Those Moments

Years ago, I was sitting in a laundromat, in Merced – a central California town which should have its slogan changed from "The Gateway To Yosmite" to "the Gateway to Obscurity" – when one of its citizens-celebré came in and sat down beside me. Does she have a name? Probably, but I doubt that knowing it would lend anything to the story. I'll bet you do know her, though, or more accurately, someone just like her.

The Wandering Hag.

Self-distracted. Exact same outfit every day. Occupying a unique little bubble of private reality, muttering in the unknowable language of her people from a far-off planet – but by-gawd, she knows every human curse word, and suddenly ceases muttering to speak with Toastmasters-level clarity when she needs to utter a few choice combinations.

Guhmu-to-dapuh-mummun-widduh-humma-hummuh-FUCK YOU WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT MOTHER FUCKER GO FUCK YOURSELF!

Merced's Wandering Hag also had a small fuzzy blond dog who was her constant companion. Constant to the point that the little guy probably wanted to run away to the Pound. She pulled him along as she staggered up and down the boulevard – his tiny raw, tattered-mitten paws pushing in protest along the rough cement. His personal level of doggy Hell. Completely silent, no doubt because his doggy brain had learned that yipping and whining meant nothing to his white-haired, sully-skirted tormentor.

Mercifully, they are both probably dead by now.

Anyway, with great apparent purpose, upon entering the laundromat, she spotted me, and made a bee-line for the chair next to mine. She sat. I ignored her, pretending not to care about danger.

She saw through the pretense. She grinned. I held my poker face as long as I possibly could, then finally, fightingly, glanced over.

She revealed her ultimate secret to me.

"I know where the papers are. They're buried."

"Oh," I said? Then I geared into a mode that I have become aware that I do occasionally, much to my regret later on. I humored her – pretended that I knew exactly what she was talking about. It's an odd defense mechanism of mine, that has actually pulled me out of the crosshairs of a bad situation a few times, but most times, like this one, has just made it worse.

"That's pretty smart," I said, "if they get their hands on those, everybody is screwed."

"I know," she said. "You think I'm stupid?"

"Of course not. You knew to hide the papers, and that took brains."

"Bet your ass it did. Now stop fuckin' bothering me about it, alright?"

"Okay," I said, "sorry."

She huffed out, royally ticked that her daily routine had been disrupted.

I waited in silence for the dryer to finish.

New Year's Randomness

Watch out for pedestrians. They aren't as smart as they used to be.

She'll sleep with anyone. I'm not just anyone.

For some reason, I'm not nearly as annoyed at my neighbors for playing loud music, when it's Elvis. Why is that?

Whenever I ponder just what amount of talent and charisma is minimally necessary to earn a living in show business, I eventually think of Pat Sajak... and realize it's NONE.

The one thing that aging has definitely taught me, is to appreciate, as I depreciate.

Someone has to say it: Menudo Doritos is JUST GOING TOO FAR.

I've got an itchin' for a bitchin'! (I have no clue what it means, but it sounds great!)

A flash of tit can turn even the crappiest day around.

A thought, as we enter 2009:
If I could convince you to shut down your Internet connection... put down the remote... leave your iPod at home... never mind that your phone can do all that incredible stuff, and turn it off... take the earphones out... put the Blackberry in your coat pocket... all for just one hour? And avoid even referring to those items in conversation? Now answer this – who are you?

I Convened With Intell #1

OBAMA PICKS PANETTA FOR CIA

WASHINGTON (AP) — Two Democratic officials say President-elect Barack Obama has chosen former Clinton White House chief of staff Leon Panetta to run the CIA. Panetta was a surprise pick for the post, with no experience in the intelligence world. An Obama transition official and another Democrat disclosed his nomination on a condition of anonymity since it was not yet public. Panetta was director of the Office of Management and Budget and a longtime congressman from California. He served on the Iraq Study Group, a bipartisan panel that released a report at the end of 2006 with dozens of recommendations for the reversing course in the Iraq war. Panetta currently directs with his wife Sylvia the Leon & Sylvia Panetta Institute for Public Policy, based at CSU-Monterey Bay.

Now it isn't every day that one brushes shoulders with someone in a position of mysterious power and potentially nebulous influence over the lives of every American. But in light of Mr. Panetta's most recent career advancement, a'la President-elect Obama, I'm compelled to place a record of this encounter down for digital posterity.

I had just returned to Monterey, after a time of dire poverty up north, Seattle way. Needless to say I was in just as dire a state of poverty in Monterey, but finally had some work lined up, and needed to make some phone calls. I was too broke to even keep a cellphone, so I was routinely surrendering all my loose change to Pac Bell.

I was on Alvarado Street, downtown Monterey, in Ordway Pharmacy. I needed change to use the payphone outside. Since I also needed a number of sundries sold at the pharmacy anyway, I decided to get my change via a purchase. Along the way to the check-out, I also snagged myself a Tootsie Pop. Red. No, the flavor doesn't matter – but the Tootsie Pop is essential to the story.

As I got to the counter, there was one person ahead of me... it was Leon Panetta.

He was getting a prescription filled – and yes, like Gelson's Market in L.A., if you want to see celebrities doing mundane just-like-you-and-me daily tasks, Ordway Pharmacy is one of the places you might want to hang out when on the Monterey Peninsula – just don't let your loitering become too obvious. Bruno's Market in Carmel is great too – Jenn Aniston buying coldcuts... Clint in for a case of Hogsbreath Ale... that kind of stuff. Just remember they are not there to sign autographs – it's their downtime.

Anyway, so I'm standing behind Leon Panetta, holding a tube of toothpaste, a roll of Tums, a Chapstick, a small bottle of Bayer Aspirin and a red Tootsie Pop.

Mr, Panetta completes his transaction, and lingers just a moment to sort out the contents of his shopping bag. I place my stuff on the counter. The clerk asks, as all such clerks are born to do: "Will this be all?"

I don't know why, but my mischievous side bounds forth. "No, I'd like a dollar of my change in quarters, please... and Mr. Panetta's thoughts on achieving world peace in our lifetime, and possibly my lollypop free of charge."

Oh, was I flippin' ASKING FOR IT.

I recall it vividly. Without missing a beat, Mr. Panetta turns, and calmly offers, "Complete peace, globally, will take a great deal of time, patience, and a concerted effort by all the world's leaders. As for the lollypop... you're ON YOUR OWN."

With a trace of a grin on his lips, he casually walks out, his bag neatly folded closed.

Me. And the future head of Central Intelligence. The Tootsie Pop conference. It happened.

Yuletide Randomness

You saw mommy kissing Santa Claus? Kind of makes the milk and cookies you left seem naively passé, doesn't it?

I'm dreaming of a chromatically challenged Christmas.

Blonds don't really have more fun, they just forget their misery quicker.

A life lesson from McDonalds: You get your toy only after all your nuggets are gone.

Yo-yos were invented by the ancient Chinese, and originally meant to be weapons. With this in mind, I'd love to see Tommy Smothers just frickin' lose it one day and nail some smartass 14 year-old with a Duncan Butterfly, a big bright red one.

Sure, shop local this holiday to support your town's economy, even though you plan to return everything on the 26th.

With fuel costs what they are now, some parents are encouraging their kids to misbehave – a lump of coal is a lump of coal!

I've been given half a peace sign by several motorists this holiday season, so at least people are trying. Huh? What am I missing??

Novembre Randomnois

If you haven't been to the bathroom since yesterday, you're full of shit.

Don't wait for spontaneity, be impulsive!

I fantasized about sex with Penelope Cruz... until I met her. I also used to think that the Dan Aykroyd skit in which he plays Julia Child, and accidentally opens a vein with a paring knife, was hilarious... until I actually met Julia Child. Then I thought the skit was just mean.

I don't want to be in charge, but I will defy anyone who assumes they are.

I enjoy seeing two women I've fantasized about standing in a hallway together talking. I'll leave it at that.

The ultimate answer to any question: "It's because people are idiots."

Paula Abdul is the new spin on Dino; the celebrity drunk... only Dino was pretending.

Half of life is trying to keep it from falling apart.

I've alternated between the same two pair of socks for the past week... and so far I'm okay.

How can a movie's dialogue be clever when nobody in real life talks that way?

Hammer as loud as you need to, but get whatever it is you're building built already!

All Worded Up

I can read readin' and I can read writin' but I can't read writin' that's written rather rotten.
– Burt Sugar

I had a cousin who was an avid science fiction buff, back in that mythical time before George Lucas gifted us with the "Star Wars" culture, and true sci-fi addicts found their main fix not at the movies, but in the nebulous universe of trade paperbacks.

His pulp library covered a whole wall in his home – a fortress barricade of those 4"x6" tomes – Asimov and Clarke and Pohl, and hundreds of lesser-known authors of that past era. You find them now in used book stores. Open one and glide your fingers across the coarse, woody surface of those yellowing pages, turning to dust in the 21st century sunlight. Their time will not pass again.

The feeling from that wall of dog-earred volumes, was that a considerable chunk of someone's life had been spent reading. That Richard Matheson wasn't just pecking away on that soon-obsolete typewriter just to see his own words in a stylish font – much like thousands of bloggers (guilty as charged) do in this cyber-age of ours.

When I stroll through Borders – the French brothel of major bookstore chains – the paperbacks just don't give me any "feeling." The air I find in modern booksellers, is that the product gives off a foreboding pheromone.

When I browse through a book anymore, I sense that writers don't write for readers – they write to placate themselves, to secure some kind of symbolic ownership of a topic – to establish a documented expertise, that they can claim later on for a speaking fee.

Yeah, maybe I'd do it too, but not always.

A time ago I was approached by an aspiring author, to create illustrations for his still unpublished book. His idea was that my illustrations would help the book "turn the corner" in the hunt for a publishing deal. I wondered, and I think I actually asked him politely, that if the text was lacking, how would drawings based on those inadequate words improve them?

The more I over-analyzed it, the more it seemed like a whirling dervish of negativity. The guy was basically, indirectly, admitting his work is substandard, in the assumtion that the readers to whom he intends to peddle his underbaked drivel are gullible simps who'll never question its alleged integrity – if it's illustrated. He's hoping they'll see the pretty pictures, and think they've actually read something. In short, he didn't write a book to be read – he wrote a book to be bought.

He wasn't after a reputation as an author, good or bad. He wanted his fifteen minutes of fame on the talkshow circuit. And of course, lots and lots of money – enough to keep him from having to get a real job, until his next bigass idea for another ripoff.

Must be nice work if you can get it.

Unfortunately today's bookstores are ripe with these "authors" who aren't necessarily sating any cosmic urge to write and be read, but who've wrangled a book deal in a quest to finance a third home and a bigger SUV.

And in that bald pursuit of wealth, they're perfectly willing to undermine your perceptions (much like certain politicians I could name), and even empty the pockets of certain readers with disturbed, under-researched content. "The Secret," anyone?

As for the fans of this pabulum, the same people who gobble up these lukewarm distillations would probably be outraged if they discovered their cigs and lattés were somehow as deluded. "The Shack" ought to have a half-moon carved in the door – what you'll find inside amounts to as much.

Maybe it's always been that way, and I am vainly clutching the naiveté of my youth out of spite.

Sure, I think Writers have the right to make a living from their words, if their words are worthy of that reward.

But like the legal definition of abuse, judgment hinges on effect, not intent. That's why a hardbound book called "Bad Things" with only 50 pages, and a single incomplete sentence – in large type – per page (#5. Head lice.), can ask a $20 cover price, and make a million dollars for some non-writer.

The talent is in coddling network connections, rather than words on a page. I often refer to these books as "the big junkpile."

Also appropriate is my word, "copromage." The worship of shit.

That same author who wanted his book illustrated, posed a little question to me, to shore up his intellectual veneer: "You know the difference between a writer and an author," he asked?

A Writer writes for someone else who selects the topic and takes the credit – an Author works for himself, and writes about topics of his own choosing. Okay...

I had a comeback for him: A writer gets paid, usually because he's proven he writes well – while anyone with a pen or a keyboard can call themselves an author, whether they make a dime or not. (And "blogging" didn't even exist yet. O, what an asshole was I!)

That didn't improve my chances of getting hired by this guy, but by the time he began power-quoting himself, my mind was made up that I didn't want his partnership anyway. I went on being an arrogant prick with empty pockets. He probably got a book deal somewhere, and bought a Lexus. I don't remember his name anymore.

But it isn't only books and writers that have changed. Readers have changed too. I marvel at the new age of endless digital text, and those who sit in coffeeshops and stare at column-less waves of words on computer screens. It's a trancelike intensity that I admit I just don't get. I wonder how their inner circuitry processes all that data – if indeed they are "processing" anything. Gen-Wikipedia has added wider access and a deeper saturation point to our information age, but not necessarily improved accuracy.

And books themselves have strayed away from readability, in favor of attractive packaging and faux-prestige.

When I was in school, nearly everything eventually went to paperback – usually had 100+ pages, that cost 50¢ or 75¢... $1.50 by my senior year. Even a nerdy kid like me could acquire a personal library. Mine was never a fortress wall, but rather a box in the closet. And a paperback meant that you could read it in bed without it breaking your nose if you dozed off.

Even comic books operated on a higher literary plane during my kidhood. At least I recall it that way. My mother's constant reprimands against ruining my mind with "that garbage," was countered by my grandmother's tempered, "at least he's reading!"

Green Lantern may have been a poorly developed fantasy character with an overly dramatic costume and laughable motivation, but he spoke in complete sentences.

You could learn to read with comics, back in the day. It was natural to graduate from comics to more substantial reading, like novels – because it eventually dawned on us that comics were using up space with pictures, that could just as easily be occupied by MORE story! I say this, even though that very same artwork inspired my own desire to draw and illustrate – as much as the "all-word" books I graduated to gave me the desire to write.

Today's comics are previews for a video game – or toy – or movie – or, you name it. They don't inspire, they sell. "Tie-ins" the industry calls them.

They have adopted the "manga" philosophy, which I interpret as feeding the eyes candy, while letting the brain starve. The style favors simplified yet preponderant illustrations, and as few words as possible. Some are barely strings of spelled-out grunts.

This is basically a high-tech retreat to the age of cave drawings. And usually these books feature characters who have no basis in reality, other than having two arms and two legs – most times.

What a potent poison for a young mind in the formative stages. To matter in life, one must possess:
1. The visual appeal of the limpid-eyed nymph who lip-synced the opening song at the Beijing Olympics.
2. A martial-arts prowess somewhere at or above a Bruce Lee.
3. A badass wardrobe and a punk mane that holds it shape even in battle.
4. Futuristic toylike-but-lethal weaponry.
5. Most importantly, an indwelling mystical demon (don't leave the house without one) that grants you diety-like powers, in case items 1 thru 4 aren't enough to insure you a nice day.

Aren't there counseling groups for kids battling these very dysfunctional, narcissistic conceptions of reality? I mean the reality that kicks in, ready or not, when you wake up – not the reality that depends on a game control and a wild thumb technique.

Yeah, I read my share of Superman, Batman, Spiderman, Mad, Cracked, Creepy, et al., but just one ugly leap off the top of a playground slide, with a sheet around my neck, was enough to clue me in that the Man of Steel was just entertainment. The Fantastic Four never sent me into epileptic seizures.

Oh yeah, when I was a kid, comic books were 12¢ or 15¢. Ones with 100 pages, reprinting issues I may have missed, were a whopping 50¢.

Today in most bookstores, I need a $20 bill for a 70-page shelf-hog that will never be in paperback, can be read in 10 minutes thanks to 24-point size text, and claims to be the answer to life, the universe and everything. And I know it must be good because so many movers and shakers have endorsed it – 20 of those 70 pages are taken up by excerpts of their glowing reviews. This is reading?

No, it's bookselling, and that's... the secret.

Oktobre Randomfest

The first thing that comes to mind is its lack of content.

I wish I had a good idea for every spare pen I have laying around.

Anyone who quotes lines from "Star Trek" in a serious conversation, isn't worth spending much time talking to.

Few things are more pathetic than a group of activists who can't even find the people that they are supposedly protesting against.

I want to see an action figure called "Captain Apathy."

The Pony Express failed because it took a whole week to wait for mail, and then you couldn't buy stamps from a horse.

How to prevent being abducted by aliens: Just before you drift to sleep, concentrate on a mental picture of Jesus eating raw hamburger. The aliens will be too frightened to read your mind any further, and leave you alone.

Why do drunks always get home exactly as I get to bed?

Order another beer, idiot, she isn't pissed enough!

I wish I could decide what to throw out, and what to put away and never use again.

What do you call the fear of not knowing what something is called?