I'm moving out of LA.
Sorry if this is how some of my friends in SoCal learn this news, but the time has come and there's no sense in me fighting it any longer. I've made preparations, gotten a place back home in San Antonio, and it's a done deal.
That doesn't mean I'm not conflicted about the move, I have very mixed feelings about moving back, but LA just isn't doing it for me any more so I can't stay here. Yet... going home feels like giving up, like a surrender. And I ain't French.
So today, just half an hour ago or so, I went to the grocery store. 'Cause I gotta eat. And there was a guy just inside the door, one of those people trying to sell subscriptions to the LA Times. Nice enough guy, but I told him I was moving in two weeks and couldn't take advantage of his offer. He wished me well and I went about my business.
I got my veggies and fruit, and headed for the other side of the store. When I passed the subscription guy he stopped me again. I reminded him that he'd already spoken to me, but he didn't want to talk about newspapers.
He started to tell me about how he'd been homeless, an abject alcoholic convinced that he was going to die either with a bottle in his hand or looking for one. He then told me how he asked God to help him get sober and stay sober and improve his life. Which evidently happened. I don't mind talking to people about this kind of thing, you can't deny the evidence of a changed life, and anything that happens to bring one man out of the gutter and into a productive life is something I can appreciate hearing about.
He then quizzed me a little about San Antonio and who was there, whether I was married or not, that sort of thing. Then he told me 'God has something planned for you, that's why he's calling you home.'
I found this reassurance oddly comforting. I say oddly because my usual habit would be to nod politely and roll my eyes inside, where I wouldn't offend the other person. But I didn't feel that coming on. Not one bit. I'm not a particularly religious person - more blasphemous than anything else, actually - but I could feel my restless spirit ease slightly with this unsolicited proclamation from a complete stranger. I don't know if it's true, I'm pretty sure God has bigger things to worry about than me*, but just the thought that I'm not firing blindly and hoping for the best makes the move easier to do.
* say... nuclear armageddon in Japan, where in the past few days the chance of creating a for-real Godzilla has dramatically increased
Showing posts with label ventriloquist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ventriloquist. Show all posts
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
I'm concerned that our dearly departed friends and family really can see what we're doing.
It's a common sentiment, when someone passes on people will tell you the person is 'watching from the other side.' This is supposed to be comforting, but I find it alarming. Are they really watching? Right now? And are they amused, distracted, or disgusted with what was going on? Ghost or not, they're still people, and not necessarily people I want to see every little detail of what goes on in my day.
I mean, if I was doing stuff I didn't want my grandmother to watch while she was alive, why would I want her to be able to get a ring-side seat when she's dead? Same with my dad or my friend Greg who died when he was seventeen. When someone tells me they can see what's going on from the other side, I think of a picture window with a nosy neighbor craning his neck as he tries to see what you just brought back from the hardware store. Or a peeping Tom lurking in the bushes trying to see past the curtains into your boudoir. Or a snitch who's part of your gang but is really just waiting for the chance to turn you into the Feds. See? All kinds of paranoia come up when you start thinking about ghostly witnesses to your dealings.
Even worse, what if there's more than one of them watching, and they start discussing what you're doing, like a football play-by-play?
'Did you see that move, not many people can get the bra off with one hand.'
'No indeed, but... oh, too bad... way too much saliva in that kiss. It's like he sprayed her with a firehose.'
'She sure didn't like that, he's definitely killed the mood. Let's go to the replay.'
And forget about the big stuff like sex or robbing a bank, what about regular everyday stuff you don't need an audience for? Like taking a poop. You ever see that self-conscious look on your dog's face when you watch him doing his business? Now imagine that was you out on the lawn, looking back over your shoulder and so embarrassed you could barely get the job done.
Think about that the next time you're on the throne with your nose buried in your sudoku puzzle book, assuming that just because the door is closed no one can see you. Aunt Gertrude might just be watching...
It's a common sentiment, when someone passes on people will tell you the person is 'watching from the other side.' This is supposed to be comforting, but I find it alarming. Are they really watching? Right now? And are they amused, distracted, or disgusted with what was going on? Ghost or not, they're still people, and not necessarily people I want to see every little detail of what goes on in my day.
I mean, if I was doing stuff I didn't want my grandmother to watch while she was alive, why would I want her to be able to get a ring-side seat when she's dead? Same with my dad or my friend Greg who died when he was seventeen. When someone tells me they can see what's going on from the other side, I think of a picture window with a nosy neighbor craning his neck as he tries to see what you just brought back from the hardware store. Or a peeping Tom lurking in the bushes trying to see past the curtains into your boudoir. Or a snitch who's part of your gang but is really just waiting for the chance to turn you into the Feds. See? All kinds of paranoia come up when you start thinking about ghostly witnesses to your dealings.
Even worse, what if there's more than one of them watching, and they start discussing what you're doing, like a football play-by-play?
'Did you see that move, not many people can get the bra off with one hand.'
'No indeed, but... oh, too bad... way too much saliva in that kiss. It's like he sprayed her with a firehose.'
'She sure didn't like that, he's definitely killed the mood. Let's go to the replay.'
And forget about the big stuff like sex or robbing a bank, what about regular everyday stuff you don't need an audience for? Like taking a poop. You ever see that self-conscious look on your dog's face when you watch him doing his business? Now imagine that was you out on the lawn, looking back over your shoulder and so embarrassed you could barely get the job done.
Think about that the next time you're on the throne with your nose buried in your sudoku puzzle book, assuming that just because the door is closed no one can see you. Aunt Gertrude might just be watching...
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Bliss
Sometimes I wish I was stupider.
Really. There are days I wish my mind would just turn off. Times I wish I had less ambition. Moments when I believe that I would be truly happier if I didn't think so damned much.
If I could just slog to work, then slog back home, eat dinner, turn on the tube and zone out for three hours or so until it was time to go to sleep to start the cycle all over again, I might have less stress. If I had nothing to strive for then I'd never be disappointed.
It seems that all I've been doing lately is fighting, both against myself and outside forces. I'm trying to get published and that's a definite uphill battle, I've been trying to get a decent job close to home - good luck on that - I've been trying to put together a business plan for a new venture my brother-in-law and I are starting, and that's a struggle. I know, the less-trodden path is the more rewarding, etc. etc. etc. But does it have to be such a rocky, frustrating road? Can't it be just a little bit easier?
I know - I'll commit a crime and get put in prison. I'm thinking some non-violent white-collar crime, nothing with blood or where anyone gets injured, that's just not right. There's no ambition in prison but to get out, which will happen eventually. Plus the days are nice and regimented, it's all done for you.
On second thought... if I went into prison the first thing I'd probably do is plan to break out. And since I'd have nothing but time I'd probably accomplish it. But then I'd get sloppy and get put back in the klink for making a stupid mistake like using my real name on a lease or something.
Better to walk the straight and narrow right now. It might be frustrating and full of disappointment, but at least it's honest.
Really. There are days I wish my mind would just turn off. Times I wish I had less ambition. Moments when I believe that I would be truly happier if I didn't think so damned much.
If I could just slog to work, then slog back home, eat dinner, turn on the tube and zone out for three hours or so until it was time to go to sleep to start the cycle all over again, I might have less stress. If I had nothing to strive for then I'd never be disappointed.
It seems that all I've been doing lately is fighting, both against myself and outside forces. I'm trying to get published and that's a definite uphill battle, I've been trying to get a decent job close to home - good luck on that - I've been trying to put together a business plan for a new venture my brother-in-law and I are starting, and that's a struggle. I know, the less-trodden path is the more rewarding, etc. etc. etc. But does it have to be such a rocky, frustrating road? Can't it be just a little bit easier?
I know - I'll commit a crime and get put in prison. I'm thinking some non-violent white-collar crime, nothing with blood or where anyone gets injured, that's just not right. There's no ambition in prison but to get out, which will happen eventually. Plus the days are nice and regimented, it's all done for you.
On second thought... if I went into prison the first thing I'd probably do is plan to break out. And since I'd have nothing but time I'd probably accomplish it. But then I'd get sloppy and get put back in the klink for making a stupid mistake like using my real name on a lease or something.
Better to walk the straight and narrow right now. It might be frustrating and full of disappointment, but at least it's honest.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Gone The Way Of The Buggy Whip?
I walked down to the Post Office again today, mailing more queries for our children's book , and even though there are many vacant or half-vacant buildings along the way my path does take me right past the Screen Actor's Guild offices. As I mentioned before, for some reason actors smoke in a greater proportion than the rest of the population. Except maybe North Carolina. And since many SAG employees are also actors, many of the people working in the SAG offices smoke. That's the transitive property you learned in Algebra I, if A=C and B=C, then A=C. And you thought you'd never use that in real life…
I passed the SAG offices at 12:30 PM, smack in the middle of lunch by anyone's reckoning. I caught a face full of some chick's exhaled Marlboro, and then got a snootful of another person's noxious vapors before I realized what was going on. Stationed every four or five feet along the entire length of the building were people driving another nail before their lunch hour ended. I counted eight people and I'd already passed two or three with more around the corner. They all stared at the sidewalk, or at the plants in the planter, ashamed of their dependence and yet powerless to resist its pull. People who want to light up are relegated to the fringes – literally – forced to indulge their addiction in alcoves and behind dumpsters, out in the heat of summer and the cold of winter.
So why don't more of them quit?
Easy for me to say, I'm don't have a two-pack a day habit. One of my friends has been 'quitting' for years now, using every method that comes along, and he's just not up to the task. But my mother quit, decades ago, and my father quit not too long after she did. And this was before nicotine gum or recovery programs or anything. Back then if you wanted to quit you were on your own, and you'd have people bumming your Green Stamps off of you so they could get a windbreaker or Coleman stove. Quitting can be done.
For that matter, why do people ever start smoking nowadays? It's not like the message isn't clear or hasn't been repeated over and over and over again. Kind of like telling people not to poke sharp sticks in their eyes, it's not really anything you think a sane person would do in the first place. But people do. Why aren't cigarettes going the way of the buggy whip*? Once plentiful but now confined to museums and images of Rod Serling on Twilight Zone.
* kids, a buggy whip is not some hip young dessert topping** it was an implement drovers used to urge their animals forward. If you don't know what a drover is, look it up.
** many thanks to Henny Youngman, may he rest in peace, for that fossil of a joke
I passed the SAG offices at 12:30 PM, smack in the middle of lunch by anyone's reckoning. I caught a face full of some chick's exhaled Marlboro, and then got a snootful of another person's noxious vapors before I realized what was going on. Stationed every four or five feet along the entire length of the building were people driving another nail before their lunch hour ended. I counted eight people and I'd already passed two or three with more around the corner. They all stared at the sidewalk, or at the plants in the planter, ashamed of their dependence and yet powerless to resist its pull. People who want to light up are relegated to the fringes – literally – forced to indulge their addiction in alcoves and behind dumpsters, out in the heat of summer and the cold of winter.
So why don't more of them quit?
Easy for me to say, I'm don't have a two-pack a day habit. One of my friends has been 'quitting' for years now, using every method that comes along, and he's just not up to the task. But my mother quit, decades ago, and my father quit not too long after she did. And this was before nicotine gum or recovery programs or anything. Back then if you wanted to quit you were on your own, and you'd have people bumming your Green Stamps off of you so they could get a windbreaker or Coleman stove. Quitting can be done.
For that matter, why do people ever start smoking nowadays? It's not like the message isn't clear or hasn't been repeated over and over and over again. Kind of like telling people not to poke sharp sticks in their eyes, it's not really anything you think a sane person would do in the first place. But people do. Why aren't cigarettes going the way of the buggy whip*? Once plentiful but now confined to museums and images of Rod Serling on Twilight Zone.
* kids, a buggy whip is not some hip young dessert topping** it was an implement drovers used to urge their animals forward. If you don't know what a drover is, look it up.
** many thanks to Henny Youngman, may he rest in peace, for that fossil of a joke
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'...
Friday, January 29, 2010
Puppet Veracity
I don't think I'm alone when I say that ventriloquist's dummies kind of creep me out. Unless you're a ventriloquist yourself, I think it's a safe bet that almost everybody gets a little shiver when those lifeless doll's eyes turn your way.
Yet I am completely entranced by puppets. If I find the puppet section in a toy store, watch out, I'm trying on every one that will fit on my meaty mitts. Especially if it's a dinosaur. Unlike ventriloquist's dummies - which really will murder you in your sleep - puppets are friendly and plush and adorable. And Craig Ferguson likes them too, so that's an endorsement right there.
Puppets attract people, when you see someone with a puppet on their hand you want to go towards them; when you see someone with a ventriloquist's dummy you want to get as far away as possible. And when you have a puppet on your hand, you can get away with saying things you never could otherwise. 'You could stand to lose a few pounds, honey.' I didn't say it, the puppet did. 'Boy, this meatloaf is so dry it could choke a corpse.' Now, Mr. Dino, don't get sassy.
I think everybody should get a puppet alter-ego, that way you could say everything you're really thinking and yet claim the notions came from somewhere else.
To the scrawny white guy in Best Buy: 'Okay, Brandon or Cody or Jordan or whatever your name is, you get paid to know about the features of this TV, not to play Rock Band all day.'
To your boss: 'Yes, I do mind, and no, I'm not working late. Suck it.'
To the guy at the car wash: 'I know you're new to this country, but the car is supposed to come out cleaner than it went in.'
To the Post Office clerk: 'Hey bitch, don't walk away from the window when I'm next in line.'
See? It'll be like one great big therapy session, all the time. What could go wrong?
Yet I am completely entranced by puppets. If I find the puppet section in a toy store, watch out, I'm trying on every one that will fit on my meaty mitts. Especially if it's a dinosaur. Unlike ventriloquist's dummies - which really will murder you in your sleep - puppets are friendly and plush and adorable. And Craig Ferguson likes them too, so that's an endorsement right there.
Puppets attract people, when you see someone with a puppet on their hand you want to go towards them; when you see someone with a ventriloquist's dummy you want to get as far away as possible. And when you have a puppet on your hand, you can get away with saying things you never could otherwise. 'You could stand to lose a few pounds, honey.' I didn't say it, the puppet did. 'Boy, this meatloaf is so dry it could choke a corpse.' Now, Mr. Dino, don't get sassy.
I think everybody should get a puppet alter-ego, that way you could say everything you're really thinking and yet claim the notions came from somewhere else.
To the scrawny white guy in Best Buy: 'Okay, Brandon or Cody or Jordan or whatever your name is, you get paid to know about the features of this TV, not to play Rock Band all day.'
To your boss: 'Yes, I do mind, and no, I'm not working late. Suck it.'
To the guy at the car wash: 'I know you're new to this country, but the car is supposed to come out cleaner than it went in.'
To the Post Office clerk: 'Hey bitch, don't walk away from the window when I'm next in line.'
See? It'll be like one great big therapy session, all the time. What could go wrong?
Monday, August 17, 2009
Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't
Sometimes I think ventriloquist's dummies might be coming to life when we're not looking. I really can't think of anything more creepy than one of those things, with their little tuxedos and floppy legs, heads that turn 360 degrees... What if they didn't need some desperately un-funny man on the brink of a psychotic breakdown to make them talk?
Just imagine their little wooden mouths moving up and down on their own, clacking as they tried to make conversation. They'd probably be loud and obnoxious, spouting off ill-informed opinions and offending everyone around them. And if they tried to be nice, how boring would it be? What do ventriloquist's dummies have to talk about, how dark it is in their box? How much they'd really appreciate it if no one shoved his hand up their backside today?
Say you threw a dinner party where a ventriloquist's dummy showed up, and you had to be polite to it because it was your boss's guest. It would probably just sit in the same spot on the couch all night, drinking rye whiskey (because I think that's what they would drink) and getting very, very drunk because they're just these tiny little things, after all. And you'd feel embarrassed for your boss, but you'd also feel angry with him too, for bringing such a creepy, horribly behaved thing into your home...
I'm not really worried that they might start murdering us, I mean, come on, they're only two feet tall. One of those things starts getting homicidal on me, I'll just find a chain saw, get to work. Unless they have guns, then we really are in trouble...
Just imagine their little wooden mouths moving up and down on their own, clacking as they tried to make conversation. They'd probably be loud and obnoxious, spouting off ill-informed opinions and offending everyone around them. And if they tried to be nice, how boring would it be? What do ventriloquist's dummies have to talk about, how dark it is in their box? How much they'd really appreciate it if no one shoved his hand up their backside today?
Say you threw a dinner party where a ventriloquist's dummy showed up, and you had to be polite to it because it was your boss's guest. It would probably just sit in the same spot on the couch all night, drinking rye whiskey (because I think that's what they would drink) and getting very, very drunk because they're just these tiny little things, after all. And you'd feel embarrassed for your boss, but you'd also feel angry with him too, for bringing such a creepy, horribly behaved thing into your home...
I'm not really worried that they might start murdering us, I mean, come on, they're only two feet tall. One of those things starts getting homicidal on me, I'll just find a chain saw, get to work. Unless they have guns, then we really are in trouble...
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