And That's The Truth

Ping pong balls are filled with nerve toxin.
   Santa Claus can't go back into Liechtenstein. He won't say why.
They actually make photocopiers strong enough to sit on because they know you're going to scan your own ass.
   Trees are telepathic, they're just not mobile. So they know you're going to chop them down but they can't run away. It's a cruel evolutionary adaptation, but nobody said nature was kind, only efficient.
Most of what you text is complete nonsense. Same with Twitter.
   Fire bad. No, wait, fire good.
Cameras do steal your soul, but only if it's a film camera. Digital cameras steal the photographer's soul.
   Most UFOs are shaped like weather balloons. Helps them blend in.
Termites are not blind, they're faking it for the sympathy.
   Every prison cell has a secret exit, you just have to be smart enough to find it.
In 200 years fashion designers are going to look back at 1980's leg warmers as the height of style.
   When you stub your toe that's the Universe's way of telling you to pay more attention to where you're walking. And maybe to put on some shoes.
Everyone you've ever known and everyone you're ever going to meet will die. Except for Keith Richards.
   Corporations are run by people who are less competent than you are, and who don't care enough about their jobs to do them well. But they're going to die like everyone else, so that's some consolation.
Winos rarely drink wine. At least not very good wine. Which is kind of the point, now that I think about it.

Not The Oldest Any More

I remember the first time the guys in the comic book shop called me 'Sir.' I couldn't have been thirty, and yet to them I was already well past my prime, an old dude, the kind of guy who buys the expensive back issues, the ones printed before even their fathers were born. It was true, especially the back issue part, if a comic was out on the newsstand in the past 30+ years and I don't have it, it's because I didn't want it in the first place. For the longest time I was relegated to that lofty status of 'serious collector,' competing with the middle schoolers for the latest issue of Archie Comics. But today I've cast that status aside. Why? you may ask.
   Because today I am no longer the oldest person in the comic book shop.
   My comic shop here in Pasadena is a great store, and its got a very eclectic clientele. It's a stone's throw from PCC - Pasadena City College - so there are tons of just-graduated high school kids, and then are slightly older people, guys in their 20s with a little disposable income. And there are chicks too, not just the ones dragged inside by their boyfriends. And men and women about my age, who really grew up with the advent of comics as a semi-serious medium, and then there are the old dudes. I mean older than me old dudes.
   A few of them write for television sitcoms, the guys in the store have told me as much, and at least one is a physician, and several are money managers. So I'm reasonably confident I haven't been the oldest in the comic shop for quite some time. But today I saw the guy that confirmed my suspicions (hopes?). He was short, thick, and with shiny white hair and a shiny white beard to match. Cut short so it's easy to manage.
   He was behind me in line, and I didn't see him until I had paid and was about to leave, but when I saw him I almost heaved a sigh of relief. Seriously, I almost shook his hand because he had taken over my status as Oldest Man in the Comic Shop. And he's taken it over by long shot, so I'm not gonna regain that title any time soon. What a relief.
   Now if I can just get someone to take my title of Most Indecisive Person in the Doughnut Store...

That's Sweaty Work

It's been a while since I've lived in South Texas. Eight years, almost nine. And while I do miss the Lone Star State, I have acclimated to SoCal. More than I thought.
   Yesterday I was out in my mother's back yard, just doing a little light yard work picking up branches that had blown out of her trees during a big storm system a week or so ago. There are branches down all over her neighborhood, it's not unique to her place. I was just bending down and standing up again, nothing big, and pulling a few stuck branches out of the crooks of the tree.
   Man, sweat soaked through my shirt after about five minutes.
   Seriously, it was drippping off my eyebrows and onto my glasses, from my forearms onto my pants, and from the tip of my nose onto the cat. Okay, that last one I kind of planned out, but you get the idea. I was drenched in sweat and I wasn't even doing anything. I don't sweat like this in SoCal even when I'm working my hardest at the gym. Crazy...
   Maybe next time I come back to Texas I need to bring some talcum powder.

Hot...

You ever see that Twilight Zone episode where the Earth was moving closer to the Sun?
   Yeah, that's LA today.
   Even better, the air conditioning in my apartment doesn't work. Not just my place, the entire building. It's the elevator all over again. My desk is hot. My desk chair is hot. My walls are hot. My carpet is hot. The toilet seat is hot, for God's sake.
   I'm from Texas, and I know hot. I used to make a living doing manual labor, and I was a lifeguard. I've been outside in the worst of a Texas summer and I'm alive today to talk about it. I know how to sweat, is what I'm saying. But I've lived here for eight years and I've grown acclimated. 99 degrees F is hot anywhere, but in LA it seems hotter. Probably all the concrete. And all the sweaty people.
   I was going to try to think of a way to make money off this, but I just don't have the energy. Thunderstorms are brewing out in the IE and the natives are getting restless. Angelenos freak at just the mention of rain, let alone at actual drops. A thunderstorm is enough to spawn heart attacks.
   I have an oven thermometer I use to get an accurate air temperature reading. I haven't had the courage to use it. Right now, at my desk, it's 88 degrees.
   Hot...