Virtual Confetti

I love bookstores.  Usually you think of them as being stuffy and library-like, staffed with spineless, stuffy librarians.  But if you read between the lines, they are loaded with comedy.

Let’s start with this iced mocha thing  from the café… it’s a joke in itself with all the uncrushed ice blocking my straw.  Apparently, ordering it “Light” means they cut the fat, sugar, and electricity to the blender.  But that’s ok — bookstores are usually located in the hot open sun where I may need to keep my drink cold for several hours.

Even the mere placement of books can inspire a giggle, such as with the Sex & Sexuality section conveniently located next to the Addictions & Recovery section.  You’ll find these humorous pairings throughout the store:  Games & Humor next to Relationships, True Crime next to Politics, Religion next to Alternative Lifestyle, etc.  Such interesting pairings are not exclusive to the normal aisles, mind you. Even in the ad-hoc bargain section, some clever employee found it entertaining to stack Chronology of the Holocaust next to a biography on Himler.  Yes, even the bland, innocent bookstores cannot escape dark, sick humor.  Of course the best joke in there is that some author thought a biography on Himler would become a best seller.

Perhaps I should write my own book:  Making Books and Bookstores Fun! Now that’s a novel idea.

It started out as a staple of carbs. Simple, bland, but capable of sustaining life.  Early curmudgeons probably ate them raw like apples.  Eventually hominids learned to cook them, even season them.  And how warm and “mashable” they became!  Throughout it all, however, the potato has pretty much remained what we call a “side” to a main course.  It complements a meat and appears in menus alongside baked beans, broccoli, corn on the cob, and the like.  It’s the filler that keeps us from overindulging, and it keeps meals affordable. How… sensible.  Overlooked and unappreciated, poor potato has always been, at most, a sidekick.  And that’s even IF it is chosen over another side selection.

It was therefore inevitable that the potato would someday avenge itself.  Enter the stuffed potato.

The stuffed potato elevates this common starch into a main course.  In fact, I ordered one tonight to relieve me of guilt.   It was impregnated with chicken, which until recently was its own main course.  And as if to laugh in the face of tradition, it was stuffed with broccoli — a side dish in its own right.  Poor broccoli, doused in alfredo sauce and melted cheese to the point that it is no longer recognizable.  Should the meal be too cold, too hot, too saucy, too salty, too flatulent… it can all be blamed on broccoli, the fall guy.

Something magical happens when a potato is stuffed.  The skin, basted in alfredo sauce, becomes part of the meal rather than just protective shoe leather.  Its “eyes,” which were once considered defects, are now sequins of light, sparkling on the plate.  It has graduated from sensible to sensational!

It will happen soon, this author predicts, that other side dishes shall rise to glory. Perhaps out of eons of oppression or simply out of jealousy.  Stuffed zucchini?  You laugh, but it wouldn’t surprise me if that zucchini has been slit open and stuffed with mashed potatoes.

I spend a lot of time on freeways.  As such, that means I spend a lot of time parked on asphalt behind other people who are parked on freeways.

“How’s my driving?”

I see these bumper stickers all the time, but I question their effectiveness.  Actually, I question their purpose.  “How’s my driving? Call 1-800-WE’LL-LAFF-AT-U.”  According to the legend, responsible companies with fleet vehicles register themselves with third-party organizations that report employee driving habits to ensure that they are driving safely and courteously.  In theory, a rogue employee who drives his 18-wheeler recklessly through town would get a call from his boss.  “Brutus, I know you’re attending your anger management classes regularly, but someone reported to FleetFellows that you were driving your cement truck at over 200 miles an hour through an orphanage.  That’s just not allowed.  You know, policy and all.  Sorry, but you’re fired.”  And the world instantly becomes a better place.  The goal is to threaten employees to drive safely, otherwise “big brother” will hunt them down.

But seriously, does anyone call and say, “I wanted to let you know that this driver is not only safe, but courteous. And her smiling white teeth are a friendly reminder to improve my oral hygiene?”  Probably not.  They’re just toll-free gripe lines.  And if you think about it, griping to a third-party company calms you down and diffuses the situation so that you don’t contact some kind of transportation authority and file a complaint.  Clever marketing.

I did see another rather clever use of the program.  A truck had the nominal “How’s my driving?” bumper sticker on the back.  Passing it, I noticed that the same number was listed as the company’s number on the side of the truck!

*ring ring*

Me:  I just wanted to let you know your driver is a real jerk!!

Them: Oh, I’m so sorry.  But since you called, have you considered the value of having your old rusty pipes replaced by shiny new copper ones?

Clever marketing, revisited.

I’ve decided that there’s an association between creepy guys and limps. I’m not quite prepared to say that a majority of creepy guys do limp, and likewise I can’t say that guys who limp are usually creepy.  However, if you see a creepy guy, and he happens to limp, there’s something about that combination that tells you, “Yeah, I can understand that.”  In a sense, it’s almost comforting.  And that’s why creepy limping guys are more dangerous than you thought.  However, the danger can be mitigated if we all learn to avoid being victims.

The best defense against a creepy limping guy — let’s call him “Crimpy” for short — is the limp itself.  It is his Achilles Heel.  Crimpy is much easier to outrun than, let’s say, a hunchback or guy with an eye patch. (And rarely do you see a hunchback with an eye patch, as his stooped nature allows him to avoid most eye injuries.  You’re more likely to see a hunchback with a sunburn on his head, as they are most certainly bald.)  I digress.

Should Crimpy unexpectedly catch up to you, there are still some strategies you can use to protect yourself.  As with a falling-behind limping creepy guy, running is still a good option, even with Crimpy at your heels.  However, if Crimpy has indeed caught up to you, it’s subtly implied that you are unable to run away at a sufficient pace so as to avoid him.  You must therefore take advantage of a different defense:  balance.

Assuming Crimpy has had ample time to adjust to his limp, he will favor his lame appendage and instead use his sturdy leg to maintain balance.  A swift kick from behind this leg will knock him off his feet, allowing you to scurry away at even a snail’s pace, if need be.  Should you be trapped to where you cannot move at all, such as the situation where cement has been allowed sufficient time to cure around your ankles, the “knock down” approach may not be as effective as desired. Even with difficulty, Crimpy is bound to stagger back into a upright position at some point.  You can continue to knock Crimpy down using the same behind-the-leg kick, but he is bound to catch on to your tactic by the sixth or seventh time.  (It should also be mentioned that it is a futile endeavor to try to switch legs on him; since the lame leg tends to wobble and flail anyway, kicking the defective limb will only exacerbate this behavior.  Amusing, perhaps, but ineffective.)  If after several attempts you have not managed to attract the attention of a sympathetic passerby, especially one with a jackhammer, you can safely say that at this point, the creepy guy with the limp is the least of your worries.  Scream, flail, dodge, or duck.

Please keep in mind that not every limper is a creeper, and vice versa.   To pass judgment this way is rather, well, lame.

Ever had to kill time because you were waiting for something? I had to pick up my car from the shop today, driving into the Valley. Rather than sit in rush hour traffic, I thought I’d stop off for dinner first. Not long enough. Starbucks was next door, so I killed an hour there. Still not long enough. So here I am, in a parked car, writing about how I’ve wasted the past two hours.

As a writer, I always carry a pen around, so I’m easily able to scribble whenever I have free time like this. As a disorganized writer, I hadn’t thought of taking my current screenplay with me for editing. I improvise with napkins, making sure to tear off the bottom half-inch that bears the Starbucks copyright statement.

Ahh, the world is my napkin, and I am but a felt pen, bleeding into the papercloth. Rorschach would be proud.

Let me start by saying I despise telemarketers.  So when the opportunity arises to exploit their deficiencies and incompetence, I consider it both an art and a hobby to disrupt their industry as much as a single individual is able.

I have friends who smoke.  Being one who frequents Las Vegas, the smoker’s mecca, I’ve grown accustomed to being around smoke on occasion.  I’ve yet to encounter a rude smoker who deliberately wishes to offend me by smoking; smoke is just a byproduct of a nasty habit.  (Their words, not mine.)  When walking down the street, on occasion, I’ll catch a whiff of smoke from a passerby.  Mildly offensive, but tolerable, and certainly not worth the effort to dwell on the incident.  I’m guilty, on occasion, of emitting my own offensive odors.  It’s just something we all tolerate as living in a diverse society.  Now imagine walking down that street, but there’s a person facing you while walking backwards, blowing billowing smoke from a cigar directly in your face, forcing filth into your lungs.  That would be a telemarketer.

So I receive a call at work; the Caller ID denotes a toll-free number, and anyone calling my workplace from a toll-free number is going to be a telemarketer.  Instead of getting the usual monotone droid on the line, the discussion went something like this:

Me: Hello?
Droid: <long pause>
Me: Hello?
Droid: Uhh… hi.  It’s not coming up.
Me: What?
Droid: My computer is supposed to come up but it crashed.
Me: Who are you?
Droid: It won’t even tell me who I called. I’m not sure–
Me: <now panicking> Oh.  Oh no!
Droid: Can you wait for a sec–
Me: Oh no!!  This is bad.  Really bad. What do I do?
Droid: I’m sorry sir.
Me: Oh no! It’s broken?  What do we do? I don’t know what to do!
Droid: I’ll have to call back.
Me: Help!! Help!! Oh no!
<click>

I actually might have been in the mood to buy something that day, too.

It seems the more time that passes, the harder it is to pick up the pen.  I haven’t written much lately.  Make that a year.  More?  Just as it was nearly impossible for me to look forward to running the mile in gym class, I find the same hesitation to dive into my next work.  I can’t tell you why, as I really do enjoy writing.  I’m convinced I suffered some kind of literary trauma some time ago.  The kind of trauma that has me repressing memories of being beaten by a quill pen or being doused with ink and set on fire.  Or even worse… having to write a thesis paper.  But as they say, practice makes perfect, so here I try once again.

Sometimes I’ll sit in a cafe and write in my journal.  Looking through my notes, I found where I again had to force myself to write.  The topic was on turtles.  I’ve never owned a turtle, and I’ve rarely seen one in person.  But it was the first topic to enter my mind at the time.  (Which in itself was odd, as I had some kind of latte and not the turtle soup.)  So I wrote a boring page about turtles and how I knew little about them.  I then changed things up a bit, writing about how I hated them.  I don’t really hate them, but reading about my lack of familiarity with them is rather dull, so I pretended I hated them.  Oh, those blasted shell-encased losers of the sea world.  Amphibians?  AmphiJERKS!  Yes, for one half hour, I hated turtles like I was a sea rabbit, and they were eating all the good seaweed.  Yes, turtles were responsible for stealing my ideas and writing the most superb screenplay that was ever written!  Indeed, an Oscar will be given to a turtle this year — an Oscar that should have been mine.

On second thought, maybe I did have the turtle soup.

People usually laugh at me when I take my car to the dealer for an oil change instead of the ZippyDip drive-thru.  “You’re wasting your money,” they say. “They rip you off.”  It is apparent that these critics do not drive luxury vehicles, and today’s events allow me to demonstrate my position.  I type this from the cafe inside the dealership, sipping my freshly-ground mocha espresso, accessing my blog using their free wi-fi connection.

When I arrived a couple of hours ago, the power to the complex had just failed.  This was due to L.A. losing some power lines as a result of a large fire that cropped up overnight.  I was offered a free loaner vehicle (luxury model), but instead chose to hang out.  I drive about 50 miles to get to this particular dealership, and I didn’t feel like camping out at a mall.  I bode my time by chatting with others sharing my predicament, nibbling on fresh fruit, and lounging in the extra large comfy chair.  After an hour, I became hungry and started asking where I could grab a quick bite.  I was cautioned not to leave, as they had just ordered several pizzas for us.

The power is back on now, and I wait for my car as I would normally do.  The impact to my schedule was minimal, and I no longer need to find somewhere to stop for lunch.  It looks like college football is showing on one of the three HDTVs, so I will conclude this note by asking my critics if they would receive such treatment as they sit in the oil bay waiting for their oil pans to drain.  Gotta run… warm cookies have arrived!

Merry Christmas everyone!  Yes, I realize it’s only October, but I live on that street.  You know, that one cul-de-sac in the city that goes nuts every Christmas with outdoor lighting displays.  We’re the reason your dining room light flickers briefly at 7pm the day after Thanksgiving, as well as being responsible for the extension cord famine during most of December.  We cause the traffic jams that leave your drive-thru chicken cold on the dinner plate.  And eat that dinner by candlelight when the antenna beam atop the TV News van gets caught up in the light strings stretching across the street, blowing the power circuit for the neighborhood.  Ahh, the smell of pine and molten circuitry.

It’s understandable that some may see us as more of a nuisance than a benefit to society.  For those Scrooges, realize we keep electricity affordable for everyone.  The way I see it, the electric company relies on our air conditioners and pool pumps during the summer.  During the winter… nothing.  Our rates would skyrocket if it weren’t for us pulling extra power to light up our inflatable purple dinosaurs.

I was late getting my lights up last year.  This year, my neighbors are requiring me to submit plans and technical drawings by the end of October.  It’s unspoken, but it appears there’s a committee.  They’ve been picking my brain since June, trying to get a hint as to what I’m planning, but the only thing I tell them is, “Why do you always show up at my door holding baseball bats?”  Mums the word.

There’s a crisp, new ten dollar bill sitting on my kitchen counter. It’s been there for about two months now, and hasn’t found it’s way to my wallet yet. It arrived in the mail accompanying a lengthy survey from some marketing company, wanting to know who I am and what I buy. Generally I’m careful not to give out too much information about myself, so I usually toss these on the “to be shredded” pile and look forward to using it as future fodder for packing Christmas gifts. However, with a new ten dollar bill attached — prominently mounted by paper clip — I felt obligated to give it more consideration. These people were serious.

There are two sides to the notion of sharing personal information. Some feel that they have nothing to hide, so why be protective about what kind of information they give? Just fill out the survey and take the ten dollars as compensation. There are also the black-helicopter “government is out to get us” crowd that won’t even show you the color of their eyes because that information is as deadly as anthrax.

I follow the “value-added incentive” mentality. If I really want something worthwhile, like a free buffet, then I might disclose how many cats I have or how often I visit the shoe store. So when I was presented with this survey that I had absolutely no interest in, I planned on telling them nothing. They included that ten dollar bill for people like me, attempting to pander to my sense of guilt. I didn’t ask for the money; they sent it unsolicited. Should I feel guilty for spending it? Should I mail them the survey?

There are horror stories about how easy it is to steal personal information, despite how businesses swear the information is kept confidential. Recently, eleven hackers were indicted for stealing more than 41 million credit card numbers from various businesses: TJ Maxx, OfficeMax, Barnes & Noble, and others. And those are credit card numbers, not just my shoe size.

Does it matter if someone knows my shoe size? It’s not the little bits of purchase habits that bother me. It’s the collective use of aggregated sales data. If I purchase something on a website that then has my full name and address, a cookie can be planted on my computer to track visits to other websites. The aggregated information about what I buy can then be used against me. For example, if my aggregated purchase trends show that I like to buy expensive shoes, a website might dynamically raise my prices by two percent because it knows I’m more likely to buy those shoes than someone else. The technology exists and is already employed. Haven’t you purchased an item only to see a coupon for a similar item on the same (or different) website? What’s to prevent a five percent discount from turning into a five percent increase?

I think some new logic is in order… it took me about 30 minutes to write this blog. Ten dollars for thirty minutes is twenty dollars an hour. Not my going rate, but I’d say I’ve earned my ten dollars for the night.