Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

I'm concerned the garbage man may have it in for me. As far as I know I've done nothing to him to merit his wrath, yet I still feel persecuted.
   Back in the day, when there were three channels on TV plus PBS, there were three men on the garbage truck. One drove, presumably the senior member of the crew, and two clung to the sides of the truck like remoras.* The truck would rumble down the alley, the two guys would leap off and grab what you'd left out, toss it into the gaping maw, leap back on and go to the next pile of bags. They were usually convivial, even joking, and kept one another company as they did what had to be a miserable job.
   Now, though, there's just one garbageman. One loner in his truck, operating a remote-controlled claw. No exercise, no fresh air, no companionship. The lone garbageman is like the lone gunman, except his tower is a five-ton truck and his sniper rifle is the claw.
   We used to leave gifts for the garbagemen at Christmas. Really, just like we did for the paper boy, the postman, and the ritzy homes did for their milk men. Little notes with a couple of bucks inside and a 'thanks for doing a great job!' message. But now, with the garbageman hermetically sealed in his cabin, silently seething, teeth gritted in all-consuming resentment, I don't know how I'd get a gift to him. Maybe carrier pigeon?
   This is why I think he's pissed off - aside from the way he leaves the huge can smack in the middle of my driveway - he knows he's never going to get a Christmas gift.
   I tried to wave to him today, but he refused to acknowledge me. I think one day he's going to drive his truck through my front door, grab me with the big yellow claw, and toss me into the bin.
   Sure, call me crazy, but one day, when there's a garbage-truck sized hole in the front of my house, you'll all feel pretty guilty.


* that kind of simile is probably what pisses off garbagemen...

Why Does Mickey Wear Shoes?

I was in the bookstore today, in the cartoon section, naturally, and I heard a little kid ask this question:
   'Why does Mickey wear shoes?'
   Seems straightforward enough, and it's an honest question. You could respond with 'why does he wear shorts?' or 'why isn't Minnie wearing a top?' or 'why isn't Donald wearing pants?' It's just the way it is, would be my answer. Cartoon mice wear shoes, cartoon ducks don't. Union rules. Whatever.
   But this kid's mother didn't take the easy, rhetorical way out. She came up with an answer that impressed me. 'Because mice have to match their shoes with their gloves.'
   And there you have it. Mickey wears shoes because he's wearing gloves. And why is he wearing gloves? Because he's wearing shoes, of course. Nicely circular, and eliminates all the pesky follow-ups.
   I'm guessing this wasn't her first child.

Tales From My Past - The Iranian Kid

When I was in eighth grade a new kid showed up. Being in a military town we got new kids all the time, but this one was different. He was thick and dark and was already working on a pretty decent mustache, and he looked at us with wide, suspicious eyes, like he was waiting for the worst but hoping for the best. He liked to play basketball - 'hoop' as he called it - even though he was a worse player than I was, which was saying something. He looked vaguely Mexican, at least in coloration, but his features were wrong for it. When we asked him, he said he was Persian.
   He was from Iran. It was August 1979.
   His name was Sayeed, and he understood math better than the math teacher. He spoke English with barely an accent, which was way more Farsi than I knew, and he wrote Arabic as kind of a parlor trick, because it went backwards on the page. He didn't care for football and its pads and solid hits, but he really wanted to try out for the basketball team, and maybe baseball if he learned how to play. He slowly stopped being the new kid and stopped being the zoo exhibit because of his foreign-ness and started just being one of us.
   Fast forward to November. Revolution in Iran. Students storm the US Embassy and take over fifty people hostage. It's the only thing on the news, video of young men who look remarkably like Sayeed chanting 'death to America.'
   In an instant Sayeed went from just another kid to representative for his entire country and spokesperson for the revolution. He endured abuse like I could never imagine, but he also enjoyed more sympathy and defense than thought twelve-year-olds capable of. I could imagine him bracing for a day at school, for the names, for the demands for an explanation, for the humiliating yet necessary teacher interventions, for the agonizing yet well-meant friendly gestures. No matter how bad I had it, I knew I didn't have it anything like Sayeed did.
   He finished out the school year and then his family moved back to Iran. I remember talking to him about it, and he was politicized to an extent that was foreign to me. He loved his country, and he and his family wanted to help make it better. So they went. That would have been May 1980.
   The Iran-Iraq War started in September 1980.
   I remember watching TV and seeing bodies, men killed in some nameless part of the desert between the two countries. They looked like Sayeed. Just as young, with the beginnings of proud Persian mustaches that were never going to get bushy. The news said both sides, Iran and Iraq, conscripted boys as young as twelve. If you were big enough to hold a rifle, you got one.
   And it hit me. The kid who just wanted to 'shoot hoop,' and who could out-Algebra the Algebra teacher, might be dead. He was my age, fourteen, and he could be a corpse at that very moment. Or he could be sitting behind a stack of sand bags waiting for the enemy to come over the wall. And here I was worried about having the proper brand of shoes and whether I should buy a mum for one of the girls I liked. We were the same, he and I, and yet his path took him into a true life-or-death situation, while mine let me worry about zits and trying to get to first base.
   That was the first time I realized that life isn't fair. The truth hit me in the gut when I saw the lifeless eyes of boys my age, killed in some conflict they certainly didn't understand. The injustice of it made me cry, and the shame I felt made me turn off the TV.
   I don't know what happened to Sayeed. I hope he's alive and well and teaching his kids how to shoot hoop. But he was exactly the wrong age, and in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time for his survival to be anything but a lingering question.
   Ma salama, Sayeed.

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

I'm very concerned that the waistcoat will come back in style.
   We're already seeing the resurgence of the sweater vest, thanks to Mr. Schuester in Glee, can the formal waistcoat be far behind?
   I don't want to look like my grandfather's grandfather. I don't own a pocket watch... hold on, I think I do... regardless, I don't own spats or a celluloid collar or pomade or any of the other things that go along with proudly wearing a waistcoat. I like my t-shirt and jeans, thank you very much, and I'm perfectly fine dressing in business casual where it's appropriate. I don't want a return to 'business formal.'
   I do not want to look like Scrooge McDuck. Though I wouldn't mind having a money bin, to tell you the truth.
   You know how these things go, once a trend starts, it goes all the way. If waistcoats come back in style, then inevitably will come ruffled shirts, pants gathered at the knee, and great big powdered wigs. I look terrible in a powdered wig - don't ask how I know that, trust me that I do. I really don't want to end up looking like a Restoration-era dandy. White face powder makes me look terrible too. Though a beauty mark on my cheek might just bring the ladies a-runnin'.

Conversation With No Words

I was out on the road today, in a residential area with speed bumps and lots of lights. Which meant we were going slowly, even though there wasn't a whole lot of traffic. I was coming down a really long, straight street - Lake Avenue, if you must know - and I glanced in my rear-view where I saw a woman, probably my age or a little younger, gesturing and talking. She had a determined look on her face, like she was really trying to get her point across but wasn't sure it was working. On the passenger side sat a kid, no more than fourteen I'm guessing, who had his chin to his chest and was glaring sullenly out the window, away from his mother. He didn't say a word the entire time they were behind me, he just stared out the window as his mother talked and lectured and pleaded and threatened.
   It was like watching Spanish language TV with the sound turned off. I might not have gotten the specifics, but the broad strokes of the conversation came through loud and clear. The poor kid was screwing up, probably in the same way over and over and over, and his poor mother was at the end of her rope with him. It could have been anything, schoolwork, drugs, maybe even not picking up his socks from the living room floor, but his mother had enough and was putting a stop to it.
   Been there. I recall enduring a twenty minute car ride with my mother lecturing me non-stop the whole way. I don't remember what I did - probably something stupid and dangerous that would likely have gotten me injured or killed if I wasn't so clueless - but the ride back was absolutely not worth whatever I'd done to get in trouble. Agony.
   Funny thing is, not only have I been on the receiving end of this talking-to, I have witnessed the same scene played out many times, in many countries. I've seen it with little kids in Japan, with uniformed schoolboys in England, with tour groups in the Vatican, in the market in Germany, and in Rundle Mall in Adelaide. It's universal. The mother talks, making her point with gestures and a firm declaration that she's not going to tolerate that behavior any longer, and the mortified child looks anywhere but at her, though usually at the ground or out a window.
   It's amazing to me how universal this is. I'm certain little Roman children got the same talking-to from their matres, and little ancient Greek kids who got a dressing down in the agora stared at the boundary stones wondering when she was ever going to stop talking.
   So ladies, don't worry about turning into your mothers, there's absolutely nothing you can do about it. It's gonna happen, it happens to everyone.
   And, if it's any consolation, you're not turning into your mother, you're turning into your mother's mother's mother's mother's mother's mother.

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...

Where's Miss Cleo?

Every so often I like to go to the bookstore and buy a magazine I never otherwise would. Like 'O' for instance, or 'High Times,' neither of which is on my regular reading list. I particularly liked 'Make' and if I owned a home I'd probably buy it regularly. My point is, I like to expand my horizons and encounter things I normally wouldn't.
   I think I want to visit a psychic.
   This is not because I believe that psychics have special powers, rather the opposite, it's because I specifically don't believe they do that I want to go.
   I know several people who swear by their psychics, and several more who have been more than once and come away entranced with the depth and specificity of the 'psychic's' knowledge. But there are well-documented techniques - using cold reading, like what that fraud John Edward does - to get people to believe you know more about them than you actually do.
   I want to go and just see what happens. I'd have to pick my psychic carefully, go on someone's recommendation perhaps, and then just let them talk. No feedback, no nods, no responding to general questions, just listen. A real psychic would say what he or she 'hears' about me, from the spirits or her own intuition or whatever, a real psychic wouldn't need my yes or no.
   Of course, this does open the door to potential problems. I'd go because I'm pretty sure the person giving me the reading would be either so general as to be useless, or so far off the mark that they might as well be talking about somebody in Istanbul. But what if the psychic really is? What if they know things about me a stranger couldn't possibly know, specific things, like, say, where the heist took place and what I did with all the money. Then I'd be up a metaphorical creek, and I'd be forced to re-examine my preconceptions about the world and the way it works.
   I'm tempted to abandon the effort. But... then I'd always have this nagging question. I'm doing it. I'm gonna find a psychic. I'll let you know how it goes.

Another One Bites The Dust

A good friend of mine moved from Los Angeles today. She got a job in Santa Barbara, just up the 101, because jobs are few and far between here in LA. Last week we had a farewell lunch at Canter's Deli, partly because it was close to my job and her house, and partly because it's a very LA kind of place, a local landmark, which makes it appropriate for that occasion. We're both kind of* disillusioned with corporate life and looking for something different, even though we're locked into the paycheck economy along with most of the rest of America.
   Today was her moving day, and I called her at lunch to say good-bye and wish her luck and all the things that you're supposed to do when a friend leaves and you're not certain you're ever going to see them again. And I got a little weepy. Afterwards, I mean, when I hung up. Marna was one of the first friends I made out here, I've known her in all her peregrinations, from Venice to Pasadena to West Hollywood to another part of West Hollywood. Her dog Tex was the calm Buddha center of her universe for two years, and now he's gone and just a few weeks later she's gone. Jeez… I'm tearing up a little bit just writing this now.
   Endings are hard. I've had a lot of endings in the past year and a half, and I'm getting pretty damn sick of it. I know change is inevitable, and for the most part change is good, but that doesn't make it easier to take. I'm tired of the introspection needed to process change, I'm tired of the emotional toll it takes, I'm tired of thinking I'm doing okay only to find that with the slightest provocation I'm really just a raw nerve after all.
   But most of all I'm tired of saying good-bye to family, friends and beloved pets.
   So I'm calling off change. You heard me, no more change unless you get written permission from me beforehand. If you want to move away you have to run it by me, and I may not approve the request. If you're thinking about growing up and moving on, think again. If you're considering a change in careers I'll probably sign off on that, as long as it doesn't involve you moving to Alaska or something. And if you're for some reason thinking about dying, then you just put those plans on hold, no one's going to be taking the Big Sleep any more, not without my say-so.

Got it? Good…


* by 'kind of' I mean 'extremely'

Horrible Cat

God help me, I'm warming up to my mother's horrible cat.
   A few years after we had to bid our family dog a graceful exit my sister found my mother a new pet. A cute little gray furball kitty, who was born with a gimpy right front foot. Like Nemo but in cat form. His mother had her litter under a boxwood hedge, and they found the kittens once the braver ones started venturing out into the world. My sister had the best of intentions and imagined that the little kitty would be a good addition to a grandparents' household.
   She was right and she was wrong.
   My parents named the cat Smokey, because he was dark gray like smoke from a forest fire. And he was a little bastard. Halfway feral because he'd spent the first six weeks of his life under a bush, and kind of pissed off because he only had 3 1/2 feet, he was anything but cute and loving. He knew he was a cat, and more to the point, he knew you were not.
   My father let the little SOB bite him on the feet. He thought it was cute. It was not. All it did was give Smokey permission to be ornery and awful. You wouldn't think he could do too much damage seeing as how he lacked a right foot, but the little bastard drew blood all the time.
   Make no mistake, I hated that cat, and my sister did too. Her daughters learned that this particular pet animal was a 'no-touch kitty' and he learned that the very last thing you wanted to do was get between my sister and her children. Instant cat-skin cap, if you catch my meaning. For years he's been just one good scratch and bite away from finding a new home 100 miles away on some rancher's property.
   The past few days, though, I've been in my mother's house with this little SOB, and I don't hate him, not any longer. He's getting up there in cat years, and he's had the crap kicked out of him by other neighborhood cats more times than anyone can count, so he's kind of earned my grudging respect, if for nothing else then for lasting as long as he has. He's slower, obviously arthritic, more tentative when jumping up and going down, and less inclined to savage someone who's just trying to pet him.
   He has tried to get my attention with his version of a meow, which is so pathetic and weak and obviously non-practiced that it is cute, in a sorry, scarred, one-bad-foot sort of way. Every day I've been here I've taken leave of my senses and let him out when he squeaks and given him cat treats when he come in. And despite his moods and bites and irrationally vicious nature, my mother does seem to love him. You gotta respect that.
   So here's to you, Smokey, for lasting as long as you have when you've been at such a disadvantage in relation to other wildlife, and for ingratiating yourself to my parents even though you are - seriously - the worst pet animal I've ever known. Unlike the past... oh, entirety of your tenure on this planet... I wish you well, good luck and long life. L'chaim, skoal, here's to you kid, and every other applicable toast. You beat the odds.

Get My Line Straight

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

I Think Too Much

I've been thinking too much lately, wrapping myself in knots over things that I have no control over. Thing is, I have no idea why. Even last month I was blithely unaware. Maybe unconcerned, really. Back in March, early April, I didn't have a job, didn't much care, things were going to work out one way or another.
   Now? I'm spending hours - literally - worrying about my next job, or thinking about things I did and didn't do ten years ago that I'd like to have a do-over for.
   What's the deal, man? Why these thoughts and feelings? Why now instead of ten years ago, or even last year? I'm not being productive and I'm not helping myself with this, but for the last week or so it's been nothing but second-guessing and recriminations.
   Where's the stress coming from? I have to figure that out and find a way to eliminate it.
   I'm thinking maybe it's working. Didn't have all this negative energy when I was a ward of the state. Working'll kill you every time.

Creepy Little Guy

There's been a little man haunting my dreams lately.
   Seriously, the past week or so I've been seeing the same little guy in my dreams with alarming regularity. His face is thin, he has a bald head with 5 o'clock shadow on his face and scalp, big ears, and a toothy... well, not exactly a toothy grin so much as a he's showing his teeth like he's at the dentist. He's wearing a butterscotch-colored suit with leather shoulder patches that seems too large for him. His legs are about 2 feet long but his torso and arms are regular-sized. He's not a sinister figure, but he's not exactly comical either.
   The first night I saw him he was a background figure, just a guy in a crowd scene but he was odd enough that I remember him and not the dream. The next night he was a little more prominent, and then night after that he was almost a featured extra. With no lines. That's when I realized that I'd seen him the previous two nights. Then the fourth night came and went and he wasn't there. But he was back the fifth night like an under-five player the producers have taken a liking to.
   I don't know why he keeps coming back. It doesn't matter what kind of dream I'm having, he shows up. And I don't even remember the context of the dreams, but I do remember him. I'm getting concerned.
   I haven't been eating badly, no hot sauce before bedtime so I don't think it's indigestion. I don't have a guilty conscience about anything so it's not that. For the life of me I can't figure out why I would keep seeing the almost-creepy little guy in my dreams. It could be that I expect to see him now, and so I do.
   So far he hasn't said anything, and I'm not sure if I want him to or don't. He might make some sort of crazy pronouncement, like telling me to found my own nation or something. Which would fit in with a prior post of mine but would, honestly, creep me out like nobody's business. We'll see if he makes an appearance tonight.
   Why couldn't my dreams be haunted by a supermodel?

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

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

Disposable tissues worry me. I'm talking about the kind you use to blow your nose when you're under the weather, a familiar brand name starts with a 'Kleen' and ends with an 'ex.' I'm concerned that these tissues might actually spread viruses.
   I mean, think about it, who do you see using these tissues the most? Sick people. So, using Occam's razor in our reasoning, it only makes sense that these tissues cause the illnesses. Right? Just like the theory of spontaneous generation, like piles of grain creating mice. And knowing what we do about the conscience-less way major corporations operate I wouldn't put it past Kimberly Clark to infect their product with germs in order to increase consumption. I mean, if I were a corporate weasel that's probably a decision I'd make.
   This isn't the kind of thing you can keep a secret, once people suspected something scientists would do their tests, and eventually the truth would have to come out. And then the government agencies that are supposed to regulate this kind of thing would get in a day late and a dollar short and they'd shut down the entire disposable tissue industry, not only the brand names but your generics, your Kirklands, all of them. No more disposable paper tissues. So then what would we as a society do? We'd have to go back to the old-timey solutions.
   I'd have to carry around a hankie like my grandfather did. A silk or cotton square, stuffed into my pocket and staying there all day. I'd take it out to wipe at my nose or the corner of my mouth, and then jam it back into my coveralls, carrying my mucus around for hours. Keeping warm with my body heat. Staying mostly liquid. Festering. Man... talk about a foot-square bit of traveling infection. And back in the day everyone had them, men in their pockets, women in their purses. It's a wonder that my grandfather lived long enough to give my father a chance to come about.
   I'd really hate it if I had to carry one of those terrible things, so I'm hoping my concerns are unfounded. Maybe that's a money-making opportunity, some sort of permanent hankie soaked in antibiotic, so you could sneeze all you wanted and it might actually help make you better. Nobody steal that one, it's mine.

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

Where's My Social Revolution?

During my commute to... (( le sigh ))... work today I had a little time to think, seeing as how I was stuck behind a bus AND a fish delivery van going side-by-side down Wilshire Blvd. at about 25 MPH. Bastards...
   Anyway, I thought about all my friends who are still 'between assignments,' and older workers displaced by the sour economy, and the kids fresh out of college hoping to enter the workforce but finding doors shut in their faces. And I got to wondering
   Where is the anger? Where is the social unrest? Where is the agitation and demonstrating and yelling and demanding? What happened to us?
   I know when I was unemployed - as little as a week ago - I didn't have the first thought that I might go out and make my displeasure understood to those in power. Just didn't occur to me. And that bothers me now that I have a job, as temporary as it might be. Why? Why did I just sit back let it happen? And why are 15% of us still standing there like a punch-drunk boxer waiting to get another one on the chin? Why aren't they - we - out there doing something?
   Marx said that religion is the opiate of the masses, but I think the real opiate is the 40+ hour workweek, the 9-to-5 job that slowly becomes 7-to-6. The Romans gave their populace bread and circuses - kept 'em fed and entertained so that they wouldn't realize that social change was just one good riot away.
   Same thing here, for the past 20 years or more. Pay your people well enough that they'll put up with the garbage job you're having them do, which also keeps them tired enough that they won't look for work somewhere else, and have no energy to do other things. Like, say, keep informed about political matters, or vote, or go to local government meetings. Seems like corporate jobs that let people make a living are keeping them from living their lives properly.
   You might say I'm just cranky and reading too much into it, but during the Great Depression unemployment was above 10% for years and the government was worried about civil unrest. That's why FDR put all those people to work. We've been over 10% unemployment for quite a while during this depression, and if I were the government, I'd be concerned.
   Just saying...

COMMUTE: there - 35 minutes back - 40 minutes to fencing lesson
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 82 days

I Need A Catchphrase

Ah... the good old days of 70's TV... when everyone had a catchphrase. Everyone worth knowing, that is. That's how you knew they were a regular cast member. I'm feeling a little lost now, back in the corporate grind, and I need to know that I'm a regular cast member in my own life, and not just a bit player. Or, God forbid, an under-5 featured extra. I figure that there have been some catchphrases so long out of use that one of them has to fit my purposes.

   So here's a short list:
Dyn-o-mite!!
And that's the name of that tune...
What 'choo talkin' 'bout, Willis? ( a personal favorite because of all the apostrophes)
Aaaayyy!
Consume mass quantities.
Gotta put the hammer down.
Kiss my grits!
Hey hey hey! (this was Rerun, not Dwayne)
Who loves ya, baby?
You wouldn't like me when I'm angry...
I love it when a plan comes together.
I'm coming to meet you, Elizabeth!


COMMUTE: there - 35 minutes back - 50 minutes (I took a different way)
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 86 days

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

I'm concerned that bee keepers aren't doing enough to prevent their hives from developing a rudimentary yet malevolent intelligence.
   I saw a bee truck just last night - it's the beginning of the SoCal pollinization season - rumbling along St. John Avenue. I was in the hot rod and I had the top down, so I thought that perhaps the bees might swarm out of all the hives on the truck, lift me into the air and crown me their king. Didn't happen. But I did get the impression that they were watching me with their beady little compound eyes, trying to decide what to do about the guy in the convertible.
   See, I'm not afraid of bees, they're nature's little factory workers, diligently slaving away in their hives just like our grandparents used to do for Ford and Chrysler. But in nature beehives are separated from one another, you don't find queen bees building hives on neighboring branches in trees. Beekeepers, though, have hundreds of colonies all stacked one on top of another, and you can't tell me those bees don't talk to each other. And just like the labor movement brought unionization to the American auto worker, eventually bees are going to get wise and figure out there are way more of them than there are of us.
   If those bees last night had been organized, if they were all working together, think of the trouble I would have been in. And then think if those bees had talked with other bees, and so on down the line. We might all end up slaves to our honeybee overlords.

Just In Case Something Happens...

It's getting weird around here. Okay, fine, weirder.
   Last night I had a terrible night's sleep, really miserable, and I even tried to go to bed early. Couldn't get to sleep, tossed and turned, watched the clock slowly tick over the minutes hour after hour. I haven't had a night this bad since... since I had a regular job, I suppose.
   So this morning I went to the gym, only to find it empty. Literally. There were three people in a space where usually there are at least fifteen or twenty, with more coming in all the time. It was a ghost town. I talked to one of the trainers who said that three of his clients this morning all had a terrible night last night, couldn't get to sleep just like me. When I left the gym there were still fewer than half the people there who usually are.
   Now the absenteeism could be explained by St. Patrick's Day yesterday - possibly. It could be that every single person who usually gets to the gym at 7 AM was sleeping off too many green beers. Could be. But to have so many people who had trouble sleeping? We're moving beyond coincidence.
    Now I've put it out there, something weird is going on in Pasadena. If you don't hear from me, send in the rescue dogs.

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.