Old Folks Say The Darndest Things

I read somewhere - probably Scientific American - that as people age, the circuits in their brains that keep them from saying the first thing that pops into their heads stop working. This is what gives rise to the phenomenon of Grandma cussing up a blue streak when you never thought she knew those words in the first place. Add to that the tendency of old people to stop caring what other people think, and you have a perfect storm of indiscretion. And I can tell you first-hand that this is true.
   Yesterday I was at an audition down in Santa Monica - for Fed Ex, cross your fingers - and they were seeing all kinds of people. My age, younger, older, freaky looking (not me), not freaky looking (hopefully me), short, tall, fat, thin, you name it. The fact that the audition was on a Saturday and that there were so many different kinds people meant the client had no idea what they were going for, or they changed their mind, or both. Opportunity for me in any event.
   I happened to be there with a lot of old guys. And I don't mean older than me old guys, I mean OLD guys, well over 70. While they were gregarious and friendly, they were also the most vicious bunch of SOBs I'd been around in a long time. Maybe I'm just used to the 'everybody wins' attitude in modern society, but these old guys were in it to win it, if you know what I mean. Talking about another old guy when he's ten feet away and can certainly hear, doing the classic undermining confidence tricks - 'you're wearing that?' 'nailed it...' 'you all might was well go home now' - and even trying to nudge their way up the list with lame excuses. Man, if that's what Hollywood was like thirty years ago no wonder actors are a sad, bitter, angry group.
   They didn't screw with me or anybody without gray hair, though, only with the other old guys. If I were a sociologist I might be interested in discovering exactly why that was the case. But I'm not a sociologist so I don't give a sh*t, as long as they leave me alone.
   Oh, and I got a parking ticket too. Bastard meter reader got me at five minutes over time. It's what I get for street parking in Santa Monica on a Saturday afternoon.

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

I never run any red lights at intersections where they have those traffic cameras. It's not because I'm afraid of getting a ticket, though, I'm just worried about getting a bad picture.
   I've seen photos taken from those cameras, they're really sharp and in focus and capture the essence of the driver. Usually people I've seen look angry, a few of them look distracted. Some look gassy.
   I would be picking my nose. Which, while everybody does it, in a photograph is just gross. It would be just my luck to blow through one of those intersections and have the camera snap a frame while my index finger is two knuckles deep, tickling the base of my brain. I don't need to see that, and I don't need the DMV to see it either.
   Most people take great care not to be seen picking their nose, they usually do it in the bathroom where they do other icky but necessary stuff like flossing their teeth (you do floss,right? Every day?), popping zits, and other potty things. But you don't really need a mirror or any special tools to pick your nose; your finger just sort of creeps up there and gets to work. Which means that you can take care of business while doing something else entirely, like mowing the lawn or sculpting or composing a sonnet.
   Or while driving, as long as you have a window cracked to 'dispose of the evidence.' And don't get all uppity and protest that you would never do such base a thing as pick your nose at all, let alone behind the wheel. I do a lot of walking around my neighborhood, and I can see drivers just as easily as they can see me. And trust me, waaaaay more people pick their noses behind the wheel than you might think. Including you.

Jeez... Already?

I was walking back from the gym this morning, minding my own business, when I saw it. Then I saw another one, and another, and another, multiplying like bored bunnies. They were lining Colorado Boulevard, as far as the eye could see.
   Christmas wreaths. Green and gold and red, hanging from the recently-repainted and then repainted-again and then repainted-one-last-time street lights.
   It happens every year now but it still takes me by surprise. It's not even Thanksgiving and already the Christmas stuff is out. Time was, back in the good old days - when the US proudly interfered with other countries instead of shamefully like we do now - the first weeks of November were for Thanksgiving stuff. Kids made cardboard turkeys from the outline of their hands, they dressed like pilgrims for the school play, they made papier-mache cornucopias (and people knew what a cornucopia was), and they for sure didn't have access to Christmas stuff. You didn't even see red, green, and gold until the day after Thanksgiving. Not no more. Christmas is already everywhere, it's even hanging behind the palm trees on Colorado Boulevard.
   Actually, I saw Christmas crap in Target weeks before Halloween, so I don't know why the wreaths on Colorado bothered me so much. Probably because I can choose to ignore it in Target, or even not go into Target, but out on the street I can't help but see it. Every day.
   How much time do I have before the Santas with their red kettles and really loud bells are everywhere?

Does Anybody Know?

You ever have one of those days where it seems like you're the only one thinking things through? Been that way for a week or so with me.

In the office supply store.
Me: Excuse me, I'm looking at these 9 x 12 envelopes, and this box is eight dollars, but this box here is twenty-four dollars.
   Worker: Yeah, look at that.
And this third one is sixteen dollars. But it's the exact same thing as the eight dollar box and the twenty-four dollar box.
   You're right.
Can you tell me why this box is three times more expensive than that one? If you look inside the envelopes are identical. I can't see any difference.
   Huh. Me neither. Never seen that before.

In the grocery store.
Me: Excuse me, can you answer a question for me?
    Worker: Sure.
This juice... this flavor has a tag that says it's on sale.
   Yeah.
But the tags are missing for these two flavors. Does that mean they're not on sale, or the tags just fell off?
   Hmmm... I don't know. Usually there's a tag for every product.
I know, that's why I'm wondering.
   That's weird, usually there's a tag...

On the phone with a recruiter.
Me: Hi, I'm following up on an application I submitted yesterday, for the Director position.
   Recruiter: Let me see... oh yes, the client put that position on hold last week.
Oh, okay, too bad. I submitted my resume yesterday, though.
   Yes, I see, Tuesday.
That means the position is still posted on-line this week.
   Oh.... yeah.
Don't you think somebody should take the job posting down if the position is on-hold?
   Yeah, usually that's what happens.

At the gas station.
Me: Hi, I noticed that the price for regular out on your sign says $1.15.
   Worker: Really?
Yeah, see? Out by the corner?
   Huh... $1.15.
But it's not really $1.15, it's $3.15.
   Right, we'd lose money at $1.15.
Don't you think the sign should reflect the price at the pump?
   Usually it does. I guess somebody didn't change it.

Tales From My Past - Sock-Eye Jeep

Do you ever think that someone is picking on you? And I don't mean the kid down the street or the bully who hangs out behind the school, I mean someone in charge of stuff, who can make things happen. A powerful guy who can do things. Bad things. And he's got it in for you. I love conspiracy theories like that, but I'm only half-amused by them, the other half is worried they might be real, because sometimes freaky stuff happens you can't explain any other way. Like back when I used to drive a Jeep.
   Years ago, when I first bought my Jeep, I had been driving it for about a week when I caught a rock that cracked a headlight and made it go dim, so it looked kind of brown. Being a proud owner of a 'new' used car, I replaced it. About a week later I caught a rock in the other headlight, which knocked it out completely. So I replaced it, glad to have two brand new eyes for my ride.
   About a week later I caught a rock back in the first headlight, which did exactly the same thing, cracked it and made it go dim. A little freaked out, I started watching my rear-view, wondering if someone was following me. I decided that maybe I wasn't supposed to have two working headlights for some reason, and I didn't replace it. It passed the safety inspection somehow, and I had that dim light for two more years.
   Let me repeat that. After breaking three headlights in the space of three weeks right after I bought the Jeep, for two whole years after that, as I drove that Jeep every day, I didn't get hit by one single rock. Not one. I had the dim headlight and all was right with the world.
   Two years after breaking a headlight for the third time I got industrious and decided to finally, finally, finally replace that damn headlight. So I did, a brand new headlight to replace the cracked one that had condensation inside. You can see this coming a mile away...
   A week later - to the day - I caught another rock that cracked the other headlight. I couldn't believe it, two years with no rock, I fix the damn headlight and CRACK! the other one is gone.
   This is why I only halfway discount conspiracy theories. Someone was obviously out to get me that time. Or at least out to get my Jeep.

Lenny Kravitz On The 110

Yesterday while I was on the 110 down by USC, on my way to Torrance, I saw Lenny Kravitz in traffic behind me. I thought it odd that a Grammy-winning entertainer would be driving a Honda Accord let alone driving at all instead of being driven. I didn't want to rush to judgment, he could have had a bad couple of years and maybe a ten-year-old Accord was what he could afford now. So I slowed down to let him pass me, which is when I saw that it wasn't Lenny Kravitz at all, just a guy with big glasses and an afro. But for a few precious moments I thought I was sharing a lane with a for-real rock star.
   And then it hit me, I could pass the terrible commute by trying to find people who look like celebrities in other cars. When you're sitting in Downtown LA traffic going 10 miles an hour, there's no real driving risk, trust me. So I tried the experiment all the way to Torrance, but the only person I saw was someone who looked a little like Roger C. Carmel - the guy who played Harry Mudd on Classic Trek. I think it was the mustache.
   Today I had to travel down the exact same highway, this time going to LAX instead of Torrance, and I hit the look-alike jackpot; traffic was much worse today, which is probably why it was such a success. I saw a guy who looked like Bronson Pinchot behind the wheel of a pickup, I saw Kevin Smith in a Taurus, I saw Reese Witherspoon behind the wheel of an old Honda Del Sol, I saw Stone Cold Steve Austin in the cab of a Pepsi delivery van, and I even saw Bea Arthur driving a big ol' Mercedes. The only one I know for sure wasn't really the person is Bea Arthur, unless her ghost can drive a car. There's an outside possibility the others could actually have been those celebrities. Bronson Pinchot could be supplementing his income by working as a gardener, you never know.
    Go on, try it for yourself, it's tons of fun and is a game you can play alone, unlike 'I Spy' or 'Punchbug.' If you resemble a celebrity, though, be prepared; when this game catches on, people are gonna be looking for you.

Tales Of The Unexpected

On this Halloween night, I thought I'd regale you with tales of the macabre and loathsome, things so horrible that the mere mention of them is enough to turn your hair white and make you run from the room. But not before the two drink minimum. Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, I give you...
   PUNCHLINES TO TERRIBLE JOKES!!!!!! BWAH-HA-HA-HA-HA!!!!

   Those brave few of you who have dared to read further are made of stern stuff indeed. Imagine if you will a baggy-pants Catskills comedian, a man barely alive, telling jokes in the main dining room in exchange for room and board for the summer and the slightest chance to get lucky with one of the lady lifeguards. Horrible, stomach-churning terror indeed, my friends. These are zombie punchlines, the walking dead of jokes, bits of funny that should have been buried in hallowed ground decades ago. Read them at your own risk.

I was talking to the duck.
    She really sits around the house.
Rectum? Damn near killed 'em.
   That's no lady, that's my wife.
Help me find my keys and we can drive out.
   You think I asked for a 12-inch pianist?
Every morning Dad knocks on the bathroom door and says 'God, are you still in there?'
   Those aren't pillows!/ That's okay, that's not my hand.
Sanka
   The taste.
When your hand falls asleep.
    Okay, you're ugly too.
Why, Father O'Malley, it's not Tuesday.
   Look, I'm 98 years old, I'll take the soup...
He wonders if there really is a dog.
   A zebra who owes money.
If it had four doors, it'd be a sedan.
   And the bartender says 'why the long face?'

Thank you, thank you! I'll be here all week! Enjoy the veal!

Makeup Sponges and Cigarette Butts

When you do a job, any job, you generate a certain kind of debris. Working in an office you generate sheets of paper (especially in a 'paperless' office) and pens with no ink. If you're a chef you generate compostable wet garbage like the ends of carrots or chicken bones, if you're construction worker it's sawdust and stray nails. Every profession generates its junk, even the performing arts, it just took me a little thinking to find out what that was.
   Given my status 'between assignments' I've had to drop acting classes; yes, oddly enough for someone in LA, I'm an actor, you can see my tour de force here. Anyway, it's been a month or more, and it took me a while to notice what I wasn't noticing, if you catch my drift. Since an actor doesn't produce anything - besides pure genius, I mean - I didn't think there were any by-products to the process. Then I realized the weeks since I'd been backstage at a theater was the exact same time since I'd seen any discarded makeup sponges or cigarette butts. The place used to be a wasteland of beige filter tips with matching foundation-stained sponges, like crab apples dropped from a gnarled, twisted stump of a tree. And if the theater played host to young Hollywood, with its one-note emoting and abominable line readings, you'd likely end up hip-deep in debris. But that hasn't been a problem since I dropped my classes.
   It's been a while since I've seen anybody smoking at all, as a matter of fact (except the H-1B workers behind an office building), when I used to see actors smoking all the time, especially the young, greasy, desperate wanna-bes. And I haven't seen a used, carelessly discarded makeup sponge at all since I last left the theater.
   Does this mean that actors in general and young actors in particular are dirty, thoughtless people, more concerned with how other people see them than with picking up after themselves? Of course it does. Does that make them bad people? Only the sloppy ones, the rest of us are pretty decent folks. Unless they're more successful than we are, then they're evil bastards.