Some think they're on the "A-Train," but are really just on the "Hay Train."
----------------------------
At my local supermarket I came across a cart of used books, marked at $1 each, the sale of which would benefit some charity. There was one particular book perched on the very top of the pile, which caught my eye – it seemed a bit out of place. I grabbed it and leafed through it, replaced it on the heap, and went about my shopping.
That book stuck in my noggin as I went up and down the aisles, and I decided to look at it again, if it was still there, before I headed to the checkout line. It was. I took it and flipped it into my cart. "Only a buck," I reasoned. It was a very old Bible, bended and floppy, with dog-eared pages, some scarred with penciled notations and underlines, and with a dozen or more aged Post-it notes of different colors, containing the previous owner's scribbled references to pertinent chapters, verses, etc. Said owner's name was embossed on the lower right-hand corner of the cover, in gold: Michael Scott McLean. This to me was a clue that Mr. McLean was perhaps passed away, and this was a cherished tome discarded by indifferent relatives after the house-clearing.
It seemed about twice as thick as any Bible I'd ever seen. I soon discovered why – the book contained both Old and New Testaments, a Bible dictionary, an index, the Book of Mormon, a "doctrine guide" and a map section pertaining to the Middle East of Biblical times. McLean was apparently a studious man, but not a petite one – or else had biceps like Hulk Hogan, to carry this hefty little volume around. I'm not big on the Book of Mormon, but considered the entirety of the book as something worth having, so I took it home. Inside was the most curious find of all: a Post-it, stuck on the first page of the New Testament, that contained, in scribbled pencil: "I love you. Please call me! Mary McDonough, Miss Utah 1997." I wondered if this was worth the time to Google. I did. She had indeed been whom she claimed to be. I can only conclude that if McLean really did hook up with this person, the cause of death was a heart attack.
----------------------------
Sometimes a "conspiracy theory" is the most logical answer as to why certain things have happened. It at least gives the offending party the best benefit of the doubt. Otherwise, the only alternative is incompetence and stupidity, and it would seem reassuring to think that in America even our evildoers operate based on a sliver of intellect rather than random witlessness.
Overheard at work: "Disregard what I wrote – it's just instructions."
----------------------------
I designed a program booklet for a local Wine Festival, and was given prepared text by some local PR person. It was typical Chamber of Commerce chicken scratch, not only creatively bankrupt, but a bubbling cauldron of typos and atrocious grammar. One of the articles for this program was for an oyster-themed attraction to appear at the event. A stand-out quote from their sensational ad copy runs: "Those coming to this years (sic) grand festival in search of oyster deliciousness will not be disappoint (sic) by these wonderful product's (sic) served by many fine establishments around the peninsula for those valued customer's (sic) who wish to experience a sample of gourmet excellence and perfection with every bite and/or slurp!" This PR person was paid real money for that. These are the people in charge.
----------------------------
It is just a tad bizarre to me how we can be so dependent upon foreign fuel production, and still have an oil leak just off our own shores big enough to threaten seas around the globe if it isn't contained.
I cannot help myself from staring in gentle wonder, when I see a beautiful woman walking alone, crying. A man crying makes me turn away.
Don't ask me what put this notion into my head, but I think it's notable: The people most likely to make it through a zombie plague... agoraphobes.
A Pope Benedict action figure doesn't seem all that fun, until you team him up with Batman!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Random Showers
Overheard today: "I wasn't busy until I started doing something."
Nothing really "makes history" anymore. The first this. The biggest that. Milestones have become cheap. Nowadays, even the once-believed unbreakable history markers are so fragile that the only thing that inspires awe anymore is the notion that the old record holders lived in a completely different paradigm. Babe Ruth's "steroids" were beer and steak. Elvis's gold records were earned by sales of 78s. Jim Brown's rushing record was accomplished with nobody blocking for him.
Here's a way that technology has changed our lives that you'll never read about. My home internet goes down, so I walk to a nearby college, where I can use their computers via a library card. I arrive to swat my own forehead in frustration at my faulty recall; the college is closed for spring break. So I figure I'll stop at the mini-mart near my home for a snack. Their ATM is down, so I have nothing to buy with. I'm on foot, so other locales around town are a bit out of the question, time-wise. I wind up back home. Nothing accomplished, and a little worn out. This is called "thwarted at every tech-turn."
I went to a drive-thru for dinner on my way home after an exhausting day of jury duty ills. The young woman at the window was bright-eyed, with a glow of youth, and an earnest smile that lifted my spirits – even as she handed me my bag of neo-synthetic, edible death. (I ordered it, don't blame her.) Before home I had an errand to run as well, at a nearby department store. On the way out I was accosted by a different kind of eager young person: A something-teen zombie with a petition for me to sign. His eyes were aglow as well, with the agenda-fueled tribal unction of his "calling." I let my sarcastic side get away with me and came off sounding like a ranting kook, when all I actually had for him was mere disagreement. I pondered this the rest of my way home. Lifted up by a young woman earning her living, and brought down by a young man biding his time with annoying activism. Some people in our current political climate would actually scoff at the cute wage earner, and cheer that sleepwalking petition-peddling shit. Someday, it's likely that the work ethic shared by both I and that pixie will be his meal ticket. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose.
The most impressive pin a pilot can earn has to be that of the "Winged Astronaut." Air Force Major General Robert M. White won it for flying his jet fighter 59 miles, straight up. It is essentially the act of reaching outer space in a craft that is not designed to do that. It is the will of a pilot overcoming the limitations of the plane, and returning to the ground alive. Indeed, there's a lesson for life in that, somewhere.
If it doesn't fit, it doesn't matter how big the discount was.
Once in a while, a single piece of music will be played, at exactly the right time of mood... and for the next few days, only that song will suffice to play, in a loop.
We choose how important yesterday was, while tomorrow is important no matter what we think.
Nothing really "makes history" anymore. The first this. The biggest that. Milestones have become cheap. Nowadays, even the once-believed unbreakable history markers are so fragile that the only thing that inspires awe anymore is the notion that the old record holders lived in a completely different paradigm. Babe Ruth's "steroids" were beer and steak. Elvis's gold records were earned by sales of 78s. Jim Brown's rushing record was accomplished with nobody blocking for him.
Here's a way that technology has changed our lives that you'll never read about. My home internet goes down, so I walk to a nearby college, where I can use their computers via a library card. I arrive to swat my own forehead in frustration at my faulty recall; the college is closed for spring break. So I figure I'll stop at the mini-mart near my home for a snack. Their ATM is down, so I have nothing to buy with. I'm on foot, so other locales around town are a bit out of the question, time-wise. I wind up back home. Nothing accomplished, and a little worn out. This is called "thwarted at every tech-turn."
I went to a drive-thru for dinner on my way home after an exhausting day of jury duty ills. The young woman at the window was bright-eyed, with a glow of youth, and an earnest smile that lifted my spirits – even as she handed me my bag of neo-synthetic, edible death. (I ordered it, don't blame her.) Before home I had an errand to run as well, at a nearby department store. On the way out I was accosted by a different kind of eager young person: A something-teen zombie with a petition for me to sign. His eyes were aglow as well, with the agenda-fueled tribal unction of his "calling." I let my sarcastic side get away with me and came off sounding like a ranting kook, when all I actually had for him was mere disagreement. I pondered this the rest of my way home. Lifted up by a young woman earning her living, and brought down by a young man biding his time with annoying activism. Some people in our current political climate would actually scoff at the cute wage earner, and cheer that sleepwalking petition-peddling shit. Someday, it's likely that the work ethic shared by both I and that pixie will be his meal ticket. Nice work if you can get it, I suppose.
The most impressive pin a pilot can earn has to be that of the "Winged Astronaut." Air Force Major General Robert M. White won it for flying his jet fighter 59 miles, straight up. It is essentially the act of reaching outer space in a craft that is not designed to do that. It is the will of a pilot overcoming the limitations of the plane, and returning to the ground alive. Indeed, there's a lesson for life in that, somewhere.
If it doesn't fit, it doesn't matter how big the discount was.
Once in a while, a single piece of music will be played, at exactly the right time of mood... and for the next few days, only that song will suffice to play, in a loop.
We choose how important yesterday was, while tomorrow is important no matter what we think.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Fab Feb
Toilet Paper – use it by the wad and need a plumber, or use it by the square and need a shower – the choice is yours.
The sideways ball caps, the pants worn down at the thighs... it was all a little odd, but trends and fads tend to be that way. I dealt with it. Today I saw a fifteen (or so) year old... with a binky. A baby's pacifier. In his jaws like a pro basketball player works a toothpick. Let me say that again: a BINKY. Now I'm just plain scared.
How come the most overpaid, least in-touch people at a business get all the perks and best vacation packages? Because if given the choice, they'd most likely return to work afterward.
SNIFFLE SNURF, HACK!!
How can something that feels so huge up my nose blow out to just be a damp spot?
I'm not necessarily that tired, it just feels so good to lay here like a sack of potatoes.
If I had a dollar for every cough, I could make your rent and mine both.
Let Hollywood teach you something about our nation's capitol: the sole purpose of all activity in that town is to generate billions of dollars to keep its own gears turning, to keep its leaders and stars wealthy and desirous of a continued career there, while the cogs who keep the machinery operating have to punch timecards and pay their own bills. A government program is no more societal betterment than a movie is tangible reality.
THE DAMN POETRY CORNER IS BACK
Thirty days has September,
April, June and November.
February showed up late,
that's why it just has twenty-eight.
The sideways ball caps, the pants worn down at the thighs... it was all a little odd, but trends and fads tend to be that way. I dealt with it. Today I saw a fifteen (or so) year old... with a binky. A baby's pacifier. In his jaws like a pro basketball player works a toothpick. Let me say that again: a BINKY. Now I'm just plain scared.
How come the most overpaid, least in-touch people at a business get all the perks and best vacation packages? Because if given the choice, they'd most likely return to work afterward.
SNIFFLE SNURF, HACK!!
How can something that feels so huge up my nose blow out to just be a damp spot?
I'm not necessarily that tired, it just feels so good to lay here like a sack of potatoes.
If I had a dollar for every cough, I could make your rent and mine both.
Let Hollywood teach you something about our nation's capitol: the sole purpose of all activity in that town is to generate billions of dollars to keep its own gears turning, to keep its leaders and stars wealthy and desirous of a continued career there, while the cogs who keep the machinery operating have to punch timecards and pay their own bills. A government program is no more societal betterment than a movie is tangible reality.
THE DAMN POETRY CORNER IS BACK
Thirty days has September,
April, June and November.
February showed up late,
that's why it just has twenty-eight.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Somebody Knew Something
This is a blog post that I sincerely hope will provoke you to think about a few things just a bit differently. It is based on first-hand witness experience, and as accurate as I can recall it. A few essential factoids were verified (if one can do that) via Google-searching – but I didn't really find enough to claim irrefutable verification about any of it. So bear with me.
Most people still brush off conspiracy theory. Even though I am a conspiracy "buff," and possibly see intricate webs of deception where others see, oh, a few extra nuts in a Snickers bar, it doesn't mean that intrigue is non-existent. Here are a couple of examples of real-life mysteries that still "haunt" me in a contemplative lunchtime kind'a way.
NO, NOT 9-11.
Try twenty-one months earlier; December 19, 1998 to be exact. For some reason out of the blue, the U.S. Military decided to hold a simulated "attack" on an American west coastline. Namely Monterey, California, where reside the Naval Postgraduate School, the Defense Language Institute (where Lee Harvey Oswald learned Russian) and the Monterey Presidio.
This "urban warfare experiment" involved squads of armed Marines and Coast Guard prowling otherwise quiet oceanfront neighborhoods, waving on old grannies and college frumpkins walking their dogs, a few FedEx trucks, and the Amway lady tootling around in her rusty Dodge Colt station wagon.
Personally, my paranoid concern, as a resident of said neighborhood, was making it to my car in the morning for work without being mistakenly strafed by rubber bullets.
In some ways the event seemed somewhat logical – the Monterey Peninsula was and perhaps still is ripe for the type of foreign assault that was only pretended at, that day. The above mentioned locales of strategic interest – back then – sat literally unguarded. The Presidio was open and free to civilian auto traffic, using it as a shortcut across town. The gates were shut tight on September 12, 2001.
Just the memory of camo-suited guards suddenly present there, just off the street, casually hefting black metal, seems a bit surreal and disconcerting.
There was a time long ago when the vast Pacific Ocean was considered adequate defense against someone else's army. We at least had the technology in place to see or hear them coming. That was yesterday's "conventional wisdom."
It became apparent that someone, somewhere, in 1998, thought it was time we reevaluated. Monterey was not the only place where simulated combat situations were staged. And yet in retrospect, something was odd.
Such training simulations, at least one on this invasive scale and far reaching magnitude, had never bothered with little old Monterey before.
Twenty-one months later... September 11, 2001, we really were attacked, on our own – east coast – soil. By air, from a foreign power, for the first time ever since Pearl Harbor.
The military has never held a simulated "invasion" here, since. Why not? Wouldn't 9-11 have ramped up the call for regular training runs?
Maybe in 1998, someone knew that something was coming. And currently they believe that nothing like it is due in the near future?
THE GHOST OF SANTEE
Now this one is even a tad scarier; a case of the jim-jams coming home to roost on a personal level. Consider it a warning.
For those who have lived on the Monterey Peninsula since the late 1990s, the name Christina Williams has a certain meaning. Her kidnapping and murder led to an exhaustive search with bizarre twists, turns and a Twilight Zone conclusion, that all served to galvanize the population in the process.
Christina was the perfect post-modern girl next door; Eurasian, raven haired, pencil-slender and of course cuter than cupcakes. Out walking her dog one evening. At just thirteen, perhaps this was not an ideal place for her; alone, out along a boulevard near a military post where lots of young men with raging hormones tend to cruise around, sometimes fueled by adult beverage. But there she was. An almost stereotypically perfect opening scene for a documentary about a kidnapping, that of course fades out with "never to be seen again."
The public notice of Christina's vanishing was immediately more than just any typical missing persons case. Fort Ord was still federal property then, and a kidnapping on government land wasn't any mere felony, but a potential breach of security. The story grabbed the front page and stayed there for weeks.
A beach-combing hobo found floating face-down in the bay would be lucky to make the next morning's police blotter.
Christina Williams became everyone's little girl as the massive search began. Celebrities like Mariah Carey, Reggie Jackson and Clint Eastwood each made public appeals for help and prayers for the Williams family.
A most bizarre twist was the sudden presence of the lowrider community, who taped photocopies in their back windows, of Christina, and the police sketches of the two individuals whose low-slung car she was seen getting into. Were they genuinely concerned about finding the girl, or was it a gesture to symbolically eliminate themselves from the suspect list?
Every inch of the Peninsula was searched, especially the trails in and around the expanse of Fort Ord – searched and searched again. And again.
About a month into the case, a body turned up fifty miles north, that seemed to match Christina's description. Tests were performed. The entire county held our breaths.
No. It wasn't Christina. It was a woman much older, but whose petite framed body gave the impression of a teenager's. Someone else's case. Though it was not exactly reassuring, it gave pause for hope; the longer Christina didn't turn up dead, there was all the more reason to believe she could still be found alive.
At this point in the story, is where the headlines crept their way into my own day-to-day life. During this time, I worked at Monterey's daily paper, The Herald, which was then owned and operated by Scripps-Howard, Inc.
I worked as an advertising designer and compositor. One morning an ad insertion order came in from a walk-in client. I was given the raw copy to typeset. It only took me a minute to realize that this was no ordinary newspaper ad.
For one thing, it wasn't an advertisement for anything. A full page in size, it was a random pastiche of the client's prattling personal manifestos. A laundry list of bumper sticker "truisms."
"I won the Superbowl more times than the 49ers, so where's my money?" and "I don't waste time picking lotto numbers, I just want the girl." are two of the gems I recall from this huge, rambling "word quilt."
The sales rep handling the client excused herself. Her calm walk to the back office became a gallop once she was out of the client's eyeshot, straight to the publisher's office to scream for help.
The client refused to give his name, but insisted on being referred to as "The Ghost of Santee."
I decided I had to get a look at this person. When I walked out front, I discovered him chatting up one of the Classified Department sales reps. I chose to just observe, and moved on after a few loiterous minutes.
He was slicked back, every hair in place like a swatch of chestnut corduroy. A waxed mustache and goatee of the same color. What stood out most was his attire... a custom-looking suit with pants and coat made of the same silvery fabric, only the coat wasn't a standard suitcoat, but more of a priest's frock, with no buttons I could see.
He seemed weighed down with gold chains and various neck-worn ornamentation. Every finger had bling. A pair of highly polished snakeskin boots completed this strange "cosmic wild west chaplain" ensemble.
After he left, the publisher decreed that The Herald would not run such an ad. I wonder if the verdict would be different now, when anyone coming in with an open checkbook is treated like royalty, regardless how good-n-nutty they are.
Later, the salesperson who handled the account told me some of the off-planet comments that TGOS had made while placing his goofy ad. He tended to steer conversation toward the subject of... Christina Williams.
He was amazed that nobody else, especially at the city newspaper, already knew the identity of Christina's murderer. This was still before a body had been found, and hope still lingered that she was alive.
TGOS said that "everyone" knew who offed Christina. He then, incredibly, predicted that her body would be found in exactly a week. He left before going further with his "insider info."
Christina Williams was found... dead. A week later. Two miles from her home, on Fort Ord land, along a trail near Imjin Road – a location that had been covered, and covered again, thoroughly during the search. Who ever had possessed Christina's body for the months prior to its discovery, had recently placed it there.
It was quite easy to conclude that The Ghost of Santee was Christina's killer, coming in to place an ad that he thought would taunt authorities – like The Joker, leaving a baffling public clue to goad Batman. But strangely, nobody else involved ever mentioned TGOS afterward – as if he'd never appeared at The Herald office.
Nobody, including the editorial staff with its clan of supposed advocates and champions wanted anything to do with the incident. It became a forgotten anecdote, and nothing more.
But, I kept saying to myself, THAT had to be the guy. Am I crazy? Doesn't anyone else see it?
Out of curiosity, I wondered what hidden meaning might be contained in the title "Ghost of Santee," and Googled it. It turns out that Santee, California is a paranormal "hotspot," with ghost sightings considered somewhat of a tourist attraction. One of the most prominent ghosts of Santee is an adolescent girl who is usually witnessed before dawn, "meditating."
Over a decade later, Christina's killer is still technically considered to be at large. Marina, California rapist Charles Holifield, currently serving a life term in state prison, however, is believed by the FBI to be a suspect. They try, ongoing, to coax a confession out of him, to no avail as of this writing.
But if you take Holifield's photo, and pencil a mustache and goatee on him... well... maybe. I wonder if they'd get anything out of him if they asked "have you ever referred to yourself as a ghost?"
Most people still brush off conspiracy theory. Even though I am a conspiracy "buff," and possibly see intricate webs of deception where others see, oh, a few extra nuts in a Snickers bar, it doesn't mean that intrigue is non-existent. Here are a couple of examples of real-life mysteries that still "haunt" me in a contemplative lunchtime kind'a way.
NO, NOT 9-11.
Try twenty-one months earlier; December 19, 1998 to be exact. For some reason out of the blue, the U.S. Military decided to hold a simulated "attack" on an American west coastline. Namely Monterey, California, where reside the Naval Postgraduate School, the Defense Language Institute (where Lee Harvey Oswald learned Russian) and the Monterey Presidio.
This "urban warfare experiment" involved squads of armed Marines and Coast Guard prowling otherwise quiet oceanfront neighborhoods, waving on old grannies and college frumpkins walking their dogs, a few FedEx trucks, and the Amway lady tootling around in her rusty Dodge Colt station wagon.
Personally, my paranoid concern, as a resident of said neighborhood, was making it to my car in the morning for work without being mistakenly strafed by rubber bullets.
In some ways the event seemed somewhat logical – the Monterey Peninsula was and perhaps still is ripe for the type of foreign assault that was only pretended at, that day. The above mentioned locales of strategic interest – back then – sat literally unguarded. The Presidio was open and free to civilian auto traffic, using it as a shortcut across town. The gates were shut tight on September 12, 2001.
Just the memory of camo-suited guards suddenly present there, just off the street, casually hefting black metal, seems a bit surreal and disconcerting.
There was a time long ago when the vast Pacific Ocean was considered adequate defense against someone else's army. We at least had the technology in place to see or hear them coming. That was yesterday's "conventional wisdom."
It became apparent that someone, somewhere, in 1998, thought it was time we reevaluated. Monterey was not the only place where simulated combat situations were staged. And yet in retrospect, something was odd.
Such training simulations, at least one on this invasive scale and far reaching magnitude, had never bothered with little old Monterey before.
Twenty-one months later... September 11, 2001, we really were attacked, on our own – east coast – soil. By air, from a foreign power, for the first time ever since Pearl Harbor.
The military has never held a simulated "invasion" here, since. Why not? Wouldn't 9-11 have ramped up the call for regular training runs?
Maybe in 1998, someone knew that something was coming. And currently they believe that nothing like it is due in the near future?
THE GHOST OF SANTEE
Now this one is even a tad scarier; a case of the jim-jams coming home to roost on a personal level. Consider it a warning.
For those who have lived on the Monterey Peninsula since the late 1990s, the name Christina Williams has a certain meaning. Her kidnapping and murder led to an exhaustive search with bizarre twists, turns and a Twilight Zone conclusion, that all served to galvanize the population in the process.
Christina was the perfect post-modern girl next door; Eurasian, raven haired, pencil-slender and of course cuter than cupcakes. Out walking her dog one evening. At just thirteen, perhaps this was not an ideal place for her; alone, out along a boulevard near a military post where lots of young men with raging hormones tend to cruise around, sometimes fueled by adult beverage. But there she was. An almost stereotypically perfect opening scene for a documentary about a kidnapping, that of course fades out with "never to be seen again."
The public notice of Christina's vanishing was immediately more than just any typical missing persons case. Fort Ord was still federal property then, and a kidnapping on government land wasn't any mere felony, but a potential breach of security. The story grabbed the front page and stayed there for weeks.
A beach-combing hobo found floating face-down in the bay would be lucky to make the next morning's police blotter.
Christina Williams became everyone's little girl as the massive search began. Celebrities like Mariah Carey, Reggie Jackson and Clint Eastwood each made public appeals for help and prayers for the Williams family.
A most bizarre twist was the sudden presence of the lowrider community, who taped photocopies in their back windows, of Christina, and the police sketches of the two individuals whose low-slung car she was seen getting into. Were they genuinely concerned about finding the girl, or was it a gesture to symbolically eliminate themselves from the suspect list?
Every inch of the Peninsula was searched, especially the trails in and around the expanse of Fort Ord – searched and searched again. And again.
About a month into the case, a body turned up fifty miles north, that seemed to match Christina's description. Tests were performed. The entire county held our breaths.
No. It wasn't Christina. It was a woman much older, but whose petite framed body gave the impression of a teenager's. Someone else's case. Though it was not exactly reassuring, it gave pause for hope; the longer Christina didn't turn up dead, there was all the more reason to believe she could still be found alive.
At this point in the story, is where the headlines crept their way into my own day-to-day life. During this time, I worked at Monterey's daily paper, The Herald, which was then owned and operated by Scripps-Howard, Inc.
I worked as an advertising designer and compositor. One morning an ad insertion order came in from a walk-in client. I was given the raw copy to typeset. It only took me a minute to realize that this was no ordinary newspaper ad.
For one thing, it wasn't an advertisement for anything. A full page in size, it was a random pastiche of the client's prattling personal manifestos. A laundry list of bumper sticker "truisms."
"I won the Superbowl more times than the 49ers, so where's my money?" and "I don't waste time picking lotto numbers, I just want the girl." are two of the gems I recall from this huge, rambling "word quilt."
The sales rep handling the client excused herself. Her calm walk to the back office became a gallop once she was out of the client's eyeshot, straight to the publisher's office to scream for help.
The client refused to give his name, but insisted on being referred to as "The Ghost of Santee."
I decided I had to get a look at this person. When I walked out front, I discovered him chatting up one of the Classified Department sales reps. I chose to just observe, and moved on after a few loiterous minutes.
He was slicked back, every hair in place like a swatch of chestnut corduroy. A waxed mustache and goatee of the same color. What stood out most was his attire... a custom-looking suit with pants and coat made of the same silvery fabric, only the coat wasn't a standard suitcoat, but more of a priest's frock, with no buttons I could see.
He seemed weighed down with gold chains and various neck-worn ornamentation. Every finger had bling. A pair of highly polished snakeskin boots completed this strange "cosmic wild west chaplain" ensemble.
After he left, the publisher decreed that The Herald would not run such an ad. I wonder if the verdict would be different now, when anyone coming in with an open checkbook is treated like royalty, regardless how good-n-nutty they are.
Later, the salesperson who handled the account told me some of the off-planet comments that TGOS had made while placing his goofy ad. He tended to steer conversation toward the subject of... Christina Williams.
He was amazed that nobody else, especially at the city newspaper, already knew the identity of Christina's murderer. This was still before a body had been found, and hope still lingered that she was alive.
TGOS said that "everyone" knew who offed Christina. He then, incredibly, predicted that her body would be found in exactly a week. He left before going further with his "insider info."
Christina Williams was found... dead. A week later. Two miles from her home, on Fort Ord land, along a trail near Imjin Road – a location that had been covered, and covered again, thoroughly during the search. Who ever had possessed Christina's body for the months prior to its discovery, had recently placed it there.
It was quite easy to conclude that The Ghost of Santee was Christina's killer, coming in to place an ad that he thought would taunt authorities – like The Joker, leaving a baffling public clue to goad Batman. But strangely, nobody else involved ever mentioned TGOS afterward – as if he'd never appeared at The Herald office.
Nobody, including the editorial staff with its clan of supposed advocates and champions wanted anything to do with the incident. It became a forgotten anecdote, and nothing more.
But, I kept saying to myself, THAT had to be the guy. Am I crazy? Doesn't anyone else see it?
Out of curiosity, I wondered what hidden meaning might be contained in the title "Ghost of Santee," and Googled it. It turns out that Santee, California is a paranormal "hotspot," with ghost sightings considered somewhat of a tourist attraction. One of the most prominent ghosts of Santee is an adolescent girl who is usually witnessed before dawn, "meditating."
Over a decade later, Christina's killer is still technically considered to be at large. Marina, California rapist Charles Holifield, currently serving a life term in state prison, however, is believed by the FBI to be a suspect. They try, ongoing, to coax a confession out of him, to no avail as of this writing.
But if you take Holifield's photo, and pencil a mustache and goatee on him... well... maybe. I wonder if they'd get anything out of him if they asked "have you ever referred to yourself as a ghost?"
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Chapped By "Chopped"
I'm a little miffed by the Food Network show "Chopped," which in general, I enjoy immensely, but am irked by its panel of judges.
The show's premise is brilliantly attention-commanding. Four non-celebrity chefs are each given a "mystery basket" containing three (or four) oddball ingredients that in an ideal world would never be served on the same bill of fare, much less combined into a single entrée. Havarti, yams and eel. Tongue, rhubarb and marshmallows, etc. The chefs must then "think on their feet," and improv these nauseatingly disparate factions into a tantalizing gourmet treat within a hellishly brief 30 minutes.
The maddening preparation intervals are edited to a more reasonable chunk of time, so that the entire show isn't consumed by a single round. There are three; Appetizer, Main Dish and Dessert. With each round, the chef that conjures up the least palatable dish, is eliminated, or "chopped." By the third round, the Dessert round, the competition has been pared to two competing chefs, slugging it out for the judges' favor. The last chef standing is declared "Chopped Champion."
The judges, whom are each given brief yet epic introductions ("... the Grand Wizard of the Sauté Pan"), get to sample each chef's creation and then enjoy informing him/her what a disgusting, back-alley scavenger plate of wet garbage they've toiled upon.
Here's where I really have a problem.
Most of the time, the judges' critiques boil down to the same pair of complaints: the dish is A. undercooked, and B. weird.
Hello??? You gave them ingredients that Lizzie Borden wouldn't throw in a pot together to serve to her parents, and only 30 minutes to plan, gather additional elements from a spaceship-like "pantry," combine and cook in whichever manner the chef is proficient, and then "plate" – arrange in an esthetically pleasing presentation. Any dish birthed in this environment is bound to be somewhat rushed and a tad strange! Needless to say these chefs have bulging neck veins and soulless staring gazes after the conclusion of each round.
And the judges apparently can't discern anything out of the ordinary about this kitchen equivalent of a bad LSD trip. Maybe in their world, it's normal.
The judges, by the way, also get to watch and comment during the preparations, which I'm sure endears them to the contestants even more. Not to mention the show's host, Ted Allen, who may be a gourmet in his own right, but on this show fills the role of studious shmuck with microphone, standing in the way, asking each chef for a play-by-play. "I'm putting a lid on the sauce to simmer, bitch. What does it look like I'm doing? Get away from me!"
And just as the nightmare seems almost over, the judges ask each chef to describe – in a style not unlike a job interview – what they have cooked.
"I've seared the GORILLA THIGH in extra-virgin olive oil to offset the power of the TANG brûlée, and garnished with GUMMI BEAR wedges on a bed of chopped bacon and field greens. Enjoy."
Each judge takes a demure mouthful, with a far-off stare of contemplation... suggesting in some cases that these Master Chefs could taste-test anti-matter and savor it with professorial aplomb... then unloads on the embattled foodsmith.
"I think you're a very creative person... but in all honesty, you could have dropped trow and grunted out a butt-fudge enchilada on this plate and I'd have respected you more."
The victimized chef must keep retort to a minimum. "Ah. Umhm. Yes, I understand."
"You're a fraud and a whore. This is just a step removed from boiled vomit."
"Email that online culinary school and demand your 20 bucks back."
"Memorize this, because you're going to need it: 'Pull to the next window please.'"
I will never be on this show, because frankly, I'd lose it. I don't mean I'd lose the Championship. I wouldn't even get that far. I'd. Lose. It. With. These. People.
It would go down like:
JUDGE: "Your pasta is underdone."
ME: "And you're make-up is coming undone."
JUDGE: "Your fromage filling is running out onto the plate."
ME: "And your teeth are about to spill out onto the floor."
JUDGE: "I find this dish frankly unacceptable."
ME: "The ingredients you made me use were Whale Semen, Spinach and Mini-Butterfingers. A dung beetle would find that dish unacceptable!"
The Food Network should rename this show "Meet The Asshats."
Chef Dave, sorry, you've MET THE ASSHATS. Goodbye.
An eliminated contestant is always filmed walking down the "hallway of shame" back to the dressing rooms. I'm waiting to see when a "chopped" chef flips the bird to the camera... I'm sure the editor has a collection.
Again, I am kind of addicted to this show.
The show's premise is brilliantly attention-commanding. Four non-celebrity chefs are each given a "mystery basket" containing three (or four) oddball ingredients that in an ideal world would never be served on the same bill of fare, much less combined into a single entrée. Havarti, yams and eel. Tongue, rhubarb and marshmallows, etc. The chefs must then "think on their feet," and improv these nauseatingly disparate factions into a tantalizing gourmet treat within a hellishly brief 30 minutes.
The maddening preparation intervals are edited to a more reasonable chunk of time, so that the entire show isn't consumed by a single round. There are three; Appetizer, Main Dish and Dessert. With each round, the chef that conjures up the least palatable dish, is eliminated, or "chopped." By the third round, the Dessert round, the competition has been pared to two competing chefs, slugging it out for the judges' favor. The last chef standing is declared "Chopped Champion."
The judges, whom are each given brief yet epic introductions ("... the Grand Wizard of the Sauté Pan"), get to sample each chef's creation and then enjoy informing him/her what a disgusting, back-alley scavenger plate of wet garbage they've toiled upon.
Here's where I really have a problem.
Most of the time, the judges' critiques boil down to the same pair of complaints: the dish is A. undercooked, and B. weird.
Hello??? You gave them ingredients that Lizzie Borden wouldn't throw in a pot together to serve to her parents, and only 30 minutes to plan, gather additional elements from a spaceship-like "pantry," combine and cook in whichever manner the chef is proficient, and then "plate" – arrange in an esthetically pleasing presentation. Any dish birthed in this environment is bound to be somewhat rushed and a tad strange! Needless to say these chefs have bulging neck veins and soulless staring gazes after the conclusion of each round.
And the judges apparently can't discern anything out of the ordinary about this kitchen equivalent of a bad LSD trip. Maybe in their world, it's normal.
The judges, by the way, also get to watch and comment during the preparations, which I'm sure endears them to the contestants even more. Not to mention the show's host, Ted Allen, who may be a gourmet in his own right, but on this show fills the role of studious shmuck with microphone, standing in the way, asking each chef for a play-by-play. "I'm putting a lid on the sauce to simmer, bitch. What does it look like I'm doing? Get away from me!"
And just as the nightmare seems almost over, the judges ask each chef to describe – in a style not unlike a job interview – what they have cooked.
"I've seared the GORILLA THIGH in extra-virgin olive oil to offset the power of the TANG brûlée, and garnished with GUMMI BEAR wedges on a bed of chopped bacon and field greens. Enjoy."
Each judge takes a demure mouthful, with a far-off stare of contemplation... suggesting in some cases that these Master Chefs could taste-test anti-matter and savor it with professorial aplomb... then unloads on the embattled foodsmith.
"I think you're a very creative person... but in all honesty, you could have dropped trow and grunted out a butt-fudge enchilada on this plate and I'd have respected you more."
The victimized chef must keep retort to a minimum. "Ah. Umhm. Yes, I understand."
"You're a fraud and a whore. This is just a step removed from boiled vomit."
"Email that online culinary school and demand your 20 bucks back."
"Memorize this, because you're going to need it: 'Pull to the next window please.'"
I will never be on this show, because frankly, I'd lose it. I don't mean I'd lose the Championship. I wouldn't even get that far. I'd. Lose. It. With. These. People.
It would go down like:
JUDGE: "Your pasta is underdone."
ME: "And you're make-up is coming undone."
JUDGE: "Your fromage filling is running out onto the plate."
ME: "And your teeth are about to spill out onto the floor."
JUDGE: "I find this dish frankly unacceptable."
ME: "The ingredients you made me use were Whale Semen, Spinach and Mini-Butterfingers. A dung beetle would find that dish unacceptable!"
The Food Network should rename this show "Meet The Asshats."
Chef Dave, sorry, you've MET THE ASSHATS. Goodbye.
An eliminated contestant is always filmed walking down the "hallway of shame" back to the dressing rooms. I'm waiting to see when a "chopped" chef flips the bird to the camera... I'm sure the editor has a collection.
Again, I am kind of addicted to this show.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Some Free Spec Script Ideas
As a busy screenwriter with several projects in various stages of development and/or production, my idea bank (brain) has been backlogging like a constipated hockey player at a Nathan's Hotdog semi-final. Naturally I have a huge list of project ideas that I know will never make it to the top of my to-do list, much less a pole position on the track to development hell. Therefore I now choose to release the safety valve, and free up space in my "Next Big Thing" vault. Here they are, ready to be greenlighted – yours to expand into a future blockbuster. No copyrights lurking in the b.g. here. My fellow aspiring script-smiths, take 'em and run!
SLAMMIN' DOWN TO BRISBANE
(Blame It On Rio meets Bumfights)
Myrtle and Sam "Spammy" Wilkerson click an internet pop-up and win a second-honeymoon trip to that dazzling vacation capital, Brisbane, California. They pack up the Dodge Valiant and are on their way down 101 when they pick up wayward hitch-hiker Bobby Boo, once famous radio crooner and Hollywood royalty of yesteryear. Hilarious adventures ensue when Bobby mistakes an eastside hoorhouse for the 3-star hotel where he was once a fixture in the heyday of the great Tinseltown musicals.
JUNIOR ASSKICKERS 2004!
(Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon meets Our Gang)
(This synopsis was written in 2003, when the title would carry a bit more relevance, but it can easily be changed to something up-to-date.) The plot: Angry at being flunked out of DeVrie Summer College and thus denied his electronic associate's degree, scientist hero Jameson Goldenrod suspects foul play afoot among the institution's adminstratti. He injects ten preschoolers with super-hyperdyne steroids, then teaches them kung fu, aided by his own Yoda-like mentor Hibachi Sokomotamoto-Tannenbaum (I wrote the part for Alan Arkin, but any competent character actor with good dialect presence should work). Can the Junior Asskickers get to the heart of a corrupt Junior College and deliver swift, bonecrunching, action-packed justice? Or will campus security shut them down with a few tazers, and by playing the Macarena over the school's sound system?
STAR BANGERS!
(Star Wars meets The Food Network)
No, not a tale of celebrity groupies, but of a platoon of intergalactic bounty-hunters, on the trail of half-lobster/half-super android, Krorgon! Aided by his army of Space Bears, Krorgon is secretly a hero of the galactic gourmet underground, whose mission is to free the planet X-98-D from the culinary tyranny of the tantalizing ten-breasted Princess Moparra, seductress of heroes, enslaver of billions, and host of her own mid-morning cookery show "Brunchtime Brainwash." Her ultimate recipe for Uranus Sausage holds the entire planet in bondage, addicted to the savory tubular delicacy. But with his mission top-secret, and led by the guidance of the cloned bodiless head of Julia Child, can Krorgon succeed while being hounded by both the Federation AND the interstellar bounty-hunters? Will Krorgan and his troops become Uranus Sausage on Princess Moparra's next show? By the end credits, will it make any more sense?
THE THREE STOOGES MEET SATAN
(Three Stooges meet... well... Satan)
Yes it's those three madcap nutty goofball slap-happy... guys, who get a job as wallpaper hangers, and paste-n'-press their wacky way right down to the Underworld, where they must elude capture by the Big Red Horned One and his pitchfork wielding minions. Adolf Hitler, Josef Stalin and Phil Donohue make hilarious cameos! (Yes, I realize the Stooges have been dead for about 30 years, but they can do wonders now with computer graphics, and I hear production orgs like NBC Features and Turner Instant Classics have now acquired the rights to film on location in Hell. Start developin'!)
CREAMED!
(James Bond meets Mary Kay)
Joe Revlonné is the "Cool Hand Luke" of the feminine hygiene industry. His products sell, and his "nose for the business" has served him well. He can sniff out the difference between a 'fresh-n'-fuzzy' and a 'soggy clambake' from across a retail cosmetics convention floor! At just such an event he meets his match in Asian synthetic beauty queen, Chi-Ki, CEO of Dragonflayer Cosmetics, and creator of their #1 selling fem-hy sensation, "Sprunt." But there's something fishy about Sprunt, that leads Joe to suspect a world-domination scheme in the making. Can he get up his unique talent in time to screw Chi-Ki's plot?
METER SQUAD
(Inglorious Basterds meets the 10-minute zone)
Washington DC Ticket Officer Bill "Chalk-demon" Taggart is sick as hell of cars parked over the time limit! Spurred on by retired politician Arnold Shwartzamutha's HUM-V parked 20 minutes past the red-flag on the meter, he snaps. Before he can "chalk the town red," he is recruited by elite Pentagon parking specialist Perry Lell, who urges Taggart to let out his frustrations upon America's enemies abroad rather than moronic line-straddlers at home... Now an ultra-secret team of meter police have banded together under Taggart's command. They accept a covert government mission to chalk up the tires of overseas terrorists and anti-American war factions... they're Meter Squad.
NOTHING IMPORTANT
(Boring meets Pointless)
David "Jack" Smithers gets some bills paid, washes his car, and does laundry. He rewards himself with a snowcone. This angers Wanda, his shrewish nextdoor neighbor who decides, for reasons known only to herself, to make an example of Jack to the neighborhood. She hires her brother to knock on Jack's door and club him with a waterpolo mallet, as she watches from behind taut drapes. Wanda's brother knocks, and goes inside with Jack. He and Jack watch the game and have a couple of beers. Wanda's brother returns without harming Jack. When confronted by Wanda as to why he refused her orders, the brother says he forgot. Wanda hires the town drunk to lay in wait for her brother, at a nearby bar, and club him with a length of PCV pipe. That doesn't happen either. Wanda will have her revenge!! (Can't you just picture Clooney as Jack?)
FLIGHT OF THE FLYING FLIER
(Horse Ass meets Propeller)
Jockey Bert Jertson sends his ailing horse "Flying Flier" to the glue factory after losing ten races in a row, and decides to take up piloting – naming his plane "Flying Flier" in homage to his dead trotter. Drama erupts when Bert accepts a race from New York to Paris against fellow airman Charles Lindbergh.
THE GALAXY'S GOT TALENT
(American Idol meets Independence Day)
Leeza Chimps, a young pop vocalist wanna-be, and her newbie agent Trix, find themselves beamed to the planet Velcro, to represent Earth in a galaxywide talent contest! The stakes are high; Leeza must win the competition or our world faces total destruction! Leeza surprises the interstellar panel of judges by besting every alien act thrown at her – from Crab Nebulan quick-costume change artists to a Jupiterian insect twelve-million-legged clogdance ensemble. Along the way, Leeza gets the milky way rockin' with soft-pop and faux-blues hit after hit, earning her megastar status back on Earth, as the entire human race watches on intergalactic HD TV. Leeza makes it to the final, but comes in second to a glob-like Andromedan magician who can squat and produce small brown clones of himself. As fiery death-rays ravage the Earth, leaving it a burnt-out lifeless cinder, Leeza counts it as a coming-of-age experience and moves on to a hopeful tomorrow.
BLARNEY STONED
(Up In Smoke meets My Left Foot)
Irish poet Fagin McFlaherty spends his days blissfully indulging in his two favorite passtimes, rhyme and weed, until one day he falls in love with Haarga, a raven-haired beerhall waitress with only one handicap – she is a deaf-mute armless, legless human stump, who navigates between tables upon a small wheeled platform, propelled along by her own flatulence. He devotes his life and art to her, but soon discovers that the market for stoner poetry – particularly about voiceless human logs who can fart at will – is too small to make a living from. He takes a job in the town coal yard to support them, laboring on his fanciful words only by night. Successes are few but Haarga believes in him, earning extra money working at a circus sideshow and raking in a small fortune, which she secrets away, in the hope of surprising Fagin by getting an operation to have new arms and legs – of styrofoam – duct-taped onto herself, for their blessed honeymoon night to come. Fagin finds the money and uses it to travel to Scandinavia, to the annual pothead poetry jam and competition – which he wins handily with his poems of Haarga. But when he returns, he finally learns of her styrofoam dream of love that he has unknowingly thwarted. Haarga forgives him, and they marry. Years later at an award banquet in Fagin's honor, Haarga pays tribute to him by farting out a soulful rendition of Ireland's National Anthem.
SLAMMIN' DOWN TO BRISBANE
(Blame It On Rio meets Bumfights)
Myrtle and Sam "Spammy" Wilkerson click an internet pop-up and win a second-honeymoon trip to that dazzling vacation capital, Brisbane, California. They pack up the Dodge Valiant and are on their way down 101 when they pick up wayward hitch-hiker Bobby Boo, once famous radio crooner and Hollywood royalty of yesteryear. Hilarious adventures ensue when Bobby mistakes an eastside hoorhouse for the 3-star hotel where he was once a fixture in the heyday of the great Tinseltown musicals.
JUNIOR ASSKICKERS 2004!
(Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon meets Our Gang)
(This synopsis was written in 2003, when the title would carry a bit more relevance, but it can easily be changed to something up-to-date.) The plot: Angry at being flunked out of DeVrie Summer College and thus denied his electronic associate's degree, scientist hero Jameson Goldenrod suspects foul play afoot among the institution's adminstratti. He injects ten preschoolers with super-hyperdyne steroids, then teaches them kung fu, aided by his own Yoda-like mentor Hibachi Sokomotamoto-Tannenbaum (I wrote the part for Alan Arkin, but any competent character actor with good dialect presence should work). Can the Junior Asskickers get to the heart of a corrupt Junior College and deliver swift, bonecrunching, action-packed justice? Or will campus security shut them down with a few tazers, and by playing the Macarena over the school's sound system?
STAR BANGERS!
(Star Wars meets The Food Network)
No, not a tale of celebrity groupies, but of a platoon of intergalactic bounty-hunters, on the trail of half-lobster/half-super android, Krorgon! Aided by his army of Space Bears, Krorgon is secretly a hero of the galactic gourmet underground, whose mission is to free the planet X-98-D from the culinary tyranny of the tantalizing ten-breasted Princess Moparra, seductress of heroes, enslaver of billions, and host of her own mid-morning cookery show "Brunchtime Brainwash." Her ultimate recipe for Uranus Sausage holds the entire planet in bondage, addicted to the savory tubular delicacy. But with his mission top-secret, and led by the guidance of the cloned bodiless head of Julia Child, can Krorgon succeed while being hounded by both the Federation AND the interstellar bounty-hunters? Will Krorgan and his troops become Uranus Sausage on Princess Moparra's next show? By the end credits, will it make any more sense?
THE THREE STOOGES MEET SATAN
(Three Stooges meet... well... Satan)
Yes it's those three madcap nutty goofball slap-happy... guys, who get a job as wallpaper hangers, and paste-n'-press their wacky way right down to the Underworld, where they must elude capture by the Big Red Horned One and his pitchfork wielding minions. Adolf Hitler, Josef Stalin and Phil Donohue make hilarious cameos! (Yes, I realize the Stooges have been dead for about 30 years, but they can do wonders now with computer graphics, and I hear production orgs like NBC Features and Turner Instant Classics have now acquired the rights to film on location in Hell. Start developin'!)
CREAMED!
(James Bond meets Mary Kay)
Joe Revlonné is the "Cool Hand Luke" of the feminine hygiene industry. His products sell, and his "nose for the business" has served him well. He can sniff out the difference between a 'fresh-n'-fuzzy' and a 'soggy clambake' from across a retail cosmetics convention floor! At just such an event he meets his match in Asian synthetic beauty queen, Chi-Ki, CEO of Dragonflayer Cosmetics, and creator of their #1 selling fem-hy sensation, "Sprunt." But there's something fishy about Sprunt, that leads Joe to suspect a world-domination scheme in the making. Can he get up his unique talent in time to screw Chi-Ki's plot?
METER SQUAD
(Inglorious Basterds meets the 10-minute zone)
Washington DC Ticket Officer Bill "Chalk-demon" Taggart is sick as hell of cars parked over the time limit! Spurred on by retired politician Arnold Shwartzamutha's HUM-V parked 20 minutes past the red-flag on the meter, he snaps. Before he can "chalk the town red," he is recruited by elite Pentagon parking specialist Perry Lell, who urges Taggart to let out his frustrations upon America's enemies abroad rather than moronic line-straddlers at home... Now an ultra-secret team of meter police have banded together under Taggart's command. They accept a covert government mission to chalk up the tires of overseas terrorists and anti-American war factions... they're Meter Squad.
NOTHING IMPORTANT
(Boring meets Pointless)
David "Jack" Smithers gets some bills paid, washes his car, and does laundry. He rewards himself with a snowcone. This angers Wanda, his shrewish nextdoor neighbor who decides, for reasons known only to herself, to make an example of Jack to the neighborhood. She hires her brother to knock on Jack's door and club him with a waterpolo mallet, as she watches from behind taut drapes. Wanda's brother knocks, and goes inside with Jack. He and Jack watch the game and have a couple of beers. Wanda's brother returns without harming Jack. When confronted by Wanda as to why he refused her orders, the brother says he forgot. Wanda hires the town drunk to lay in wait for her brother, at a nearby bar, and club him with a length of PCV pipe. That doesn't happen either. Wanda will have her revenge!! (Can't you just picture Clooney as Jack?)
FLIGHT OF THE FLYING FLIER
(Horse Ass meets Propeller)
Jockey Bert Jertson sends his ailing horse "Flying Flier" to the glue factory after losing ten races in a row, and decides to take up piloting – naming his plane "Flying Flier" in homage to his dead trotter. Drama erupts when Bert accepts a race from New York to Paris against fellow airman Charles Lindbergh.
THE GALAXY'S GOT TALENT
(American Idol meets Independence Day)
Leeza Chimps, a young pop vocalist wanna-be, and her newbie agent Trix, find themselves beamed to the planet Velcro, to represent Earth in a galaxywide talent contest! The stakes are high; Leeza must win the competition or our world faces total destruction! Leeza surprises the interstellar panel of judges by besting every alien act thrown at her – from Crab Nebulan quick-costume change artists to a Jupiterian insect twelve-million-legged clogdance ensemble. Along the way, Leeza gets the milky way rockin' with soft-pop and faux-blues hit after hit, earning her megastar status back on Earth, as the entire human race watches on intergalactic HD TV. Leeza makes it to the final, but comes in second to a glob-like Andromedan magician who can squat and produce small brown clones of himself. As fiery death-rays ravage the Earth, leaving it a burnt-out lifeless cinder, Leeza counts it as a coming-of-age experience and moves on to a hopeful tomorrow.
BLARNEY STONED
(Up In Smoke meets My Left Foot)
Irish poet Fagin McFlaherty spends his days blissfully indulging in his two favorite passtimes, rhyme and weed, until one day he falls in love with Haarga, a raven-haired beerhall waitress with only one handicap – she is a deaf-mute armless, legless human stump, who navigates between tables upon a small wheeled platform, propelled along by her own flatulence. He devotes his life and art to her, but soon discovers that the market for stoner poetry – particularly about voiceless human logs who can fart at will – is too small to make a living from. He takes a job in the town coal yard to support them, laboring on his fanciful words only by night. Successes are few but Haarga believes in him, earning extra money working at a circus sideshow and raking in a small fortune, which she secrets away, in the hope of surprising Fagin by getting an operation to have new arms and legs – of styrofoam – duct-taped onto herself, for their blessed honeymoon night to come. Fagin finds the money and uses it to travel to Scandinavia, to the annual pothead poetry jam and competition – which he wins handily with his poems of Haarga. But when he returns, he finally learns of her styrofoam dream of love that he has unknowingly thwarted. Haarga forgives him, and they marry. Years later at an award banquet in Fagin's honor, Haarga pays tribute to him by farting out a soulful rendition of Ireland's National Anthem.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Upon A New Year's Randomly...
The really amazing thing regarding Tiger Woods, is that he secretly led the life of a porn star for 15 years while being one of the most WATCHED INDIVIDUALS ON THE PLANET.
A guy in front of me at the checkout line puts down a litre bottle of soda, a small bag of chips, and a jar of ranch dressing dip, large enough for the whole bag of chips to swim in. He then asks the clerk to add a pack of cigs to his order. She obliges, asking "and how are you today?" He grins and answers "lunchtime." I get a sudden urge to projectile vomit, just on principle.
I had to drive downtown on an errand. The level of foolhardiness to sheer insanity on the part of other motorists and pedestrians made me tremble at the wheel. Just three days prior, it had been Christmas – in less than 48 hours how quickly we can shift gears back down to viewing each other as annoying carrion.
I witnessed someone who knows "the secret." A little over five feet tall, unwashed t-shirt with heavy metal rockband logo, lots of bling, a dirty baseball cap, a cigarette and three days growth on his chin... at the wheel of a new, gold HUM-V, making an entire string of other cars wait while he struggled through a U-turn, and then painfully parallel park in reverse, between two much, much smaller vehicles – actually wedging them in. He then got out to dude-strut into the coffee shop. I kept thinking... this guy qualified for a $150,000 loan. What am I doing wrong? Is everybody in the state dealing drugs except me?
This month's post is a bit depressing so far, you think?
It has always struck me strangely, how people who screw over others always claim to believe in karma.
OVERHEARD ON A TRIP TO THE SUPERMARKET...
Not all in one night, but close enough:
Someone across the parking lot – "Chips!! Two dollah-fawty cent!! Mawda-Fawk!!"
Over the in-store speaker – "Dina to the likker 'partment... Dina to the likker 'partment."
A very well groomed young aisle attendant briefly gets his wires crossed – "May I assist your ass this evening?"
Guy with long hair and a waaaay-big mutton-chop mustache sees the beer aisle (for the very first time ever?) – "Ooooooooooh, check THIS out."
Yes, my mind is like a camcorder, and I tend to have too much fun with it.
A guy in front of me at the checkout line puts down a litre bottle of soda, a small bag of chips, and a jar of ranch dressing dip, large enough for the whole bag of chips to swim in. He then asks the clerk to add a pack of cigs to his order. She obliges, asking "and how are you today?" He grins and answers "lunchtime." I get a sudden urge to projectile vomit, just on principle.
I had to drive downtown on an errand. The level of foolhardiness to sheer insanity on the part of other motorists and pedestrians made me tremble at the wheel. Just three days prior, it had been Christmas – in less than 48 hours how quickly we can shift gears back down to viewing each other as annoying carrion.
I witnessed someone who knows "the secret." A little over five feet tall, unwashed t-shirt with heavy metal rockband logo, lots of bling, a dirty baseball cap, a cigarette and three days growth on his chin... at the wheel of a new, gold HUM-V, making an entire string of other cars wait while he struggled through a U-turn, and then painfully parallel park in reverse, between two much, much smaller vehicles – actually wedging them in. He then got out to dude-strut into the coffee shop. I kept thinking... this guy qualified for a $150,000 loan. What am I doing wrong? Is everybody in the state dealing drugs except me?
This month's post is a bit depressing so far, you think?
It has always struck me strangely, how people who screw over others always claim to believe in karma.
OVERHEARD ON A TRIP TO THE SUPERMARKET...
Not all in one night, but close enough:
Someone across the parking lot – "Chips!! Two dollah-fawty cent!! Mawda-Fawk!!"
Over the in-store speaker – "Dina to the likker 'partment... Dina to the likker 'partment."
A very well groomed young aisle attendant briefly gets his wires crossed – "May I assist your ass this evening?"
Guy with long hair and a waaaay-big mutton-chop mustache sees the beer aisle (for the very first time ever?) – "Ooooooooooh, check THIS out."
Yes, my mind is like a camcorder, and I tend to have too much fun with it.
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