Jake tied Old Paint to the hitching post, close enough to the trough for a drink. Like Jake himself, his horse had seen better days but was too proud and ornery to admit it. Jake pulled his shotgun from the saddle holster and checked to make sure there were two shells ready to go in the chambers. Today was the day, he was either going to put an end to this once and for all or it was going to put an end to him.
Knocking the dust from his boots he sauntered down the raised wooden sidewalk, headed for One-Eyed Jack's, the only saloon in town. Those gentle citizens who found themselves in Jake's path took one look at the determined glint in his eye - and at the shotgun in his hand - and made themselves scarce. It didn't take a Pinkerton to see what was about to happen.
When the swinging doors to One-Eyed Jack's parted everyone turned to the man with the shotgun. Lefty stopped his one-handed plinking on the black-and-white keys and stared at Jake with wide, rheumy, alcohol-rimmed eyes before he scrambled for cover behind the piano. The miners at the first table looked up from betting their week's wages on a rigged card game then scattered like straw on the wind, leaving behind chips, cards, and a half-empty bottle of rotgut whisky. The swinging doors fanned the air as people beat a hasty retreat. Like a wave rolling across the beach, when the saloon's inhabitants saw Jake they flowed somewhere else.
Clara, the town whore and Jake's sometime fling caught sight of him as she descended the stairs. "Jacob Ulysses McGrath, what do you think you're doing with that shotgun?"
"I'm gonna take care of it, Clara," Jake snarled. "Once and for all. Or go to Boot Hill tryin.'"
Skirts flying and bosom threatening to burst from her corset, Clara raced in front of him. "Jake, you just leave that Facebook alone."
The twin barrels of the shotgun pressed against the laptop Clancy the bartender kept there for his customers to use. He stole broadband from the Chinese laundry next door.
"I'm tired of it," Jake snarled. "Had about enough of them keepin' my personal, private information. Sharing it when they see fit, not when I do. All those ads based on my birthday. Whose business is that?"
Clara put her soft hand on his shoulder. "You're working yourself up to something you don't want to do. Why don't you come on up to my room? We can get rid of some of this tension."
Jake shrugged her hand off. "I know you check in on FourSquare all the time. I told you I want out. I don't want any more 'friend' suggestions, I don't care what other people 'like' and I ain't aimin' to be 'tagged' in anyone's gol-durned pictures."
"Nobody said you had to do any of that," Clara stuttered. "Put the gun down, why don't you?"
"Somebody has to stand up to them," Jake growled. "This is my information, not theirs. I own it, it's mine to do with as I please. And they ain't pleasin' me right at the moment."
He pressed the shotgun tight against his shoulder and pulled the hammers back. The laptop was going to get both barrels, point-blank.
Clara's face went pale. "Jake, you need to reconsider..."
"You want to know the worst of it?" Jake's voice was a cold whisper. "Mafia Wars. I'm like Bert, over there in the corner, sleeping in his own vomit because he can't give up the hooch. But my hooch is Mafia Wars. This is the only way, Clara. The only way."
Jake heard the click of the derringer's firing pin as he felt the cold metal on his temple. "I can't let you do that, Jake. I keep in touch with my cousin in Dodge City on Facebook. And I play Farmville every night."
"Why are you playing Farmville when there are twenty farms within an hour's walk of this saloon?" Jake barked. "I'm gonna put an end to the madness."
"Back away from the laptop," Clara ordered. She pressed the derringer tighter to his head.
"Seems like we got us a Mexican standoff," Jake said.
"Yup," Clara said.
"I'll give you to the count of three to put that little toy back in your garter," Jake said. "Or you and I are gonna have us a problem."
"I'd say we got us a problem now," Clara whispered.
Jake's jaw clenched. "One... two..."
A shot rang out.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Sims Echo Park
When I was driving home today I was stopped at a light watching a phalanx of people trotting across the intersection. An old guy, a pregnant woman pushing a stroller, three women in office attire, a fat guy wearing a too-short shirt and pajama bottoms (I suspect he was an escapee from the hospital on the corner), two students with backpacks, and several men and women running for the local bus. Quite the collection. I could hear their conversation, but since I was in the truck I couldn't make out the words; it sounded like the nonsense sounds the Sims make.
Then it hit me. Maybe they really were Sims. Maybe I was a Sim. Maybe the words I was speaking, thinking, and writing made no more sense than the gibberish the Sims used. Maybe I only thought I understood myself because my delusion was internally consistent. Like dream logic that makes perfect sense in the moment but doesn't stand up to scrutiny when you're awake.
Thoroughly freaked out, I drove on when the light changed. Did I think in pictograms that only some at-a-distance observer could see? Was my existence a figment, and only in-progress when some person started a program? Was I just a copy of some piece of code, trapped somewhere in a larger algorithm?
Then I realized that I was starting to think I was in the movie Tron. Or maybe the Matrix. Probably Tron because that's way cooler, and they're coming out with a sequel next year.
But that brief two-block episode did bring me back to my college days and discussions in philosophy class. How do we know what's real? How do we know that we are experiencing what we think we are?
I honestly don't remember the answers to any of that. Probably there aren't answers. But I would say that if I can sit behind the wheel of my truck and have a brief solipsistic crisis, then I have too much time on my hands. The fact of the matter is, real or imagined, there are other people in the world, and it's connections with those other people that matter the most. Any one of those people crossing the intersection this afternoon might have made a great friend. Or a terrible enemy. Or maybe they just had an interesting story to tell, or a tragic one, or an hilarious one. Thing is, I'll never know because I had the windows rolled up.
I need to fix this. I need to get out more.
Then it hit me. Maybe they really were Sims. Maybe I was a Sim. Maybe the words I was speaking, thinking, and writing made no more sense than the gibberish the Sims used. Maybe I only thought I understood myself because my delusion was internally consistent. Like dream logic that makes perfect sense in the moment but doesn't stand up to scrutiny when you're awake.
Thoroughly freaked out, I drove on when the light changed. Did I think in pictograms that only some at-a-distance observer could see? Was my existence a figment, and only in-progress when some person started a program? Was I just a copy of some piece of code, trapped somewhere in a larger algorithm?
Then I realized that I was starting to think I was in the movie Tron. Or maybe the Matrix. Probably Tron because that's way cooler, and they're coming out with a sequel next year.
But that brief two-block episode did bring me back to my college days and discussions in philosophy class. How do we know what's real? How do we know that we are experiencing what we think we are?
I honestly don't remember the answers to any of that. Probably there aren't answers. But I would say that if I can sit behind the wheel of my truck and have a brief solipsistic crisis, then I have too much time on my hands. The fact of the matter is, real or imagined, there are other people in the world, and it's connections with those other people that matter the most. Any one of those people crossing the intersection this afternoon might have made a great friend. Or a terrible enemy. Or maybe they just had an interesting story to tell, or a tragic one, or an hilarious one. Thing is, I'll never know because I had the windows rolled up.
I need to fix this. I need to get out more.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
It Ain't Baseball
I'm fascinated by foreign sports. A while back I happened upon Australian rules football, which looks to me like a cross between real football (American football), rugby, and soccer (the rest of the world's football). It's played on a huge oval field - yep, oval - and there are four goal posts. Crazy brutal, as befits Australia. And beer. There's lots of beer too.
I tried to get into cricket, but I couldn't make heads or tails of it. I had several rabid cricketers explain the game to me in detail, and I only ended up more confused than before. When I was in Australia a few years back there was The Ashes test match. What that means I have no idea, but it was a great big deal. Huge. Shane Warne played his last match (test?) just after I left Oz, which was another colossal deal that I just had no conception of. Cricket is such a big deal in Australia that KFC Sponsors a competiton. That's right, KENTUCKY Fried Chicken sponsors cricket in Australia. They don't sponsor NASCAR here, but they lay out the cash in Australia. That's how big a deal it is.
Last night I happened across Irish hurling, part of the Gaelic Athletic Association. Yet another sport that has a rabid following in its home country that I just had no idea even existed. It's kind of like lacrosse, but not really. There's a stick, a ball, big goal posts like in Australian rules football but only two of them, and a net underneath like a soccer goal. The field is huge, like an American football field wide (100 yards) and maybe 150 yards long. There was a lot of ceremony at the beginning, and the immense stadium was packed to the rafters. I had no idea what was happening - lots of running and hitting a ball with the stick - but with the Irish-accented commentators whatever was going on certainly did sound charming. And the players had names like Seamus and Ewen, which makes me think of my relatives coming through Ellis Island. I also imagine the entire stadium celebrates after the game with a pint of Guiness and a potato. Then they tickle their leprechauns before falling asleep in a field of four-leaf clovers. That's a typical day in Ireland, right?
Now I'm wondering what else there is in the world of sport that I don't know about. I know about soccer, and I don't care about it, as I have mentioned before. But do they have some sort of native sport in Iceland, for example, or Bolivia, or Ghana, or Uzbekistan? I'll be watching the sports channels to find out.
I tried to get into cricket, but I couldn't make heads or tails of it. I had several rabid cricketers explain the game to me in detail, and I only ended up more confused than before. When I was in Australia a few years back there was The Ashes test match. What that means I have no idea, but it was a great big deal. Huge. Shane Warne played his last match (test?) just after I left Oz, which was another colossal deal that I just had no conception of. Cricket is such a big deal in Australia that KFC Sponsors a competiton. That's right, KENTUCKY Fried Chicken sponsors cricket in Australia. They don't sponsor NASCAR here, but they lay out the cash in Australia. That's how big a deal it is.
Last night I happened across Irish hurling, part of the Gaelic Athletic Association. Yet another sport that has a rabid following in its home country that I just had no idea even existed. It's kind of like lacrosse, but not really. There's a stick, a ball, big goal posts like in Australian rules football but only two of them, and a net underneath like a soccer goal. The field is huge, like an American football field wide (100 yards) and maybe 150 yards long. There was a lot of ceremony at the beginning, and the immense stadium was packed to the rafters. I had no idea what was happening - lots of running and hitting a ball with the stick - but with the Irish-accented commentators whatever was going on certainly did sound charming. And the players had names like Seamus and Ewen, which makes me think of my relatives coming through Ellis Island. I also imagine the entire stadium celebrates after the game with a pint of Guiness and a potato. Then they tickle their leprechauns before falling asleep in a field of four-leaf clovers. That's a typical day in Ireland, right?
Now I'm wondering what else there is in the world of sport that I don't know about. I know about soccer, and I don't care about it, as I have mentioned before. But do they have some sort of native sport in Iceland, for example, or Bolivia, or Ghana, or Uzbekistan? I'll be watching the sports channels to find out.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Shorts 'N Boots
I know it's been hot here in SoCal lately, and I want to be understanding. Really, I do. The AC in my apartment works only halfway at best, and the AC in my truck doesn't hardly work at all. I can sympathize with someone who's just trying to make the best of a bad situation.
But seriously... shorts with boots? In Pasadena? In 2010?
This is never, ever, EVER a good fashion choice, not even back in 1978 when the world was young and people didn't know any better and certainly not now. And keep in mind this proclamation is coming from a guy who proudly owns five Hawaiian shirts, one for each day of the work week.
If you're a female and you strut down the street in boots and shorts the best you can hope for is that you look like an awkward fashion disaster. Like someone who dressed in the darkness of an early morning. Pity from strangers is better than the other option, which is that you just look like a hooker. And not a high-class hooker, more like a truck-stop hooker with a meth habit to feed.
If you're a guy wearing shorts and boots you'd better be covered in paint or sawdust, otherwise you look like a moron. And if you're a fat dude, don't wear a wife-beater because that just exposes your man-boobs. And, for God's sake, don't wear a cowboy hat to complete the ensemble, you're just begging to get beat up. Yes, man at the corner of Lake and Del Mar at 5:15 PM today, I'm talking directly to you here.
If only doofuses who wore boots with shorts read this blog, the world would be safe from their monkeyshines.
But seriously... shorts with boots? In Pasadena? In 2010?
This is never, ever, EVER a good fashion choice, not even back in 1978 when the world was young and people didn't know any better and certainly not now. And keep in mind this proclamation is coming from a guy who proudly owns five Hawaiian shirts, one for each day of the work week.
If you're a female and you strut down the street in boots and shorts the best you can hope for is that you look like an awkward fashion disaster. Like someone who dressed in the darkness of an early morning. Pity from strangers is better than the other option, which is that you just look like a hooker. And not a high-class hooker, more like a truck-stop hooker with a meth habit to feed.
If you're a guy wearing shorts and boots you'd better be covered in paint or sawdust, otherwise you look like a moron. And if you're a fat dude, don't wear a wife-beater because that just exposes your man-boobs. And, for God's sake, don't wear a cowboy hat to complete the ensemble, you're just begging to get beat up. Yes, man at the corner of Lake and Del Mar at 5:15 PM today, I'm talking directly to you here.
If only doofuses who wore boots with shorts read this blog, the world would be safe from their monkeyshines.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
I Got Gamblin' Fever
I want to go to Vegas.
'But Don,' you say, 'you live in Pasadena, you could just drive up to Vegas on a weekend. What's the big deal?' True enough. But I don't want to go to Vegas now, I want to go to Vegas then.
It was 1998, at least I'm pretty sure it was, and five of us planned a trip to Vegas. Five guys. Three days in Vegas. Yeah.
Back then (jeez... 1998 is 'back then') Vegas was just starting to build up. Caesars Palace was completing their second tower, the Mirage was the happening place, the Tam-o-Shanter was still there. So was the Sands. And the Frontier, and the Stardust, and the Boardwalk, and the Desert Inn. It was Old Vegas - Sinatra's mobbed-up Vegas - mingling grudgingly with the new, douchebag Vegas - Steve Wynn's Vegas. There weren't pedestrian walkways then, you had to get across the Strip the old-fashioned way, by jaywalking.
Me, Scott, Mike, Sean, and Bizarro Don. Who brought his own pillow. Really. Right through the Mirage lobby. Ah, those were the days. Me and those guys out on the town. Them partaking of the free booze, sometimes with an undeserved sense of entitlement, me the perpetual designated driver since I don't drink alcohol. I want those three days back, or I suppose I want to re-live those three days over and over again. The trip of a lifetime. Seriously.
Some highlights:
Wrasslin' in the room. Both Mike and Sean used to wrestle in high school, so this was truly a contest of champions. Scott wrestled because he thought he could beat the other two because he outweighed each of them by forty pounds. He was wrong. I knew better and didn't participate, though I did egg everyone else on.
Scott - who was Jewish - kept his vow to eat bacon at every meal. He achieved his goal admirably, though sometimes with puzzled looks from waiters.
Crazy Girls in the Stardust. A topless revue. It was bad. Really bad. Spectacularly bad. So bad that it came back around and crossed over to being good. The performers were almost all former showgirls who'd been injured, or got too heavy, or had kids or bad boob jobs or all of the above. Some possibly with drug habits to support. Just agonizingly awful, and yet sublime because of it. We were about to leave before the show started but Mike made us stay, since we'd made the effort to get tickets. 'We're staying right here and we're gonna watch the show.' Good call, man.
Also, the scary mafioso ticket taker guy. You could look in his eyes and know he'd murdered someone. Thin and sinister. 'So you want to see the Crazy Girls?' Yes, sir, we would. If that's okay by you.
Five dollar craps tables at the Stratosphere. A great place to learn the game. Especially at 9 AM.
Star Trek the Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton. Nerd-vana. You could get Ferengi drinks at the Quark's Bar. And if you were an uber-nerd you could get a Klingon-themed wedding.
Me, Scott, Mike, and Sean, walking two abreast on the sidewalk, clearing a path before us. I didn't think we looked particularly tough or threatening, but evidently our fellow vacationers felt otherwise.
The President from The Fifth Element at the Rio. We were waiting for a cab and there he was.
Club Paradise. A 'gentleman's club' where guys act like anything but. Scott took complete leave of his senses and spent waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much money. We were there for hours. HOURS. And it wasn't horrible. Scott actually paid for 'bootie bucks' or whatever they call their fake cash. A lot of bootie bucks. We helped him whittle his stash down and he was so drunk he never noticed.
Thanks, guys. A truly great time.
'But Don,' you say, 'you live in Pasadena, you could just drive up to Vegas on a weekend. What's the big deal?' True enough. But I don't want to go to Vegas now, I want to go to Vegas then.
It was 1998, at least I'm pretty sure it was, and five of us planned a trip to Vegas. Five guys. Three days in Vegas. Yeah.
Back then (jeez... 1998 is 'back then') Vegas was just starting to build up. Caesars Palace was completing their second tower, the Mirage was the happening place, the Tam-o-Shanter was still there. So was the Sands. And the Frontier, and the Stardust, and the Boardwalk, and the Desert Inn. It was Old Vegas - Sinatra's mobbed-up Vegas - mingling grudgingly with the new, douchebag Vegas - Steve Wynn's Vegas. There weren't pedestrian walkways then, you had to get across the Strip the old-fashioned way, by jaywalking.
Me, Scott, Mike, Sean, and Bizarro Don. Who brought his own pillow. Really. Right through the Mirage lobby. Ah, those were the days. Me and those guys out on the town. Them partaking of the free booze, sometimes with an undeserved sense of entitlement, me the perpetual designated driver since I don't drink alcohol. I want those three days back, or I suppose I want to re-live those three days over and over again. The trip of a lifetime. Seriously.
Some highlights:
Wrasslin' in the room. Both Mike and Sean used to wrestle in high school, so this was truly a contest of champions. Scott wrestled because he thought he could beat the other two because he outweighed each of them by forty pounds. He was wrong. I knew better and didn't participate, though I did egg everyone else on.
Scott - who was Jewish - kept his vow to eat bacon at every meal. He achieved his goal admirably, though sometimes with puzzled looks from waiters.
Crazy Girls in the Stardust. A topless revue. It was bad. Really bad. Spectacularly bad. So bad that it came back around and crossed over to being good. The performers were almost all former showgirls who'd been injured, or got too heavy, or had kids or bad boob jobs or all of the above. Some possibly with drug habits to support. Just agonizingly awful, and yet sublime because of it. We were about to leave before the show started but Mike made us stay, since we'd made the effort to get tickets. 'We're staying right here and we're gonna watch the show.' Good call, man.
Also, the scary mafioso ticket taker guy. You could look in his eyes and know he'd murdered someone. Thin and sinister. 'So you want to see the Crazy Girls?' Yes, sir, we would. If that's okay by you.
Five dollar craps tables at the Stratosphere. A great place to learn the game. Especially at 9 AM.
Star Trek the Experience at the Las Vegas Hilton. Nerd-vana. You could get Ferengi drinks at the Quark's Bar. And if you were an uber-nerd you could get a Klingon-themed wedding.
Me, Scott, Mike, and Sean, walking two abreast on the sidewalk, clearing a path before us. I didn't think we looked particularly tough or threatening, but evidently our fellow vacationers felt otherwise.
The President from The Fifth Element at the Rio. We were waiting for a cab and there he was.
Club Paradise. A 'gentleman's club' where guys act like anything but. Scott took complete leave of his senses and spent waaaaaaaaaaaaaay too much money. We were there for hours. HOURS. And it wasn't horrible. Scott actually paid for 'bootie bucks' or whatever they call their fake cash. A lot of bootie bucks. We helped him whittle his stash down and he was so drunk he never noticed.
Thanks, guys. A truly great time.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Un-Welcome Back
It's been a while since I've really had to deal with Microsoft's insanity when it comes to software installation. I've had my iMac for a few years now, and even in my current 1099 gig - where I use a PC - I'm not the one doing the installing. I've been isolated. Become used to an operating system that just works. Seamlessly. I'll admit, I've been spoiled. Until today. I'm helping a friend out, and installing some video conferencing stuff on the Windows XP instance I keep on my Mac for just such an occasion, it's only there if I really, really need it. So far I've spent the past hour installing, re-installing, and re-re-installing stuff, all so I can get Windows videoconferencing on my Mac that already comes with it.
Holy crap on a cracker, what a nightmare.
I'd forgotten what an ordeal updates and installations are on a PC. Really. I'd blissfully put all that out of my mind and let Steve Jobs and his crew whisk me away on a comfy carpet of no-worries. First I need the security updates. And, being Windows, there are a LOT of those. Then the extra stuff like Internet Explorer - which this video conference thing needs - and then the .NET framework, and the updates to that, and then the video conference software itself. And on and on and on.
And you know what? It's not going to work. You know it, I know it, Bill Gates knows it, the people who wrote the video conference thing know it. It's one huge pantomime opera we all agree to go through when we know the end result is going to be 'Just use Skype.' It's like a North Korean show trial, or elections in Libya.
Why do I bother?
Holy crap on a cracker, what a nightmare.
I'd forgotten what an ordeal updates and installations are on a PC. Really. I'd blissfully put all that out of my mind and let Steve Jobs and his crew whisk me away on a comfy carpet of no-worries. First I need the security updates. And, being Windows, there are a LOT of those. Then the extra stuff like Internet Explorer - which this video conference thing needs - and then the .NET framework, and the updates to that, and then the video conference software itself. And on and on and on.
And you know what? It's not going to work. You know it, I know it, Bill Gates knows it, the people who wrote the video conference thing know it. It's one huge pantomime opera we all agree to go through when we know the end result is going to be 'Just use Skype.' It's like a North Korean show trial, or elections in Libya.
Why do I bother?
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
They Tried To Make Me Go To Rehab
I've given up bread for a while. Complex carbohydrates, that is, bread and crackers and corn and potatoes and what not. It's been a week, and I'm doing okay, I've only fallen off the wagon a little bit and then I hopped right back on. I'm doing it to see if I can lose some weight, and to increase the amount of vegetables in my diet. And, truth to tell, Drew Cary lost 70 pounds doing the same thing. I don't have 70 pounds to lose, but it's worth a shot.
It's a challenge. I feel like a junkie, jonesing for a slice of pizza. Or a cracker, for God's sake. I didn't know I ate so much starch, honestly. I knew I ate too many sweets, but chips and pretzels and sandwiches and pita bread... too much.
I was in the grocery store today, getting bananas, carrots, cherries, and fruit juice. Like a hippie. And I picked up a pack of peanut M&Ms. No wheat in that, right? I was an addict, substituting the fix at hand for my regular drug of choice.
If I'd had a beehive hairdo I could have been a portly Amy Winehouse. I walked around the grocery store for a good five minutes with that pack of M&M's, and then I 'happened by' the fresh-made pizza section. The chocolate-covered peanuts were the devil on my left shoulder, tempting me to completely give up my week-long attempt to drop some poundage. Summoning up my reserves of willpower I put the delicious, oh-so chocolately morsels on the shelf next to the pizza.
Score one for me. I've replaced my toast and butter with green beans, at least for the next few weeks. I actually do feel a little more alert, but that could be the DTs from not having flour in my system.
If you see me with a doughnut in my hands, feel free to slap me. Or at least feel free to try.
It's a challenge. I feel like a junkie, jonesing for a slice of pizza. Or a cracker, for God's sake. I didn't know I ate so much starch, honestly. I knew I ate too many sweets, but chips and pretzels and sandwiches and pita bread... too much.
I was in the grocery store today, getting bananas, carrots, cherries, and fruit juice. Like a hippie. And I picked up a pack of peanut M&Ms. No wheat in that, right? I was an addict, substituting the fix at hand for my regular drug of choice.
If I'd had a beehive hairdo I could have been a portly Amy Winehouse. I walked around the grocery store for a good five minutes with that pack of M&M's, and then I 'happened by' the fresh-made pizza section. The chocolate-covered peanuts were the devil on my left shoulder, tempting me to completely give up my week-long attempt to drop some poundage. Summoning up my reserves of willpower I put the delicious, oh-so chocolately morsels on the shelf next to the pizza.
Score one for me. I've replaced my toast and butter with green beans, at least for the next few weeks. I actually do feel a little more alert, but that could be the DTs from not having flour in my system.
If you see me with a doughnut in my hands, feel free to slap me. Or at least feel free to try.
Monday, August 23, 2010
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.
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.
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