Pizza and Mutilation

I took my son to the local pizzeria. The nature channel warned viewers that the human encounters with animals was violent and disturbing. Thanks for the warning. I didn't' wait around to see if the crocodile ripped the mans arm off or just spun it in knots in the manner of cartoons.

What percentage of the population will sit with their family and watch human mutilation with their pizza? This is not a rhetorical question.

Quiet! Meditation in Progress

The meditation center has been remodeled. The interior is very middle class now. The floor has been glued and screwed so it doesn't squeak -- a real karma multiplier! Now that the hall is optimum, a new and noisier practitioner has been appearing; those who wander around with tea, go to the bathroom often, arrive wearing cologne, hunt for their singing cellphones, read fliers on the tables or bang pots in the kitchen. The net gain in silence is actually a loss.

Moral -- Rent space in liberal Protestant churches.

Sam Trans

Standing in front of a glass-enclosed bus shelter, I noticed that I looked fat. I'm not skinny, but I'm not fat either. I'm now putting Sam Tran on notice that I will begin a petition drive to install flattering glass panels on the walls where bus patrons are most likely to stand and notice their reflection. The self-image of the poorer citizens in our county should be given some consideration.

Look for the petition soon in your neighborhood.

Toilet Privileges and Miscegenation

Recently a Southern Justice of the Peace (JP) refused to issue marriage licenses to mixed-race couples because he believed that their children would suffer. The children would not be accepted by the families of the parents. He claimed he was not a racist and even let Blacks use his bathroom.

Let's quickly pass over everything difficult in race relations and get right to the use of one's bathroom by the "Other," any other, even one's own mother.
Now, does this JP stand on his front porch and invite strangers to use his bathroom? Is it common knowledge that if your plumbing is clogged you can go over to the JP's house and do your business? Does so and so's third cousin, just home from jail or a treatment center, run in with the runs? Sure, use the toilet, I'll make you a cup of coffee.

The toilet topic opens up like a sewer in a shanty town, but I won't persue it. Just think Airport Restroom for a while.

The New York Yankees and National Socialism

I'm forced to think of the Yankees and their fat-cat luxury fan base now that the World Series is here. (Should the other NY teams be thrown in as well?) We all know that the Yankees buy their teams and championships. What is disturbing (disgusting) is the wall-street psychopaths who sit in corporate boxes with ball caps on their heads and new gloves on their hands or their children's hands. These psychopaths have gone to the game for a night out, a few moments away from stealing money from ordinary Americans. Maybe they remember their childhoods and favorite players; childhoods when they were just kids and not rapacious scumbags ruining the retirements of those who have worked hard and played by the rules. (Doesn't that canard make you want to puke your ball park frank during the seventh inning stretch.)

The inane Yankee announcers are speaking for and to the psychopaths with their goofball home run calls. Americana, a hot dog, a home run and a huge bonus for running a failing company.

You Bet Your Life

Groucho's sponsors were Geritol to give you energy for your day and Sominex to put you to sleep at night. This was less than a generation after the war and in the middle of the fears of atomic annihilation. If you worked up a nervous sweat during the day (or sleeping) there was Lifeboy for a shower. The advertising and consumer needs were very simple.

Sarah Palin

Say what you want about Sarah Palin, she does look like she is modeling glasses for Foster Grant.

Thirteen Ways of Looking at Six Black Door-to-Door Preachers

1. They tower above the apartments, bending over to find door bells and knockers.

2. They are old and friendly, dressed in old preacher clothes.

3. They ask for help finding the doorbells. I'm not that small, but can still get on my knees on a street with double-parked cars and dead bodies.

4. It's the end of times, the end of times! Small buildings are a sign of the end of times. I admit, it's unusual, not the way it was when I came to work.

5. They sway as they pray for the scale of human suffering to diminish to that which can be saved.

6. I sway with them wondering just how I could paint these doll houses. I'd have to buy artist brushes.

7. How can we find these lost souls? The preachers have roused my curiosity.

8. I put a hose in one of the apartment windows and turned on the water.

9. We agree that we like rivers for fishing and as metaphors.

10. They are determined to outlast this shrunken devilment. I suggest it has something to do with the Savings and Loan debacle. We will just get smaller until we were the size of bacteria and enter the Promised Land.

11. They decide that I am the source of the devilment. I lift one of the apartments to show them the wet paint drying on the living room wall. A small woman sits inside clawing at a laptop.

12. They begin to chase me. But they are old and slow. I hide behind a van and they pass on.

13. I see them from time to time around the city towering over the buildings.

Keep It In Your Pants

You know who you are!

Author Suicide

On a trash can in San Francisco I noticed a small stack of books. On the bottom, supporting the stack, was David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest. John Kennedy Toole's The Confederacy of Dunces sat on top. Did the owner of this small abandoned library leave the books before taking his or her own life?

Doc Martins

Recently, I bought a new pair of work shoes from a discount rack at Ross. After wearing them for a few days, I discovered that they were Doc Martens, you know, the punk shoe by way of the WW2 and tired feet.

I was in the London Youth Hostel in the late sixties when Skinheads (in Dr. Martens) were Paki-bashing around town. A skinhead occupied the bunk below me. He was in fact quite menacing when he returned in the evening after a day of drinking and hating.

Moving forward several decades, I remember watching a punk documentary the Rise and Fall of Western Civilization. One band was based in a tract house in the San Fernando Valley. When they rented the house they'd found a dead house painter in the backyard. He'd collapsed and was simultaneously gross and cool in his deadness. I didn't know him and doubt very much if he was wearing Doc Martens.

Yahoo's New Home Page

Send them some money so they can finish the transition from old to new. They've been introducing the new page for over a year. The old page, the new page, the old page, the new page, like some old whore flashing her ass. Maybe the programmer who knows how to finish the page was laid off. Send money to rehire him/her.

Maybe there's a power struggle going on within the company amounting to a "my page", "no, my page." Programmers sit in factions with their coffee drinks and Ipods, quarrelling and taunting each other.

I say, keep the old page. The cursor makes the new page jump into unwanted preview pages in a visual parody of a web page.

Finish the damn thing!

Missionaries

Instead of converting the lost, stay at home and ask your friends and neighbors to stop eating our health care system into bankruptcy.

Donald Trump Looks at Beautiful Women

Were the women Mr. Trump saw in a 2000 pageant less beautiful than the women of 2009? If this is true, what exactly does it mean for all of us? Is there an endpoint of beauty and sight? As he ages, does Mr. Trump ever wonder if his senses are diminishing like eyesight at the DMV? How does Mr. Trump's experience of standing next to beauty differ from Mr. Hugh Hefner or President Clinton?

Life on the Street

An older man hurries across the street into oncoming traffic. He is trying to get to the bus stop. He is not agile enough for what he is doing. Somehow he gets there. After lunch, I see him still waiting for a bus.

In a liquor store, another man slowly pays for some incidentals. He has trouble making change. He has an enlarged neck and very frail arms. A bag from the pharmacy hangs from one arm. His life is in the bag. He leaves the store and jaywalks across a busy street. A car swerves and sustains a long horn blast. The sick man waves apologetically.

A pigeon's tail feathers are stuck in a rodent glue trap. It is slowly walking down the street, occasionally trying to fly, but it can't get off the ground. A woman notices the bird's dilemma, moans, and goes to help the bird. A car brakes suddenly.

I've seen enough. I go back to work.

Kaiser Permanente

Kaiser Permanente has spent a great deal of money recently advertising on sports-talk radio -- at least the West Coast. The spokeswoman has a voice that is a strange blend cigarettes, cocktails, smoothies and the endorphins after a jog, which has something for everyone. The commercials are offbeat and clever in a cloying way. Perhaps they target the variety of "lifestyles" that are possible on the West Coast. But I have to wonder who exactly these spots are aimed at?

Judging by the roster of advertisers on sports-talk radio, the average sports fan suffers from one or more of the following maladies (some treatable at Kaiser): small dysfunctional penises, "spackle" in the colon, obesity, bankruptcy, alcohol and drug abuse, poorly behaving children, tax problems, foreclosure, baldness, etc.

Now, does Kaiser Permanente think that these people are waiting to choose a health care provider, once they file chapter eleven and fix their penises? I suggest that Kaiser rethink their advertising. The people who do not have health insurance can't afford it, therefore, Kaiser Permanente is advertising to a demographic that can't afford its product. One would think that they would know this, but maybe they don't. Is it possible that the health care industry doesn't know that uninsured people can't afford their services? Is this an ignorance equivalent to believing that there is spackle in the colon?

Cash for Clunkers (Ear Plugs)

Anyone who loves silicon earplugs knows that their lifespan is unfortunately short --they harden into unusable balls. I have been working on a non-toxic method of restoring the silicon to its original tackiness and elasticity. Earplugs need to join the list of recyclables.

Although, I can't make the claim that the landfills of America are clogged with earplugs, the restoration is in the spirit of recycling and the stewardship of resources.

Soon I will publish the procedures for earplug restoration. I believe there is good money to be made selling recycled earplugs. As more people become aware of the deep sleep and renewed dream life that earplugging offers, earplugs will be in demand.

At this blog I will soon offer (for free) what you need to know to start your own recycling business.

Bikini Wax

Unfortunately, I tried shaving my armpits -- it was a Euro Metro thing that led to an infection. I could only paint ceilings for several months, then no work for a while.