I was driving to the fencing studio this afternoon, in the hot rod with the top down. Had the radio going, minding my own business, when I heard someone say something. I turned to my left where a large gray van sat idling. A young boy was looking over at me and I realized he was the one who'd been speaking. I turned down the radio and asked him to repeat himself, thinking he was asking for directions or some such.
"Would you like to buy some candy, sir?"
I laughed. There was no way I was going to buy candy from some kid in a van at a stop light. But that doesn't mean I don't admire him for the effort. For a real salesman every encounter is an opportunity for a sale, even if it's some guy driving a convertible you talk to in the middle of traffic. The kid looked like he was in middle school, probably trying to win a sales contest where the grand prize is a go-kart or something else equally cool and ultimately unattainable where you have to sell a million Snickers bars.
He was young enough that he hadn't quite thought out the actual logistics of the deal. Had I agreed to buy candy, where would we have pulled over? How would we have made the exchange? How much would the candy have been and what would I have gotten for the cash? Despite all that, I still like his go-getter attitude. He's got a long career ahead of him selling something.
Of course, I'm so un-hip I'm thinking 'candy' meant actual candy. For all I know I could have scored some meth or crack or something. That sure would have made fencing interesting...
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Friday, October 8, 2010
What Do You Do?
Okay, pop quiz, hot shot. What do you do when:
You're in a store and you see a sign in Spanish, and even you can tell it's misspelled? Ignore it or say something?
You're talking to a friend of a friend and you find out he works as a cook at steak house. You also find out he's a vegetarian, so while he might know how to cook meat, he certainly doesn't care to do the job well, but nobody at the restaurant knows his dietary preference. Rat him out or keep the secret?
It's late at night and you're in Los Angeles proper, on Santa Monica between La Brea and Highland. You see a suspicious-looking character skateboarding down the sidewalk, jumping curbs and making a nuisance of himself. You also see him take a huge spill and grab his ankle like he's really hurt. Laugh and drive off or see if he needs help?
You and a few of your co-workers have a secret nickname for another co-worker, and not a flattering one, something like Muffin or Buttlicker or D-Bag. Someone mentions the name in passing in front of that person, who then wants in on the joke and asks who Muffin really is. Tell him the truth or pretend not to know what he's talking about?
While grocery shopping you see an actor you admire, one who you'd really like to speak to and - perhaps - get an autograph from. But she looks like a bag lady in old sweats, hair in a scarf, and battered gardening shoes, and clearly is in a hurry to get in, get what she needs, and get the hell out before anybody recognizes her. Go for the introduction or respect her privacy?
Each one of these may or may not have happened to me. Can you guess what I might have done?
You're in a store and you see a sign in Spanish, and even you can tell it's misspelled? Ignore it or say something?
You're talking to a friend of a friend and you find out he works as a cook at steak house. You also find out he's a vegetarian, so while he might know how to cook meat, he certainly doesn't care to do the job well, but nobody at the restaurant knows his dietary preference. Rat him out or keep the secret?
It's late at night and you're in Los Angeles proper, on Santa Monica between La Brea and Highland. You see a suspicious-looking character skateboarding down the sidewalk, jumping curbs and making a nuisance of himself. You also see him take a huge spill and grab his ankle like he's really hurt. Laugh and drive off or see if he needs help?
You and a few of your co-workers have a secret nickname for another co-worker, and not a flattering one, something like Muffin or Buttlicker or D-Bag. Someone mentions the name in passing in front of that person, who then wants in on the joke and asks who Muffin really is. Tell him the truth or pretend not to know what he's talking about?
While grocery shopping you see an actor you admire, one who you'd really like to speak to and - perhaps - get an autograph from. But she looks like a bag lady in old sweats, hair in a scarf, and battered gardening shoes, and clearly is in a hurry to get in, get what she needs, and get the hell out before anybody recognizes her. Go for the introduction or respect her privacy?
Each one of these may or may not have happened to me. Can you guess what I might have done?
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Copper Tastes Bad
Over the past three days plumbers have replaced the hot and cold water pipes in my building. Aside from the plaster bits on my bathroom floor and the long sheets of plastic lining my carpet, the plumbers left something else.
Really, really, really gross tasting water.
Fresh copper pipes make water taste horrible. Awful, like blood when you bite the inside of your mouth. Just nasty, or, as my sister used to say in high school, 'rasty.'*
I don't know what to do, that's the sink where I brush my teeth. I rinse my mouth out there, and I don't want to go to sleep with coppery-fresh breath. So I'm thinking I need to go get a supply of Perrier and swish with that for a while, until the new copper gets a sheen of mineral slime on the inside and it stops tasting horrible.
You know... there are times I'm really thankful that the most I have to worry about is that my bathroom water tastes bad. I could be living in Somalia or Afghanistan or some other place where the best water is the one with least amount of parasites and a safe home is a distant memory.
Maybe I'm just gonna drink the damned copper water and count my blessings.
* Really nASTY
Really, really, really gross tasting water.
Fresh copper pipes make water taste horrible. Awful, like blood when you bite the inside of your mouth. Just nasty, or, as my sister used to say in high school, 'rasty.'*
I don't know what to do, that's the sink where I brush my teeth. I rinse my mouth out there, and I don't want to go to sleep with coppery-fresh breath. So I'm thinking I need to go get a supply of Perrier and swish with that for a while, until the new copper gets a sheen of mineral slime on the inside and it stops tasting horrible.
You know... there are times I'm really thankful that the most I have to worry about is that my bathroom water tastes bad. I could be living in Somalia or Afghanistan or some other place where the best water is the one with least amount of parasites and a safe home is a distant memory.
Maybe I'm just gonna drink the damned copper water and count my blessings.
* Really nASTY
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Unexpected Ecologist
I was in the convenience store today, buying a Lotto ticket - you can't win if you don't play - behind a homeless guy who was talking to himself as he bought a quart of Miller. I couldn't make heads or tails of his dialogue, he was muttering and not finishing sentences, but I did notice that his clothes were too big. And not like he'd lost a lot of weight, like they were someone else's once upon a time. Which they most likely were. The guy got his quart of Miller in a paper sack and shuffled off to his wheeled basket piled high with soiled treasures picked from others' cast-offs. And a notion suddenly struck me.
That homeless guy is a grass-roots ecologist.
Think about it. Almost everything he owns, wears, or consumes is recycled or recyclable. The paper bag wrapped around his beer is probably made from recycled paper, the bottle almost certainly is, his clothes are recycled, and the collection of things in his wheeled basket is recycled.
He may not know it, but that man is providing the example for the rest of us. Reduce, reuse, recycle. Talk to yourself, forget to bathe, argue with floating dandelion seeds.
Well, maybe not those last few, but you get the idea.
That homeless guy is a grass-roots ecologist.
Think about it. Almost everything he owns, wears, or consumes is recycled or recyclable. The paper bag wrapped around his beer is probably made from recycled paper, the bottle almost certainly is, his clothes are recycled, and the collection of things in his wheeled basket is recycled.
He may not know it, but that man is providing the example for the rest of us. Reduce, reuse, recycle. Talk to yourself, forget to bathe, argue with floating dandelion seeds.
Well, maybe not those last few, but you get the idea.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Healthy, Or Just Lazy?
I was standing in my kitchen just now, pondering my meal options for this evening. I've been trying to eat healthier lately, which means I don't have a whole lot of ready-to-eat stuff in the pantry or refrigerator. And that means if I want to provide my body sustenance I either have to make something or go out and buy something.
When I say there was nothing ready-to-eat I mean NOTHING. I have: rice(uncooked), two cans of tuna, canned tomatoes, canned beans, spices, frozen turkey, olives, apples, sun-dried tomatoes, onions, turkey gravy mix, couscous, pancake mix, flour, sugar, sweet relish, dill relish, maple syrup, eggs, and frozen lunchmeat.
Yeah. Figure that one out.
I thought about it, then dithered in front of the refrigerator, dithered in front of the pantry, thought about going downstairs, looked back into the refrigerator again to see if maybe something had appeared in the past five minutes - nothing had - and then I thought some more. Finally I decided to make some sort of tuna salad thing, even though I don't have any bread. And I was proud of myself.
Then I got to thinking. Did I decide to make tuna salad because I was trying to be healthy, or because I just didn't want to put on pants, shoes and a jacket, go down the stairs - because the elevator STILL isn't fixed - and drive to get junk food? I want to think I'm eating healthier because it's the right thing to do, not because I can't be bothered to walk down three flights of stairs.
But, honestly, if I had the gumption I'd be eating Taco Bell right now. Instead I'm shoveling tuna salad into my gullet. It's just easier.
Take that, Jillian Michaels! You can be lazy and healthy at the same time.
When I say there was nothing ready-to-eat I mean NOTHING. I have: rice(uncooked), two cans of tuna, canned tomatoes, canned beans, spices, frozen turkey, olives, apples, sun-dried tomatoes, onions, turkey gravy mix, couscous, pancake mix, flour, sugar, sweet relish, dill relish, maple syrup, eggs, and frozen lunchmeat.
Yeah. Figure that one out.
I thought about it, then dithered in front of the refrigerator, dithered in front of the pantry, thought about going downstairs, looked back into the refrigerator again to see if maybe something had appeared in the past five minutes - nothing had - and then I thought some more. Finally I decided to make some sort of tuna salad thing, even though I don't have any bread. And I was proud of myself.
Then I got to thinking. Did I decide to make tuna salad because I was trying to be healthy, or because I just didn't want to put on pants, shoes and a jacket, go down the stairs - because the elevator STILL isn't fixed - and drive to get junk food? I want to think I'm eating healthier because it's the right thing to do, not because I can't be bothered to walk down three flights of stairs.
But, honestly, if I had the gumption I'd be eating Taco Bell right now. Instead I'm shoveling tuna salad into my gullet. It's just easier.
Take that, Jillian Michaels! You can be lazy and healthy at the same time.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Le Danse Macabre - LA Style
It's raining in LA today. If you live here, or you have lived here, then
'nuff said, you can go on about your business, no need to read further. For the rest of you, however, let me 'splain...
Rain in Los Angeles means 'drizzle' or 'mist' in other parts of the country.
Rain in Los Angeles increases your commute time by 50%, at the very least.
Rain in Los Angeles prompts people to drive too fast on the freeway or not fast enough.
Rain in Los Angeles leads people carrying umbrellas to believe they're invulnerable, and that it's okay to walk out into traffic.
Rain in Los Angeles makes otherwise level-headed people lose their minds.
Driving in LA in the rain is this insane ballet of aggression, caution, fear, and outrage that is enough to put wrinkles in a baby's face. If you're on the highway traffic slows for no reason, backing up for miles. When it finally starts going again you expect you're going to see a wreck, or the remains of one, but no - there's nothing. You've been stuck for forty-five minutes because the pavement is moist. If you're on city streets you have to contend with people who either don't believe rain changes the handling characteristics of their car, or people who think rain means their car is in imminent danger of exploding at any second. No middle ground. One moment some jackass rockets past you like the sun is shining and there's no one else on the road, and the next you're crawling like an inchworm behind a guy who believes slow and steady for everyone wins the race.
And we're all in it together. Rain and traffic and insanity get every single one of us. So you'd think we'd pull together - one for all and all for one - and try to make the best of a clearly bad situation.
But there's where you'd be wrong. Out there, in the naked city (on the naked highway?), when the heavens have opened up, it's every man for himself. You have no friends, no allies, no family, it's you against everybody else.
Kind of like at the buffet line in Vegas, come to think of it.
'nuff said, you can go on about your business, no need to read further. For the rest of you, however, let me 'splain...
Rain in Los Angeles means 'drizzle' or 'mist' in other parts of the country.
Rain in Los Angeles increases your commute time by 50%, at the very least.
Rain in Los Angeles prompts people to drive too fast on the freeway or not fast enough.
Rain in Los Angeles leads people carrying umbrellas to believe they're invulnerable, and that it's okay to walk out into traffic.
Rain in Los Angeles makes otherwise level-headed people lose their minds.
Driving in LA in the rain is this insane ballet of aggression, caution, fear, and outrage that is enough to put wrinkles in a baby's face. If you're on the highway traffic slows for no reason, backing up for miles. When it finally starts going again you expect you're going to see a wreck, or the remains of one, but no - there's nothing. You've been stuck for forty-five minutes because the pavement is moist. If you're on city streets you have to contend with people who either don't believe rain changes the handling characteristics of their car, or people who think rain means their car is in imminent danger of exploding at any second. No middle ground. One moment some jackass rockets past you like the sun is shining and there's no one else on the road, and the next you're crawling like an inchworm behind a guy who believes slow and steady for everyone wins the race.
And we're all in it together. Rain and traffic and insanity get every single one of us. So you'd think we'd pull together - one for all and all for one - and try to make the best of a clearly bad situation.
But there's where you'd be wrong. Out there, in the naked city (on the naked highway?), when the heavens have opened up, it's every man for himself. You have no friends, no allies, no family, it's you against everybody else.
Kind of like at the buffet line in Vegas, come to think of it.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
My Identical Twin
When I was younger, I used to think it would have been cool to have an identical twin. Cool for me, I mean, not so much for my parents. One of me was waaaaaay more than enough, I can't imagine what a nightmare two of me would have become. I used to think of all the things that I could do with a brother the exact same age instead of a stinky little sister.
Make no mistake, I love my sister dearly, and I promised my parents long ago never to mention the crooked carnies we bought her from when she was a baby. Still, you can't exactly practice lighting your farts with your little sister, but it's an obligation when you have a twin brother.
Anyway... I was reading in Scientific American the other day - the October 2010 issue - that humans have about 20,000 genes, with about 3 billion nucleotide pairs. Not a whole heck of a lot, actually. Most of the human genome is identical from person to person, there are differences only in about 1 in 1000 nucleotide pairs. Which means that from me to you there would only be a maximum difference of about 3 million pairs, and that's only if every single nucleotide sequence was different. Chances are good you and I have far fewer than 3 million different genes. Maybe only on the order of a few hundred.
So I got to thinking. If the maximum difference between two people was 3 million nucleotide pairs, and if there are 6 billion people on the planet...
There's an extremely good chance that somewhere out there - right this moment - there is a man who has EXACTLY the same genome as I do. He could be older, he could be younger, but with so few possibilities for differences in genes, the probability is solidly in the positive range. The math is simple enough to do, it's not even calculus.
Somewhere in the world I have a genetic twin, who is walking around, blissfully unaware that he and I are the same down to our very last strands of DNA.
And why is this important? Other than being a way for me to get the twin brother I never had, it would be good to find my genetic twin just in case I run up against any problems. You know, accidents, disease, that kind of thing. If I can find this guy then I'll have someone whose organs I can harvest when the going gets tough.
Of course, maybe that guy has the same idea about me.... We are exactly the same, after all.
Make no mistake, I love my sister dearly, and I promised my parents long ago never to mention the crooked carnies we bought her from when she was a baby. Still, you can't exactly practice lighting your farts with your little sister, but it's an obligation when you have a twin brother.
Anyway... I was reading in Scientific American the other day - the October 2010 issue - that humans have about 20,000 genes, with about 3 billion nucleotide pairs. Not a whole heck of a lot, actually. Most of the human genome is identical from person to person, there are differences only in about 1 in 1000 nucleotide pairs. Which means that from me to you there would only be a maximum difference of about 3 million pairs, and that's only if every single nucleotide sequence was different. Chances are good you and I have far fewer than 3 million different genes. Maybe only on the order of a few hundred.
So I got to thinking. If the maximum difference between two people was 3 million nucleotide pairs, and if there are 6 billion people on the planet...
There's an extremely good chance that somewhere out there - right this moment - there is a man who has EXACTLY the same genome as I do. He could be older, he could be younger, but with so few possibilities for differences in genes, the probability is solidly in the positive range. The math is simple enough to do, it's not even calculus.
Somewhere in the world I have a genetic twin, who is walking around, blissfully unaware that he and I are the same down to our very last strands of DNA.
And why is this important? Other than being a way for me to get the twin brother I never had, it would be good to find my genetic twin just in case I run up against any problems. You know, accidents, disease, that kind of thing. If I can find this guy then I'll have someone whose organs I can harvest when the going gets tough.
Of course, maybe that guy has the same idea about me.... We are exactly the same, after all.
Friday, October 1, 2010
The True King Of Love
I'm sure you all get spam e-mail, it's one of the ugly drawbacks to the benefits of the Internet. Less junk mail in your regular mailbox, tons of spam in your e-mail inbox. For some reason I get spam for boner pills every single day. You know, Levitra, Viagra, Cialis, that kind of thing; maybe these spammers know something I don't? And while most spam is filtered properly, these purveyors change their e-mail addresses so often - and misspell 'viagra' on purpose - that my e-mail inbox can't keep up. I mark the messages as junk and delete them.
Until today. I was deleting the latest boner pill spam when I came across one I just couldn't ignore. Finally, at long last, one of these guys had come up with a clever marketing ploy. The subject line read 'Levitra_MakesYouTheTrueKingOfLove.'
I didn't open the e-mail, of course, but it's still there in my hotmail account* so I can look at it and laugh. And maybe give a small footnote to a marketing textbook. This horrible spam - for a product I don't need and won't buy, let's be perfectly clear - did what it was supposed to do. It made me stop and notice it. King of Love... Well now, who wouldn't want that? Being the true king of anything is great, but being the True King Of Love? Sign me up.
It's not just about the volume, any idiot with manual from Barnes and Noble can set up an e-mail server and become a spammer. But the minimal effort they take with their subject lines makes me wonder if they're more interested more in jamming up e-mail inboxes rather than trying to move product. Maybe if they took just a little more effort, like this person did, they might ring a higher percentage of sales.
True King Of Love... I like the sound of it. It would make a great business card.
*my public e-mail, the one I use when I fill out online forms, precisely so my real e-mail account won't have to deal with all the spam
Until today. I was deleting the latest boner pill spam when I came across one I just couldn't ignore. Finally, at long last, one of these guys had come up with a clever marketing ploy. The subject line read 'Levitra_MakesYouTheTrueKingOfLove.'
I didn't open the e-mail, of course, but it's still there in my hotmail account* so I can look at it and laugh. And maybe give a small footnote to a marketing textbook. This horrible spam - for a product I don't need and won't buy, let's be perfectly clear - did what it was supposed to do. It made me stop and notice it. King of Love... Well now, who wouldn't want that? Being the true king of anything is great, but being the True King Of Love? Sign me up.
It's not just about the volume, any idiot with manual from Barnes and Noble can set up an e-mail server and become a spammer. But the minimal effort they take with their subject lines makes me wonder if they're more interested more in jamming up e-mail inboxes rather than trying to move product. Maybe if they took just a little more effort, like this person did, they might ring a higher percentage of sales.
True King Of Love... I like the sound of it. It would make a great business card.
*my public e-mail, the one I use when I fill out online forms, precisely so my real e-mail account won't have to deal with all the spam
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
