Which Way Is 'Go'?

I've been pondering imponderables again. Bear with me.
   I've heard or read a few things in the past day that forced me to think about the very, very large and the very, very small. I have some questions about this, and maybe if I were a particle physicist I'd already know the answer, but I'm not so here goes.

Electrons are round.
   Scientists have deduced that electrons are not only round, they're really, really round. The analogy I heard was that if you blow up an electron to be the diameter of the solar system (Neptune's orbit, I presume, since Pluto is no longer a planet) they measured the roundness of the electron to within the width of a human hair. On that scale. Quite an accomplishment. Unless...
   I learned in high school physics that if you measure electrons one way they behave as particles, if you measure them another way they behave as waves. Which means, if you think about that for a moment, an electron is neither a wave nor a particle but a third thing besides. The electon conforms to the expectations and assumptions of the experiment you perform on it.
   So if you measure the electron looking for how round it is, and you find that it's way, way, way rounder than you could ever have imagined, shouldn't you re-examine your assumptions? Some paranoid mental patients are 100% positive the CIA is following them, you can't convince them otherwise, because that's what they're looking for. Everything they see just reaffirms their assumption that men in black are after them. I'm thinking it's the same for this round-electron experiment. Like a no-money-down mortgage, if it seems too good to be true then it probably is.

Next topic: the most distant object in the universe
   Scientists (different ones) also discovered a gamma-ray burst that is about 13 billion light years distant. If the universe is 13.7 billion years old - which scientists say it is - then that makes this the most distant object yet observed.
   But what does that mean?
   If we're looking far into space we're also looking back into time. And yet, we see the same distance no matter which way we look. We're 13 billion light years from stuff as we look North, and the same 13 billion light years from stuff as we look South. Does that mean those two things are 26 billion light years apart? Expansion of spacetime itself is not limited to Einstein's limit on the speed of light, since it's not light that's going so fast, it's the fabric of the universe itself, no law against that. But it does leave us with a perplexing conundrum.
   Where's the center?
   If there was a Big Bang, and I have no doubt there was, it had to have started somewhere specific. And don't cop out by telling me the Big Bang created spacetime, I get that, but spacetime expansion has to be coming from somewhere once it exists. An air bubble I blow underwater in a swimming pool didn't exist before I opened my mouth, but it exists after and has to go somewhere and do something in relation to me. Same thing with the universe.
   And you don't get another cop out by resorting to infinity. The problem with infinity is that it's infinite, and if our universe is infinite then that sort of precludes a Big Bang, doesn't it?

... all right, that's it for now. Thanks for your patience.

The Kwisatz Haderach?*

You ever have one of those deja-vu circumstances where you're in a situation and you realize you dreamed precisely that moment? The dream could have been the day before, it could have been years before, but you forgot it completely until just then, when it all came flooding back.
   I used to have those all the time. And I do mean all the time, twice a week, almost every day sometimes. I'd hear something or see something or even smell something and I'd realize that I dreamed what was happening, saw it in my mind's eye just like it played out in front of me. And then I got older and the deja vu moments came less and less. For a while there, a couple of years I suppose, I don't recall having one of those moments. I even wondered why they stopped, like maybe I got too old or lost my innocence or got my third eye poked out or something.
   Well, no worries, they've started again. I'm going back to my old schedule, once or twice a week now. I haven't taken the waters of life*, nor undergone the spice agony*, nor even organized an army of deadly desert nomads*, but I'm fairly certain I could if I wanted to.
   The analytical side of me says I'm not remembering a dream, that my mind is putting together familiar input and recalling something similar that actually happened before, but when the deja-vu involves people I only met that day it's really difficult for me to reason my way out of it not being a remembered dream. I just know it's like having an old friend around after he's been away for a while.
   I wish this was something I could control, it would be good to discover the winning lotto numbers the day before, but I'll take what I can get I suppose. See you in my dreams.


* it's a Dune reference, look it up. The good Dune by Frank Herbert, not the embarrassing abominations perpetrated by his hack son Brian

Out Of My Element

I like to try new things.
   Not like shooting heroin or anything stupid like that. Dangerous is okay, I bungee jumped for one of my birthdays. From time to time I buy a magazine that I would never otherwise purchase, like Lowrider or O or Paranoia or High Times just because I need to step outside my own narrow experience and discover what it's like to see the world as someone else.
   This is the reason I went to the Bingo parlor on Okinawa when I was there, to expand my horizons. Well, that and because I was bored to tears and really had absolutely nothing better to do. I discovered an entire subculture I knew nothing about. It was a grand sociological experiment.
   Much like my trip to the grocery store today. I decided I needed to buy air fresheners because the house I'm renting is very new and the seals are very tight and I can tell the place is starting to smell like me, and not in a provocative, sexy way like things around me usually do.
   So I found the air freshener aisle easily, but then I came to a bewildered stop. What I had imagined would be a quick in-grab-out operation, much like a convenience store beer run, turned into a ten-minute exercise in soul searching and marketing guesswork.
   I know what apples and cinnamon smell like, but what's Crisp Waters? Dream Garden? Meadows and Rain?
   I mean, seriously, what the f*ck is this? Dream Garden? Every garden I've ever worked in smelled like decaying vegetation and manure. Do I want my kitchen to smell like that?
   Ocean Blue? Relaxing Moments? What the hell are these supposed to smell like? The ocean is a fish's toilet and the most relaxed I've ever been was underneath a stripper in Vegas.* So what's my living room supposed to get from the relaxing 'aromas,' the heady boquet of baby powder, cheap wine, and shame?
   Couldn't the manufacturers have taken pity on me and named the scents something I would know? Like cookies? Or beer? Or sausage. I could totally get behind a sausage aroma.
   Of course, if Relaxing Moments really did smell like a stripper I could probably do with that one too.


* sorry, Mom

Stuffed Limo

The place where I fence is in Burbank, in a tiny little industrial area which is all that remains of what had once been a big non-office-building area in that part of town. These days just across the street is a big mall, and over one street is another big mall, but right by the fencing salle there are several car repair places, one hot rod shop, a furniture store, a vacant place that smells like solvent but otherwise is completely anonymous, and a taxidermy shop.
   That's right, smack in the heart of Burbank is a place that will stuff your coyote. And that's not a double-entendre, they really will stuff your coyote. Or your monkey, or your rattlesnake, what have you. There is a great white shark above their door, which certainly looks real, but since it's LA you never quite know.
   Last week as I was - literally - yards away from fencing practice, I was thwarted in my attempts to park by a stretch limo. Not a town car, this was one of those huge, long limos, the kind they bring stars to the Oscars in, the kind with two moon roofs and a fully-stocked wet bar. That kind. It was backing into the taxidermy place.
   Yeah. Figure that one out.
   I'm used to seeing these behemoth cars, they're all over LA. But I am absolutely not used to seeing one laboring to back into the taxidermy shop's parking lot.
   I tried to make up a story about this, like maybe Joan Rivers had exhausted all her plastic surgery options so now she needed to go to a taxidermist, something like that. But nothing could match the completely surreal experience of waiting while the stretch limo tried to park under the stuffed shark. That's odd enough that anything else you might make up is only gilding the lily.
   I wanted to wait and see who got out, or maybe ask the driver precisely what he was doing and who he was driving around, but once the limo had backed in they closed the gate.
   Now I'll never get closure on that anecdote.

I Got Gamblin' Fever

I want to go to Vegas.
   'But Don,' you say, 'you live in Pasadena, you could just drive up to Vegas on a weekend. What's the big deal?' True enough. But I don't want to go to Vegas now, I want to go to Vegas then.
   It was 1998, at least I'm pretty sure it was, and five of us planned a trip to Vegas. Five guys. Three days in Vegas. Yeah.
   Back then (jeez... 1998 is 'back then') Vegas was just starting to build up. Caesars Palace was completing their second tower, the Mirage was the happening place, the Tam-o-Shanter was still there. So was the Sands. And the Frontier, and the Stardust, and the Boardwalk, and the Desert Inn. It was Old Vegas - Sinatra's mobbed-up Vegas - mingling grudgingly with the new, douchebag Vegas - Steve Wynn's Vegas. There weren't pedestrian walkways then, you had to get across the Strip the old-fashioned way, by jaywalking.
   Me, Scott, Mike, Sean, and Bizarro Don. Who brought his own pillow. Really. Right through the Mirage lobby. Ah, those were the days. Me and those guys out on the town. Them partaking of the free booze, sometimes with an undeserved sense of entitlement, me the perpetual designated driver since I don't drink alcohol. I want those three days back, or I suppose I want to re-live those three days over and over again. The trip of a lifetime. Seriously.

Some highlights:

Wrasslin' in the room. Both Mike and Sean used to wrestle in high school, so this was truly a contest of champions. Scott wrestled because he thought he could beat the other two because he outweighed each of them by forty pounds. He was wrong. I knew better and didn't participate, though I did egg everyone else on.

Scott - who was Jewish - kept his vow to eat bacon at every meal. He achieved his goal admirably, though sometimes with puzzled looks from waiters.

Crazy Girls in the Stardust. A topless revue. It was bad. Really bad. Spectacularly bad. So bad that it came back around and crossed over to being good. The performers were almost all former showgirls who'd been injured, or got too heavy, or had kids or bad boob jobs or all of the above. Some possibly with drug habits to support. Just agonizingly awful, and yet sublime because of it. We were about to leave before the show started but Mike made us stay, since we'd made the effort to get tickets. 'We're staying right here and we're gonna watch the show.' Good call, man.
   Also, the scary mafioso ticket taker guy. You could look in his eyes and know he'd murdered someone. Thin and sinister. 'So you want to see the Crazy Girls?' Yes, sir, we would. If that's okay by you.

Five dollar craps tables at the Stratosphere. A great place to learn the game. Especially at 9 AM.

Star Trek the Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton. Nerd-vana. You could get Ferengi drinks at the Quark's Bar. And if you were an uber-nerd you could get a Klingon-themed wedding.

Me, Scott, Mike, and Sean, walking two abreast on the sidewalk, clearing a path before us. I didn't think we looked particularly tough or threatening, but evidently our fellow vacationers felt otherwise.

The President from The Fifth Element at the Rio. We were waiting for a cab and there he was.

Club Paradise. A 'gentleman's club' where guys act like anything but. Scott took complete leave of his senses and spent waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much money. We were there for hours. HOURS. And it wasn't horrible. Scott actually paid for 'bootie bucks' or whatever they call their fake cash. A lot of bootie bucks. We helped him whittle his stash down and he was so drunk he never noticed.

Thanks, guys. A truly great time.

Scary Friday

Some days are just normal, regular old days when you go about your business like you always do and nothing particularly strange or eventful happens. Then you'll have a day like today. There's got to be something in the water, or in the air, or in the mind-control beams the CIA sends all over Los Angeles, because the crazies were out in force. I'm wondering if I have some sort of tracking device that lets the weirdos know where I am.


On the way to work:
   A woman in a sequined cream-colored evening gown - really - crossing the street against the light in Koreatown. She was definitely NOT tall or glamorous, and the gown was too big for her and worn and frayed at the hem. Nobody honked, we didn't want to draw her attention to us. But there was obviously a story there.
   A guy running backwards down Wilshire. The sidewalk West of LaBrea is plenty wide enough for it, and I like to think he was trying to exercise his legs differently or something. But he was absolutely trotting opposite the way he was looking. I didn't stop to see how he handled the crosswalks.

At the post office:
   A skinny, way-too-tan guy with long gray hair, wearing a tank top and little tiny running shorts that reminded me of Daisy Dukes, small and tight and cut up the side, threatening to flop open and show the world more than we're prepared to see. That was enough to qualify for the list, but it gets better. He had a prosthetic left leg and was wearing black socks with his green-and-yellow tennis shoes. I'm gonna cut the guy a break and say he was color blind or something. 'Course that doesn't explain the shorts.
   Behind him, a Filipino woman in blinding pink scrubs, loudly explaining to the Post Office lady how she had absolutely nothing illegal, fragile, perishable, or illegal in her package. Nothing illegal at all. Did she mention that there was nothing illegal in it?
   Behind me, a doofus-y guy who would cough self-consciously and then make a weird high-pitched mumbling sound. Not words but like pieces of baby talk. Then he'd be quiet for thirty seconds, cough again and mutter again. Twice. Then the cycle would repeat. He was buying a stamp. That's right. One stamp.

At the grocery store:
   A really, really, really fat guy trying to sneak up on his friend. We're talking 350 + pounds of floppy-fat goober, mincing down the aisle like he was a ninja. He was about the same width side-to-side as he was front-to-back. Best of all, the guy he thought was his friend was not; he was 'sneaking' up on the wrong person.
   A lady making her lunch out of things she bought at the deli counter. She'd gotten a prepared sandwich and potato salad and was enjoying both while she shopped. I'm assuming she intended to pay for them when she was done. Unless she was going through the self-service registers. Although... she's given me an idea for a way to economize during this economic downturn.

I have no idea why this assemblage decided to present itself to me all at once today. Maybe because it's a long holiday weekend? I'm kind of afraid to leave the house now, don't know what else is lurking out there.

Were-Squid

You ever have one of those days where people just get too close?
   From time to time it's unavoidable that someone is going to invade your personal space. It happens. But there are days...
   Like today. Seemed like everyone was trying to determine what I ate for breakfast by what my breath smelled of. Five people in a tiny elevator, too many guys in a small bathroom, someone looming over me in a meeting room, people standing right off my stern when we shared pie. Even when I voted this evening the polling place workers got close enough to feel my aura.
   I want something to let people know they're getting too close. Aside from a solid punch to the solar plexus, that is. So I figure I'll cross my genes with a squid's. I'll fill my ink sacs with black fluid, and when someone gets too close - SPLAT! - I'll squirt them right in the face.
   ... make people think twice about invading my personal space ...


COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes      back - 40 minutes
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 34 days

You May Have Already Won...

Guess what? I just won $150,000. No, seriously, it's for real. I got a letter from England and they said my name was drawn from different sweepstakes and lottery databases around the world. Evidently they've tried to contact me for years now, and it's down to the wire, only three more weeks left before I forfeit this forever. And all I have to do is call a number in England... hold on a second. This sounds fishy. I'm beginning to suspect this letter from 'Standard Links Alliance' might be a scam. Or scam-ola...

   You know, now that I think about it, I've never entered a British lottery. I don't even know if they have one. I know they have a lottery in Australia because I did buy lotto tickets there, but all I won was a kangaroo with a pouch full of beer. I'm kidding, the beer came in its own crate.

A while back I wrote about a Nigerian scam e-mail I received, one that claimed to be from our own FBI. I could tell immediately that was a scam because it wasn't from some prince, but from a US Federal police force operating on behalf of a foreign lottery and I was supposed to have won almost a million dollars. Only the truly desperate would believe that kind of pitch.
   But these Standard Links Alliance guys are good. Really good. The letter was indeed mailed from England, and it's written on A-4 paper (what they use in Europe instead of 8.5 x 11), and the phone number they tell you to call is in London, England just like they claim. Aside from the complete nonsense of the letter itself, which never quite explains where they got my name or how I came by this sum, it's almost totally believable. Even the dollar amount itself, $150,000, seems within the realm of possibility. Not too large to be ridiculous like the Nigerian e-mail, and not so small that most people would ignore it. $150,000 is that Goldilocks spot for generating interest in free money. If, of course, you don't ask yourself why a British bank is issuing checks in American currency.
   I'm half tempted to give these guys a call - from a work phone, of course - just to screw with them. But, nah, this will just go in the trash with the other garbage.

Still... you gotta give them an 'A' for execution on this one.

Jumpin' Anacondas!

I'm not at my contract gig today, it's a doctor visit/ car servicing day. They're not at the same place, in case you were wondering.
   However, only yesterday I was commenting on how things are going be changing with the world and the economy more than people realize. Well, my prediction is already coming true.
   I was gearing up to take my truck in for its 100,000 mile servicing - yet another post from a while back - to the dealer where I have been taking my truck since I moved out here to SoCal eight years ago. I got online to check for coupons, and when I clicked the dealer's link I saw a message from Chevrolet 'The Chevy dealer you selected is no longer in business.' Say what?
   Nah... can't be, I thought. I was just down on that part of Colorado Blvd. a month ago and the place was still open. Must be some sort of mistake, I've been going there for eight years. The service writers knew my name, the shuttle driver remembered me. That place couldn't be closed. No way. One of GM's IT guys must have been asleep at the switch and screwed up the web site. Yeah, that had to be it. Battling with my disbelief, I got in the truck and rolled East.
   Sure enough, the place is vacant. Empty. A tumbleweed factory. Blank. Uninhabited. Deserted. Abandoned. Locked up and swept up. Cleared the f**k out.
   Like I said, I know for a fact this business was open four weeks ago, all the banners, cars and activity I saw weren't illusions. This wasn't even one of the Chevy dealers who lost their franchise a year or so back. This was a going concern, at least it seemed to be. Although... I had been getting coupons in the mail for $12 oil changes, which has to be below cost considering you have to pay for mechanics, equipment, and supplies. It's always a sign of desperation when a business starts giving away the stuff it's trying to sell.
   The media and the government are trying to tell us that things are turning around, that recovery is just around the corner. I find that hard to believe when a major employer like a car dealership with at least 100 employees, maybe more, closes up shop overnight.
   To bring closure on this anecdote, I just continued a little further East, to the GMC dealer where I bought the hot rod, and I'm getting my truck taken care of there. It's all going to be okay...

COMMUTE: blissfully, none, no driving nowhere today
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 57 days

I Want To Shake The Hand Of The Man

I was grocery shopping yesterday and I forgot to make a list so I was kind of wandering around the store trying to think about things I needed and what kind of meals I was going to make. And then I got thinking about how much I really wanted fajitas right then and there, in the store. But since I wasn't in Costco there was no chance I was going to get any. The first time I had fajitas was back in San Antonio, in high school, when Taco Cabana was just one store on Hildebrand that used to get closed down every two months when La Migra raided it and sent all the illegals home.
   I wanted to shake the hand of the man who invented fajitas, but the origins of that delicious food are lost in the mists of time. So I got to thinking about other great things I can't thank anyone for.

French bread pizza. It should be a travesty but it's oh-so delicious.
   Star fruit. It's fruit... shaped like a star. Sounds like a marketing ploy, but it's all natural.
Bogs. They're like swamps but without alligators and with mummified Stone Age people.
   Australian $2 coins. The best thing for scratching your scratch-off Lottery tickets.
Gyros meat. I know it's processed to Hell and back, but... mmmmm....
   Craftsman furniture. I could try to shake the hand of Gustav Stickley, but he's been dead for decades.
Carnies. God love 'em, they're so crooked they make Louisiana politicians look honest. Only hot chicks win the huge stuffed Pink Panther, how's that fair? I could shake one of their hands, but, really, I'd rather not.
    Gun shows. The only place where you can be amused, horrified, disgusted, and intrigued in the space of five minutes. Why is it the people you least want to have guns have the most?
Revell models. Really I'm more a fan of Testor's model glue, but they don't make it same way now as they did when I was a kid. No good fumes anymore. And, actually, one of the Revell founders is still alive, but he's in Florida and I never go there.
   Coca-Cola Santa Claus. Other than Nat Cole singing, nothing puts me more in the Christmas mood.
Undershirts. The thin, thin, thin kind you wear under a dress shirt. The kind Marlon Brando wore as Stanley Kowalski in Streetcar. Nothing makes you feel more like a hard-boiled 50's detective than putting on an undershirt.

Man's Best Friend

Hey Beans.
   Puddles! What up, dawg?
Very funny.
   I see you got your garbage on.
Someone turned over a can behind a Thai restaurant. Best rolling I've had in a while.
   Very aromatic. I'm gonna have to get real close to smell your butt.
Maybe later, buddy. We've got business.
   You want me to go first?
Please, I have to gnaw on my hind leg for a little while.
   Well, the takeover isn't going as planned. But I guess you knew that.
Mffm... grblllfmm...
   Of course, you always expect setbacks, but this just isn't working out. I think it's because we don't have thumbs.
That's just an excuse and you know it. If we really wanted this, really, really wanted it, we'd find a way to make it work, thumbs or not.
   Easy for you to say, you're eighty pounds of fur and muscle. Some of us weigh less than a Thanksgiving turkey.
All I'm hearing are excuses. 'I can't' instead of 'I will.'
   Okay, big guy, how's your part going?
Well...
   See? It's easy to give orders, not so easy to follow them.
That's not it. I may have been too successful.
   What 'choo talkin' 'bout, Puddles?
This whole financial meltdown, it's gotten out of hand. Way beyond what we intended.
   Don't tell me they actually went for it.
All of it. Everything. Loaning money to people who clearly couldn't pay it back, lax oversight, rampant greed. Even credit default swaps, for Lassie's sake!
   Really? Those were Jughead's ideas, may his spirit chase bees forever. I thought he was stupid for even suggesting them.
They worked. And now my person's out of a job. Snausages are getting few and far between at my house.
    Mine too. I guess we should put the takeover plan on the back burner.
For now. But we can't lose sight of the goal: canine domination.
   A world without Snausages isn't one I want to live in, let alone rule over.
Agreed. I'll pass the word.
    Can I sniff your butt now?


COMMUTE: there - 36 minutes      back - 38 minutes, not too bad
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 80 days

The Ghost Of Things Undone

   It was dark when I woke, and a look at the clock let me know it was midnight. Moonbeams shone through the window, painting silver stripes on the dark comforter. And there was something else, a person - or an echo of a person - just beyond the foot of the bed.
   "You cannot rest, you must not rest," the phantom muttered in sepulchral tones, a whisper from beyond.
   "You again?" I said, falling back onto my pillows. "Jeez, what do you want from me?"
   The apparition stirred, floating back and forth slowly, carried on invisible currents. "Things remain. Things you cannot avoid. You must not avoid."
   "Yeah, you told me last night, and the night before, and the night before that," I said, rubbing my eyes and hoping the ghost would fade away soon. "If this is so important that you have to wake me up four nights in a row, why can't you tell me what these things are?"
   The wisp of a presence hovered there, insubstantial as a cobweb, a ghostly hand raised to its fading chin, thinking. "You have a point. Doesn't make much sense to haunt you about your earthly tasks if you have no idea what they might be."
   "You think?" I said wearily. "So tell me already. I have to avenge the death of a friend? I have to put right some grave injustice? No wait, I have to find a way to bring you final peace. That's it, isn't it?"
   "I don't really know," the ghost said.
   "Are you kidding me?" I said. "You don't even know what you're hounding me about?"
   The spirit leaned against the foot of my bed, thoroughly confused. "They don't really give us details at Central Office."
   I pulled my pillows up, determined to at least be comfortable if I couldn't be asleep. "So they just told you to come haunt some guy named Don and didn't tell you why?"
   "I'm sorry, what was that?" the ghost said. "Don? Your name is Don? Are you sure?"
   "Pretty sure," I said. "My wallet's on the dresser over there if you want to check for yourself."
   The ghost sighed, a small chuckle escaping its ectoplasmic lips. "You're not gonna believe this. I'm supposed to be haunting a guy named Dan. Man, I'm really sorry. The bureaucracy we ghosts have to put up with... well, you can imagine."
   "Does this mean we're done?" I said. "You're gonna leave and not come back tomorrow night?"
   "Scout's honor," the ghost said, holding up three fingers.
   I flipped over, pulling the covers up to my chin. The seconds ticked by and I still felt a spirit presence, the hair on the back of my neck raising painfully as the ghost continued to watch me.
   "What now?" I asked, sitting up.
   "You don't happen to know a guy named Dan, do you?"

The Most Evil Person On Earth

No, I'm not talking about Dick Cheney. I have to go to the dentist today for my regular check-up. And I'll face... her. The person that haunts my nightmares and makes me wake screaming from a sound sleep. I'm talking about...
   The dental hygienist.
   She of the picks and scrapes, she of the bleeding gums, she of the terrible-tasting and very messy tooth polish, she of the well-meaning but condescending advice to floss my teeth, even though I tell her that I floss every day (and I really do). Yes, that's the one, you know her. No more than five feet tall, with purple scrubs, a surgical mask and an evil glint in her eye.
   I fear no man, but she terrifies me.
   Think happy thoughts, cross your fingers, and pray for me. I go to face the dragon in its lair, to challenge the grizzly in its cave, to beard the lion in its den. If all goes as planned I'll come out of it with only sore gums, a bitter aftertaste, more advice to floss, and a new toothbrush. Wish me luck.

Making It Easy With Archetypes

I'm getting lazy. Or lazier, I suppose, and I really don't feel much like doing a lot of work figuring people out. Dogs and cats let you know how they're feeling, if a dog doesn't like you it growls, if a cat likes you it rubs all over your ankles. Bared teeth mean the same for both species. I think as human beings we need to do the same kind of thing. We have language though, so having someone just come out and say what they're thinking isn't the best course of action, they could be lying, or sarcastic, or they could speak some mumbo-jumbo language I don't understand. Like French. No, if we want people to be clear, we need archetypes.
   I'm not talking stereotypes, I'm talking archetypes like they have in melodrama or in Roman comedy. If someone is a wise old man, they should have a long white beard, if they're a villain they should have a twisty mustache, if they're sneaky they should always look from side to side out of the corners of their eyes.
   See, if people would just act like their archetypes it would save everyone a lot of time. Don't know if you should get that interest-only adjustable rate mortgage on the property you clearly can't afford anyway? Check out the broker, is he wearing a battered stovepipe hat, flourishing a cape and cackling evilly? Then don't get a loan with him.
   Not sure if your Congressman is taking bribes? Go to Washington and visit his office. Does he have sacks of money with big dollar signs on them strewn around his office? Does he look like a pig wearing robber-baron clothes? Then he's probably on the take.
   Wondering what your girlfriend is going to become once you marry her? Go visit her mother. Is she wearing curlers with a kerchief wrapped around her head? Is she wearing a housecoat and fuzzy slippers in the middle of a weekday? Does she threaten you with a rolling pin? Then she's a battle axe and her daughter's going to be just the same.
   See? It would work out great, and keep me from thinking too much.

Y2 Crazy

A friend of mine reminded me that this past New Year's Eve marked ten years since the Y2K insanity. Ten years... how time flies. Seems like it was only yesterday.
   What was I doing? Glad you asked.
   I had started a new job in February of 1999. Being the new guy, and seeing as how shit flows downhill, I got to be our department's Y2K compliance guy. Wheeee!
   At the time the term Y2K hadn't quite taken hold, that really happened over the summer when clueless media finally got in on the panic. Since the company I worked for had mainframes, and since they knew five years before they were going to have a problem, they'd already come up with their own term, Change of Century. Y2K vs. CoC. You can see the reason Y2K won out.
   Anyway, I spent about half my time from March until December documenting in detail exactly why going to a 4-digit year wasn't going to have an effect on any of our systems. I talked to software vendors, I talked to hardware vendors, I talked to programmers, I talked to administrators, I got piles and piles of supporting documentation from everybody under the sun.
   I even spent quite a while devising my own tests and verifications for systems that other people had already tested and verified. Why? Because my manager wanted it. Why did he want it? Because his manager wanted it, and so on up the line. In an amazing spasm of incompetence and insecurity, our senior management decided not to accept the results of tests anyone else performed outside the company. We had to verify the operation ourselves. Twice. Several times I spent an 'executive hour' (fifty minutes) going over my test results with a VP who clearly had no idea what I was talking about. He just wanted to be able to tell his boss he'd heard it for himself, in person.
   Fast forward to New Year's Eve, 1999. I had to be at work. Yup, despite the three-foot stack of proof I had that there would be absolutely no problem with any system I or my team touched, used, or breathed on, I had to be in the building along with about 500 other unfortunates. 'Just in case.' Just in case what they never said.
   We counted down the minutes in a large meeting hall, where they plied us with candy and caffeine. When I say I would rather have been anywhere else I really mean it. It would have been less punishment to be snuggled up to a huge, hairy murderer in prison. But I don't have that kind of luck.
   Three... Two... One...
   Everybody waited, as if the carpet were going to roll up and the ceiling would collapse. Nothing happened. The lights didn't go out, no planes fell from the sky, there was no more panic or looting than is usual for New Year's Eve. A big, fat non-event. And I wasted it being at work. I went back to my desk, did about 45 minutes of tests to verify - AGAIN - that I hadn't been lying with all the other tests I did needlessly, and then I went home.

Later that night I got a call from a severely drunk friend of mine who needed a ride home. He was so intoxicated that he fell asleep against the windows of my new truck, leaving nose and eyelash prints on the glass. Even that was more fun than what I'd been doing.

Missing 'The Dungeon'

This one is a shout-out to all my San Antonio peeps (Mom, that means 'a special message to friends in San Antonio').

I was looking at my refrigerator the other day, it's covered in magnets, and I noticed a very special magnet from years back. It's special enough that the phone number listed doesn't even have an area code, which means it was made before the explosion of cell phones that has made our culture a vast wasteland just like what used to be the Japanese and Finnish cultures. The magnet was a special present from a special store, meant to keep the place forefront in its customers hearts and minds. The store is long gone, but the magnet's still working.
   The place was 'The Dungeon,' quite possibly the best comic book store ever in the history of mankind. Please note that 'best' does not mean 'cleanest.' Oh, far from it. The Dungeon was poorly-lit, dusty, and in a constant state of disarray. And on humid days it smelled funny, and I don't mean ha-ha funny. When mothers would come in looking for something for their children they would pause just inside the door and take stock of the place like a wildebeest looking for crocodiles. It was the archetype of a comic book store, a place where you were welcome if you knew what you were doing and how to behave yourself, and if you didn't belong you knew it the instant you crossed the threshold.
   Pete owned The Dungeon. As far as I know Pete had no last name. He was thin, with a straggly wizard's beard and long fingernails. He looked scary, but he was the nicest guy you'd ever want to meet. And he had connections with the distributors. If there was an item that no one else in the city had you could bet Pete had two of them, or he could get two with a single phone call.
   And the back stock - ah, pure heaven. This is what made The Dungeon the best. New comics on the wall, recent back issues in boxes, expensive back issues behind the counter, and then several hundred square feet of... whatever. Pete had a huge warehouse full of boxes and boxes and boxes of comic books that he'd acquired over the years, and every so often some of those boxes made it to the store. You could find ANYTHING in those boxes, old, new, expensive, cheap... a visit to those boxes was sure to turn up something good that you'd never expect, at a reasonable price.
   And the games - The Dungeon had game treasures hidden on shelves, in boxes, and under layers of dust. Like always, if you couldn't find it anywhere else, you could find it at The Dungeon, you'd just have to spend time looking for it.
   Pete got in tax trouble and The Dungeon closed years ago. Turns out it's a bad idea to pay your employees in cash and forget to take out payroll taxes, let that be a lesson to you small business owners. But the magnet is still on my refrigerator, and the memories are still in my head. So long Dungeon, disheveled, dusty, dark, scary Dungeon, these new comic book stores don't know what how to do it right at all.

Gas Station Pickup

Sometimes, as a writer I have to struggle with a concept, I have to tease a finished product out of a rough mess that refuses to make sense. There are days I have to work hard to get anything close to a cogent narrative, and there are occasions where I have to struggle for hours to get just a few good words.
   Sometimes, though, pure gold falls right into my lap and I don't have to do a damn thing but write it down. Sunday night was one of those times.
   I was at a Chevron in Eagle Rock - a newly-hip and still run-down part of Los Angeles immediately adjacent to Pasadena - putting gas in the truck and buying a soda I definitely did not need to drink. The line to pay was long because some jerkoff was cashing in a fistful of lottery scratchers, and so I got at the back of the line and an Ed-Hardy-wearing greasy hipster dude got in line behind me; that's Eagle Rock for you. Moments later a 'blonde' woman in shorts got in line behind him. She was attractive in that 'been clean from meth for six months' kind of way skinny bottle-blonde white chicks can have.
   This is their conversation, which I ran to my truck to write down.

'Blonde' woman: Man, did a bus let off just now?
   Greasy hipster douchebag: Yeah, that's a long line.
What's happening up there?
   So who are you here with?
My husband.
   Oh yeah? Which one is he?
The one with the Raiders shirt.(pointing to the big bald guy pumping gas into his pickup)
   Yeah, okay. (...pause...) You should come party with us.
Nah, I've done enough partying in my life. Hardcore, man.
   You don't look old enough to be done partying.
I'm thirty-five. A lot of long years partying, I'm done.
   Really? I thought you looked... maybe... twenty-eight or thirty. A lot of paryting, huh?
   (... pause..)
   Are you high right now?
No. Are you?

~~~ at this point I have paid for my soda, a habit I'm unsuccessfully trying to kick, and I'm trying to think of a slick way to stay there and eavesdrop on the horrible, embarrassing conversation behind me. I finally abandoned all pretense and just re-folded my cash while they finished ~~~

   Well, I just... you know. Here let me give you my number. ( douchebag actually has a business card he tries to hand over )
No, that's okay, I don't think my husband would want me to take it.
   Oh, hey, he can come too. He looks like a party guy.
He's not.
   Okay... well... I guess I'll see you around.
I don't think so.

Ugh and ewwww. While on the one hand I do have to admire the greasy hipster's bravado and willingness to take a chance, on the other hand I think his choice of venue was questionable, and his banter was reprehensible. If this is what you ladies have to put up with on a regular basis no wonder we men have a bad reputation.
   Oh, final note, as you probably guessed the greasy hipster guy in full Ed Hardy regalia was, in fact, buying cigarettes. Livin' the sterotype...

Job Yawn-Fest

Is it just me, or do most of the jobs posted out there seem completely boring and awful wastes of time? I know I'm probably looking at this with a jaded eye, but, seriously... 'Infrastructure Solutions Consultant?'... 'Franchise Development Manager?'... 'Sales Planner?'... 'Contracts Manager?' Companies couldn't put a little more effort into a job title than that? No wonder those jobs are never filled, only a zombie would apply for them, and zombies are too busy prowling for delicious brains to bother applying for a job.
   Why can't I apply for 'Personal Jet Pack Tester' or 'Bobsled Runner?' Those would be pretty cool gigs. Or how about 'TV Dinner Taster,' I bet that's the kind of job people never quit, they just keel over in their chair one day, clutching their chest and mumbling about the brownie. Around here 'Drunk Celebrity Herder' is a job that always needs doing, but that would mean I'd have to hang out in Hollywood after dark and I just hate that. And something that really, really needs doing is 'Bad Tattoo Arbiter,' someone to warn people off of especially terrible body art. Who are we kidding? it's all pretty terrible.
   And why is it I never see 'Indolent Billionaire' posted on any of these job sites? I could do that one with my eyes closed.

Have You Ever...

Have you ever had a dream in which you see a guy, a really intense, scary sort of guy with piercing green eyes who stares right back at you like he's looking through you, and it looks and feels so real, like you're not dreaming at all but it's real life, and the guy looking at you can almost tell what you're thinking and he says to you 'this isn't a dream, this is real life and it's really happening right now' and you get kind of freaked out and you wake up, but because it's dark and because of the dream you just had you're not really sure you're awake, and it takes you a long time to convince yourself that the thing that seemed so hyper-real, so alive and immediate and intense was just a dream and that the grainy, dim, half-seen shadow that is your bedroom, your life, is the real thing?

Nah, me neither.