. Failure to notify the DMV of an address change? $214. Park in a handicapped spot and you're not actually handicapped? $1000. Run a red light? $436. Which is also in-freaking-sane because running a red light is the only way to make a left in most of LA.
Aside from pure shock value, raising the traffic fines this much has to be the stupidest thing I've ever seen California do. And I've lived here nine years (sheesh).
Let me 'splain...
I wasn't there, but I know how this came about. Some nimrod bureaucrat was told to find revenue that is not subject to legislative oversight or voter approval. They came up with traffic fines. Some douchebag MBA in Sacramento then looked at the number of, say, cell phone citations and came up with a number. We'll call it 10,000. They said to themselves 'self, if there are 10,000 cell phone violations at $25 each, that's $250,000 to the state. Hmm... what if we raised the fine to, I don't know, $148? Wow! We'd get almost $1.5 million! Hokey smokes! Let's do that!"
And so they raised the rates, assuming that the number of violations would at least remain constant. It won't, but let's give them that one, let's assume that 10,000 citations last year will mean 10,000 citations this year. That doesn't mean they're actually going to get $1.5 million dollars, though.
This flawed bureaucratic thinking ignores one fundamental part of this equation. Nobody has that kind of money.* The state can write all the citations it wants, but with the fines raised this much people just aren't going to pay. Really. It happened with overpriced mortgages and it's going to happen with this.
Think about it. If you make $50,000 a year gross, that means you'll net about $40,000 after taxes, at least in California, or about $3300 a month. You're in a hurry to get into Wal-Mart (for some reason) and you park in the handicapped spot. You come out to find a ticket for ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS on your windshield, or 2.5% of your ANNUAL take-home pay.
Would you pay it? Of course not. Nobody else will either.
So then what? The state is counting on that $1.5 million from cell phone citations to cover their other gross incompetence in other areas. But they're going to collect an even lower percentage of citations this year than ever before. Which means they'll have to spend money to hire people to go after the money they're owed. Which they're not going to get. And California goes deeper into the crapper, waiting for home prices to come back, which is also not going to happen.
You couldn't mismanage this worse if you'd planned it out ahead of time.
* Unless you're an investment banker, and if you are your time against the wall is coming, trust me. I'm serious.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Mega Lotto
I didn't win the Mega Millions jackpot the other day.
Big surprise, I know, but congratulations to those who did, that's a lot of money. Which got me to thinking, how much is enough? Certainly when someone wins $300 million, they're probably not going to have to work again. Ever. Unless they turn into one of those lottery winners for whom the money becomes abstract and meaningless, so they spend it like it's never going to run out. Which it does, of course, leaving them millions of dollars in debt instead of mere hundreds.
But assume you won the lottery, and further assume you were astute enough, or had astute enough friends, family and advisors around you, that you don't become a cautionary tale and you actually invest your money wisely and spend thriftily enough that you'll die before you run out of funds.
How much do you need?
And I don't mean just cash, I mean stuff. You'd splurge at first, of course, fur-lined sinks, electric dog polishers, that kind of thing, but once you have a house full of junk you'll never use again, then what? Once you've eaten at every restaurant in town once a week for a year, then what?
Wouldn't it be better to use your money to go places, to see things, to do things - or have them done to you - and to have experiences that only that kind of money can bring? The thing that separates me from Bill Gates is not his multi-billions of dollars, it's what that kind of cash can do. He's got waaaaay more options than I do, nothing but the freedom to go crazy. Which is why he's out there right now trying to guilt other billionaires into giving away most of their money to charity. Bill Gates realized that he'd much rather be remembered as Andrew Carnegie* than J.P. Morgan**.
I think it's good to be comfortable, meaning you have enough to live on, to provide a few amenities or possibly luxuries, provide for your family appropriately, that sort of thing. But too much money becomes a prison, a situation in which you spend most of your time and energy trying to maintain your wealth rather than enjoying what that wealth can provide. And if you're not extremely careful, your kids turn into privileged little bastards.
Lots of money, from the lottery or from deceptive, borderline-fraudulent business practices, should be funneled into arts and sciences. DaVinci was a genius without parallel, but he still had to go to the Italian nobility with his hat in his hand, asking for florins to keep doing what he loved. It seems to me that sort of noblesse oblige is lacking today; there are a lot of people expending a lot of effort to make a lot of money for no other reason than to have it before the next guy. Doesn't seem right to me.
I'll keep playing the lottery, but I'll need to think about what I'd do when I finally win it. Be careful what you wish for and all that.
First things first, though. I'd install those fur-lined sinks.
* now known for his Carnegie endowment and libraries instead of his social Darwinism and cutthroat business practices
** now known largely for being the focus of the fierce anti-trust legislation of the early 20th Century
Big surprise, I know, but congratulations to those who did, that's a lot of money. Which got me to thinking, how much is enough? Certainly when someone wins $300 million, they're probably not going to have to work again. Ever. Unless they turn into one of those lottery winners for whom the money becomes abstract and meaningless, so they spend it like it's never going to run out. Which it does, of course, leaving them millions of dollars in debt instead of mere hundreds.
But assume you won the lottery, and further assume you were astute enough, or had astute enough friends, family and advisors around you, that you don't become a cautionary tale and you actually invest your money wisely and spend thriftily enough that you'll die before you run out of funds.
How much do you need?
And I don't mean just cash, I mean stuff. You'd splurge at first, of course, fur-lined sinks, electric dog polishers, that kind of thing, but once you have a house full of junk you'll never use again, then what? Once you've eaten at every restaurant in town once a week for a year, then what?
Wouldn't it be better to use your money to go places, to see things, to do things - or have them done to you - and to have experiences that only that kind of money can bring? The thing that separates me from Bill Gates is not his multi-billions of dollars, it's what that kind of cash can do. He's got waaaaay more options than I do, nothing but the freedom to go crazy. Which is why he's out there right now trying to guilt other billionaires into giving away most of their money to charity. Bill Gates realized that he'd much rather be remembered as Andrew Carnegie* than J.P. Morgan**.
I think it's good to be comfortable, meaning you have enough to live on, to provide a few amenities or possibly luxuries, provide for your family appropriately, that sort of thing. But too much money becomes a prison, a situation in which you spend most of your time and energy trying to maintain your wealth rather than enjoying what that wealth can provide. And if you're not extremely careful, your kids turn into privileged little bastards.
Lots of money, from the lottery or from deceptive, borderline-fraudulent business practices, should be funneled into arts and sciences. DaVinci was a genius without parallel, but he still had to go to the Italian nobility with his hat in his hand, asking for florins to keep doing what he loved. It seems to me that sort of noblesse oblige is lacking today; there are a lot of people expending a lot of effort to make a lot of money for no other reason than to have it before the next guy. Doesn't seem right to me.
I'll keep playing the lottery, but I'll need to think about what I'd do when I finally win it. Be careful what you wish for and all that.
First things first, though. I'd install those fur-lined sinks.
* now known for his Carnegie endowment and libraries instead of his social Darwinism and cutthroat business practices
** now known largely for being the focus of the fierce anti-trust legislation of the early 20th Century
Friday, November 12, 2010
What's The Protocol?
I was just in the grocery store, gettin' groceries - duh - just minding my own business and looking to stock up the refrigerator, which was running low on supplies. I was taking my time, ambling about, and I saw a guy who looked like a street person. He was unkempt and dirty, and his face and hands were deeply tanned, like he spent most of his time outside. He had a wild-man beard, the kind where you let everything grow including your neck, but oddly enough his extremely long hair seemed freshly-washed. Or at least not as dirty as the rest of him.
So I thought that maybe my first estimate was a bit unkind, and that he might actually be a mechanic or a roofer or some kind of tradesman that gets dirty regularly but has a home to go to at night. I moved on and watched a few more people, like the Armenian guy with the shaved head wearing an Ed Hardy shirt and sunglasses indoors, and the SoCal soccer mom with bleached blonde hair and 'I swear I'm only 29' desperately hip clothes, and the cartoon-like short man who was as wide as he was tall with a head shaped like a great big gumdrop. Not a bad day for people watching, actually.
After my peregrinations I ended up at the only open register, right behind Homeless Man.* He had a Von's card, though it was beat all to Hell and had an odd, almost melted shape. The checker gave him his total, $5.43, and he dug into his pocket.
He drew back a hand with the filthiest, grodiest wad of $1 bills I have ever seen. And I used to be a waiter, people tipped me in bills they didn't want in their own wallets. He only had $4, and had already presented the cashier with 4 quarters, laid out carefully on that little stand they have. She told him he was short, and he dug back into his pocket for a fistful of change which he counted out laboriously. Being this close to him for so long I had to reverse my earlier estimate. This guy was homeless for sure, he just happened to find somewhere to wash his hair earlier in the day. Or the day before.
His transaction successfully completed, he took his purchases - gum, I think, and something else - and departed. His money sat on the little shelf, just leaping with grime and bacteria and unknown nastiness. I was wondering if the cashier was just going to leave it there, but she grabbed a plastic bag and scooped the bills like she was picking up her dog's poop. Then she got another bag and did the same with the change. She stuffed one bag inside the other and then put the wad under the cash drawer.
It had never occurred to me that not only did some people have 'so gross you don't want to touch it' cash, but that cashiers would have some sort of personal routine for handling that kind of terrible yet perfectly legal tender.
You learn something new every day.
*sounds like a super-hero, doesn't it? Kind of a hapless one, but still. Nobody steal this, I'll make a script out of it.
So I thought that maybe my first estimate was a bit unkind, and that he might actually be a mechanic or a roofer or some kind of tradesman that gets dirty regularly but has a home to go to at night. I moved on and watched a few more people, like the Armenian guy with the shaved head wearing an Ed Hardy shirt and sunglasses indoors, and the SoCal soccer mom with bleached blonde hair and 'I swear I'm only 29' desperately hip clothes, and the cartoon-like short man who was as wide as he was tall with a head shaped like a great big gumdrop. Not a bad day for people watching, actually.
After my peregrinations I ended up at the only open register, right behind Homeless Man.* He had a Von's card, though it was beat all to Hell and had an odd, almost melted shape. The checker gave him his total, $5.43, and he dug into his pocket.
He drew back a hand with the filthiest, grodiest wad of $1 bills I have ever seen. And I used to be a waiter, people tipped me in bills they didn't want in their own wallets. He only had $4, and had already presented the cashier with 4 quarters, laid out carefully on that little stand they have. She told him he was short, and he dug back into his pocket for a fistful of change which he counted out laboriously. Being this close to him for so long I had to reverse my earlier estimate. This guy was homeless for sure, he just happened to find somewhere to wash his hair earlier in the day. Or the day before.
His transaction successfully completed, he took his purchases - gum, I think, and something else - and departed. His money sat on the little shelf, just leaping with grime and bacteria and unknown nastiness. I was wondering if the cashier was just going to leave it there, but she grabbed a plastic bag and scooped the bills like she was picking up her dog's poop. Then she got another bag and did the same with the change. She stuffed one bag inside the other and then put the wad under the cash drawer.
It had never occurred to me that not only did some people have 'so gross you don't want to touch it' cash, but that cashiers would have some sort of personal routine for handling that kind of terrible yet perfectly legal tender.
You learn something new every day.
*sounds like a super-hero, doesn't it? Kind of a hapless one, but still. Nobody steal this, I'll make a script out of it.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Psychic Bizarre
I saw a sign on Highland Ave. today, a bright neon yellow rectangle of cardboard taped to a light post. Since traffic at 5 PM on Highland crawls like a drunk sorority chick on a Saturday night, I had time to read the message closely. On it, in a decidedly feminine hand, were the words:
Psychic Bazaar & Clothes
Intriguing to say the least. A psychic bazaar... what would that be? A marketplace of psychics? How could anyone make any profit? You could read the shopkeeper's mind and find out how much he paid for each item. Conversely, it would be difficult to haggle if the guy behind the counter knew how much money you had in your pocket.
I was also intrigued by the '& Clothes' part of the sign. Are they psychic clothes? And if they're not, why are they selling them at the psychic bazaar? Or is it the case that even psychics need pants so they might as well sell to a captive audience? Do psychics wear cargo pants? I have nothing but questions.
The best part, though, had to be the fact that there was no address or phone number on the posterboard. So I suppose you really did have to be psychic to know where the Bazaar & Clothes is.
Now I'm inspired. I think I need to create a web site on which I'll sell high-priced items at a steep discount, but only to psychic people. You send me money, and I'll telepathically beam the pickup spot to you. If you don't receive my psychic waves, obviously you weren't meant to have those items, and you should probably work harder on developing your mental powers. I'll keep the money until you telepathically tell me your powers are strong enough.
Yeah... that's the plan. You... the one who thinks you might have psychic powers. Yes, you. I'm talking to you... with my mind. Send me money. A few hundred dollars will do. For a start. Yes... money... to me...
Psychic Bazaar & Clothes
Intriguing to say the least. A psychic bazaar... what would that be? A marketplace of psychics? How could anyone make any profit? You could read the shopkeeper's mind and find out how much he paid for each item. Conversely, it would be difficult to haggle if the guy behind the counter knew how much money you had in your pocket.
I was also intrigued by the '& Clothes' part of the sign. Are they psychic clothes? And if they're not, why are they selling them at the psychic bazaar? Or is it the case that even psychics need pants so they might as well sell to a captive audience? Do psychics wear cargo pants? I have nothing but questions.
The best part, though, had to be the fact that there was no address or phone number on the posterboard. So I suppose you really did have to be psychic to know where the Bazaar & Clothes is.
Now I'm inspired. I think I need to create a web site on which I'll sell high-priced items at a steep discount, but only to psychic people. You send me money, and I'll telepathically beam the pickup spot to you. If you don't receive my psychic waves, obviously you weren't meant to have those items, and you should probably work harder on developing your mental powers. I'll keep the money until you telepathically tell me your powers are strong enough.
Yeah... that's the plan. You... the one who thinks you might have psychic powers. Yes, you. I'm talking to you... with my mind. Send me money. A few hundred dollars will do. For a start. Yes... money... to me...
Friday, June 25, 2010
Straight Arrow
I got my most recent check Thursday, again with two billing statements on it, enough that I'm now on the money-laundering watch list. I went to the bank today to deposit it, and it seems that Friday is the day to go to the bank and withdraw huge sums of money.
I saw a lady with a blue bank bag get stack after stack of cash bound with that paper wrapper, the kind you see in movies about Vegas or crack houses. Or crack houses in Vegas. When I saw that I thought 'huh... she's certainly a trusting sort, to be taking that amount of money over the counter.'
Then I saw the next guy in line getting three thousand dollars. I know this because I watched the cashier count out $100 bills in groups of five and then paper-clip them together in groups of ten. Three paper clips means three thousand dollars, I'm no dummy. And I thought 'what an odd coincidence, two high-rollers in a row.'
I heard the next lady request $900. And the guy after her - just before me - got $1500. And here I was worried that I would be a Miracle Mile target because I was taking away $140. Compared to those other people I was strictly small-time, not worth the shoe polish it would take to kick my ass.
And then I thought 'it's a good thing I'm not a crook, because I'd so seriously rob those people.' Really. If my switch was set to 'evil' I'd be at least $3000 richer right now, because I could totally take that guy. Or the five-foot tall woman with stack after stack of cash, I outweigh her by double, at least, I could just bump into her and grab the money as she rebounds.
I have these thoughts sometimes. Most of the time. Like when that guy with a name like a sneeze tried to bomb Times Square, I spent a good ten minutes thinking about how he could have done it right. Every so often I'll be in a store and I'll think about the best escape route if I were to stick them up. Sometimes I even think about how I might commit massive institutional fraud and actually get rewarded for my irresponsible, incompetent business conduct, and then I realize that I worked for a company like that and they did it better then I ever could. So I go back to thinking about what I would do if I wanted to completely paralyze Los Angeles traffic. Worse than it already is, I mean. I never would do any of that stuff, but that doesn't keep me from idly considering how I might wreak all sorts of havok with impunity.
It's just lucky for society that I had good parents and I'm an Eagle Scout. Otherwise all ya'll motherf*ckers would be in serious trouble.
Just sayin'...
I saw a lady with a blue bank bag get stack after stack of cash bound with that paper wrapper, the kind you see in movies about Vegas or crack houses. Or crack houses in Vegas. When I saw that I thought 'huh... she's certainly a trusting sort, to be taking that amount of money over the counter.'
Then I saw the next guy in line getting three thousand dollars. I know this because I watched the cashier count out $100 bills in groups of five and then paper-clip them together in groups of ten. Three paper clips means three thousand dollars, I'm no dummy. And I thought 'what an odd coincidence, two high-rollers in a row.'
I heard the next lady request $900. And the guy after her - just before me - got $1500. And here I was worried that I would be a Miracle Mile target because I was taking away $140. Compared to those other people I was strictly small-time, not worth the shoe polish it would take to kick my ass.
And then I thought 'it's a good thing I'm not a crook, because I'd so seriously rob those people.' Really. If my switch was set to 'evil' I'd be at least $3000 richer right now, because I could totally take that guy. Or the five-foot tall woman with stack after stack of cash, I outweigh her by double, at least, I could just bump into her and grab the money as she rebounds.
I have these thoughts sometimes. Most of the time. Like when that guy with a name like a sneeze tried to bomb Times Square, I spent a good ten minutes thinking about how he could have done it right. Every so often I'll be in a store and I'll think about the best escape route if I were to stick them up. Sometimes I even think about how I might commit massive institutional fraud and actually get rewarded for my irresponsible, incompetent business conduct, and then I realize that I worked for a company like that and they did it better then I ever could. So I go back to thinking about what I would do if I wanted to completely paralyze Los Angeles traffic. Worse than it already is, I mean. I never would do any of that stuff, but that doesn't keep me from idly considering how I might wreak all sorts of havok with impunity.
It's just lucky for society that I had good parents and I'm an Eagle Scout. Otherwise all ya'll motherf*ckers would be in serious trouble.
Just sayin'...
Thursday, May 13, 2010
It's All Changing
As time goes on I'm beginning to realize that this economic downturn is going to change things all over. And I don't mean just for me, being 'between assignments.' Things are changing on a fundamental level, especially with regards to finance, which should always be a means to an end - a way to enable a real economy based on goods and services - and not the money-making end in itself. The 'bon temps' that used to 'roulez' for banks, brokerage houses, insurance companies, mortgage lenders and the like are soon to be 'fin,' even if the institutions themselves don't know it yet. Or the government for that matter. There's an ill wind a-blowin'.
The crazy-ass Teaparty kooks are definitely the lunatic fringe, but that fringe just tends to be more radical and vocal about things that bother society as a whole. Rampant fiscal and fiduciary irresponsibility is going to lead to a new rise in populism, just like what happened over 100 years ago with political corruption, multiple depressions, robber barons and the like. The result of the business excesses of the 1890s was the election of that trust-busting Bull Moose, Teddy Roosevelt.
And you thought you didn't have to pay attention in History class, didn't you? Well, you blew it off, and see what's happened? History has repeated itself. Again. Same trip down the same road, only it's 100 years later and we all have cell phones. There were pretty serious changes to business back then because of the idiocy of the corporate giants, and the same thing's bound to happen now. Mark my words.
COMMUTE: there - 47 minutes, I left late back - 41 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 58 days
The crazy-ass Teaparty kooks are definitely the lunatic fringe, but that fringe just tends to be more radical and vocal about things that bother society as a whole. Rampant fiscal and fiduciary irresponsibility is going to lead to a new rise in populism, just like what happened over 100 years ago with political corruption, multiple depressions, robber barons and the like. The result of the business excesses of the 1890s was the election of that trust-busting Bull Moose, Teddy Roosevelt.
And you thought you didn't have to pay attention in History class, didn't you? Well, you blew it off, and see what's happened? History has repeated itself. Again. Same trip down the same road, only it's 100 years later and we all have cell phones. There were pretty serious changes to business back then because of the idiocy of the corporate giants, and the same thing's bound to happen now. Mark my words.
COMMUTE: there - 47 minutes, I left late back - 41 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 58 days
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Arm Bars And Leg Locks
I was in the gym locker room this morning, minding my own business, when I was drawn into a conversation against my will. Not that I actually participated, but I did eavesdrop shamelessly. Normally at the gym I ignore other people's discussions, and the locker room is a no-eye-contact zone, so it's mostly just 'hi-bye' if you see someone you know. But not this time. Two guys met and I just couldn't help listening in.
They were MMA fighters.
For those of you who have been living under a rock for the past ten years, MMA is Mixed Martial Arts fighting, 'the battle in the octagon.' At least UFC uses an octagon, others don't. It's like boxing and kickboxing with grappling thrown in. High-enery, high-octane fights, and there's always blood. Makes me feel sixteen again just watching it.
Anyway, these two guys recognized each other from MMA events they'd participated in, but I didn't recognize them at all. They introduced themselves and then got to talking. You might think that listening to two guys talk about where to get boxing equipment and how to punch past someone's guard might be boring, but it wasn't. I was actually surprised by how fascinating I found everything they said.
I once spent an entire flight from Dulles Airport to San Antonio wedged between two flight engineers. I thought that would be interesting but I was wrong. Dead wrong. I had never wanted to claw my eyes out from boredom before that flight. And I figured that listening to these two fighters talk would be the same thing. Wrong.
They were both older, mid-thirties, on the lower rungs of the MMA ladder and not going to climb any higher. They had day jobs outside of fighting, so they couldn't get completely beaten up in a fight because they had to go to work the next day. They knew which promoters were honest and which were crooks. They had families, wives and children that benefited from the little extra money fighting brought in. They were lamenting the loss of speed that comes with aging, but knew they had an edge in experience. Kind of like old wolves in the pack, they knew their time was past but they were going to fight on until they just couldn't do it any more.
It was a fascinating glimpse into a world I'm not part of, making guys who are superhuman on TV seem all to fragile and normal, beset by the same problems and worries everybody has. One guy even said 'I got so much running through my brain now it's hard to turn it off and just fight.'
I also learned that the economic downturn has hit the boxing supply stores hard too. There's a sale this weekend on gym equipment, but it's priced so cheap now - over half off - that it's now affordable for your home. So if you want a six-foot-tall Muy Thai heavy bag, let me know, I'll hook you up, evidently this weekend they're less than a hundred bucks.
They were MMA fighters.
For those of you who have been living under a rock for the past ten years, MMA is Mixed Martial Arts fighting, 'the battle in the octagon.' At least UFC uses an octagon, others don't. It's like boxing and kickboxing with grappling thrown in. High-enery, high-octane fights, and there's always blood. Makes me feel sixteen again just watching it.
Anyway, these two guys recognized each other from MMA events they'd participated in, but I didn't recognize them at all. They introduced themselves and then got to talking. You might think that listening to two guys talk about where to get boxing equipment and how to punch past someone's guard might be boring, but it wasn't. I was actually surprised by how fascinating I found everything they said.
I once spent an entire flight from Dulles Airport to San Antonio wedged between two flight engineers. I thought that would be interesting but I was wrong. Dead wrong. I had never wanted to claw my eyes out from boredom before that flight. And I figured that listening to these two fighters talk would be the same thing. Wrong.
They were both older, mid-thirties, on the lower rungs of the MMA ladder and not going to climb any higher. They had day jobs outside of fighting, so they couldn't get completely beaten up in a fight because they had to go to work the next day. They knew which promoters were honest and which were crooks. They had families, wives and children that benefited from the little extra money fighting brought in. They were lamenting the loss of speed that comes with aging, but knew they had an edge in experience. Kind of like old wolves in the pack, they knew their time was past but they were going to fight on until they just couldn't do it any more.
It was a fascinating glimpse into a world I'm not part of, making guys who are superhuman on TV seem all to fragile and normal, beset by the same problems and worries everybody has. One guy even said 'I got so much running through my brain now it's hard to turn it off and just fight.'
I also learned that the economic downturn has hit the boxing supply stores hard too. There's a sale this weekend on gym equipment, but it's priced so cheap now - over half off - that it's now affordable for your home. So if you want a six-foot-tall Muy Thai heavy bag, let me know, I'll hook you up, evidently this weekend they're less than a hundred bucks.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Tis The Season
I am extremely difficult to buy gifts for. I know this, and, honestly, it's partly by design. When people ask me what I want for my birthday or for Christmas I tell them 'I don't really want anything' and I truly don't. I don't need gifts, I don't need any more stuff because I already have too much. But gifts aren't really about the having, they're about the giving. What I really enjoy are gifts that show me someone took some time to think about me. My nieces are particularly good at finding absurd things they know I'll like, but other people have stepped up to the plate as well.
I prefer to remain an enigma, but this year I've decided not only to make a Christmas list, but to put it out there for everyone to see. Now no one can say I'm hard to buy for.
Dear Santa, please bring me:
A jet pack - one that fits me and can lift me, I want to sail over castle walls like James Bond.
A posse - anything that's good enough for Tupac is good enough for me.
A three-finger ring that spells out 'TCB' - if it's good enough for Elvis it's good enough for me.
A Sinatra breakfast - if you don't know what I mean, you aren't meant to. If you do know what I mean, then get busy, daddy-o.
TCR slotless slot cars - it's the one thing I really, really wanted for Christmas but never got.
Three wishes from a genie in a bottle. And I don't mean Christina Aguilera, what she's got I don't want. An alternative would be a monkey's paw that grants wishes, I'm not all that particular.
My '72 Chevelle, best car ever. Good luck with this one, I know where the engine is, and it's not with the body. And I'm pretty sure the body's now been recycled into a Weber grill.
The still-beating heart of Bill Gates. I'm not particularly mad at him, not anymore, but he still has a lot to answer for.
One good, solid punch in Alan Greenspan's face. I know, I know, he's old, but he's got a lot to answer for too. Bastard.
That one day in 1982 when my friends Jeff, Bob, and I were out in Jeff's front yard playing football in the rain. It's all been kind of downhill since then.
For the guys in charge of Google to come clean and admit they really are in it for the money just like every other corporate bastard. Time for the charade to end.
Leather shoelaces for my f**kin' boots. And not the square ones, those suck, the round ones, like what I have now. But not broken.
A chance to visit the 18-year-old me, to tell him what he did right and what he did wrong.
There you are, that's all I want. Some of it's gonna be hard to wrap.
I prefer to remain an enigma, but this year I've decided not only to make a Christmas list, but to put it out there for everyone to see. Now no one can say I'm hard to buy for.
Dear Santa, please bring me:
A jet pack - one that fits me and can lift me, I want to sail over castle walls like James Bond.
A posse - anything that's good enough for Tupac is good enough for me.
A three-finger ring that spells out 'TCB' - if it's good enough for Elvis it's good enough for me.
A Sinatra breakfast - if you don't know what I mean, you aren't meant to. If you do know what I mean, then get busy, daddy-o.
TCR slotless slot cars - it's the one thing I really, really wanted for Christmas but never got.
Three wishes from a genie in a bottle. And I don't mean Christina Aguilera, what she's got I don't want. An alternative would be a monkey's paw that grants wishes, I'm not all that particular.
My '72 Chevelle, best car ever. Good luck with this one, I know where the engine is, and it's not with the body. And I'm pretty sure the body's now been recycled into a Weber grill.
The still-beating heart of Bill Gates. I'm not particularly mad at him, not anymore, but he still has a lot to answer for.
One good, solid punch in Alan Greenspan's face. I know, I know, he's old, but he's got a lot to answer for too. Bastard.
That one day in 1982 when my friends Jeff, Bob, and I were out in Jeff's front yard playing football in the rain. It's all been kind of downhill since then.
For the guys in charge of Google to come clean and admit they really are in it for the money just like every other corporate bastard. Time for the charade to end.
Leather shoelaces for my f**kin' boots. And not the square ones, those suck, the round ones, like what I have now. But not broken.
A chance to visit the 18-year-old me, to tell him what he did right and what he did wrong.
There you are, that's all I want. Some of it's gonna be hard to wrap.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
A Couple Extra Bucks
I've been thinking about ways to make a few extra buck under the table, enough to pay for gasoline or the water bill, whatever. It can't be too much money, or I'll attract undue attention from The Man, but it has to be enough to make the effort worthwhile. I've been thinking about it a while, coming up with ideas and then discarding them, until I hit on the perfect solution.
I'll make moonshine.
I'm not talking 'home brew' beer here, I'm talking rotgut, distilled corn mash, the kind of stuff that goes into ceramic jugs with 'xxx' on side. The kind of stuff hillbillies dream about, the kind of stuff Applachian bootleggers made small fortunes off of (and subsequently created NASCAR because of, it's true, look it up). Li'l Abner stuff, bare feet and squealing pigs and corncob pipes.
The fact that I have absolutely no experience with any kind of brewing or distilling only ensures my success, beginners luck, as it were. It's time to take a trip to the hardware store, I need copper tubing, propane, that kind of thing. I don't really use my balcony for anything, it would make a perfect mini-distillery.
I'm pretty sure I'd be the only moonshine operation in Pasadena, CA - at least I hope I'd be - so I'd get away with it longer than if I lived in, say, Little Rock, where no doubt they have a moonshine task force. My local authorities just won't be on the lookout for someone crafting white lightning. Although you never know, there could be thriving moonshine underground in Bungalow Heaven.
This will also go a long way towards fulfilling my dream of being on COPS. I won't get away with it forever, you know.
I'll make moonshine.
I'm not talking 'home brew' beer here, I'm talking rotgut, distilled corn mash, the kind of stuff that goes into ceramic jugs with 'xxx' on side. The kind of stuff hillbillies dream about, the kind of stuff Applachian bootleggers made small fortunes off of (and subsequently created NASCAR because of, it's true, look it up). Li'l Abner stuff, bare feet and squealing pigs and corncob pipes.
The fact that I have absolutely no experience with any kind of brewing or distilling only ensures my success, beginners luck, as it were. It's time to take a trip to the hardware store, I need copper tubing, propane, that kind of thing. I don't really use my balcony for anything, it would make a perfect mini-distillery.
I'm pretty sure I'd be the only moonshine operation in Pasadena, CA - at least I hope I'd be - so I'd get away with it longer than if I lived in, say, Little Rock, where no doubt they have a moonshine task force. My local authorities just won't be on the lookout for someone crafting white lightning. Although you never know, there could be thriving moonshine underground in Bungalow Heaven.
This will also go a long way towards fulfilling my dream of being on COPS. I won't get away with it forever, you know.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Are You F***in' Kidding Me?
Evidently Universal Studios has just bid highest for the movie rights to... wait for it... Asteroids. Universal is already in development on a 'Battleship' movie and a 'Candlyand' movie. Seriously, I can't make up stuff this stupid.
Yup, they're going to make a movie based on a thirty-year-old video game that was nothing but a triangle and lumpy blocks. I used to absolutely KILL at Asteroids, I once had the high score on three different machines within bicycle distance of my house.
And yet another fond childhood memory gets co-opted by corporate weasels...
Yup, they're going to make a movie based on a thirty-year-old video game that was nothing but a triangle and lumpy blocks. I used to absolutely KILL at Asteroids, I once had the high score on three different machines within bicycle distance of my house.
And yet another fond childhood memory gets co-opted by corporate weasels...
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