You'll Have This

The House of Bodily Fluids

2008-07-23T07:40:00.001-07:00

Me and the missus were awakened at 5:00 this morning to the sound of our cat Fred retching on the bed between our pillowed heads, as this is the area that Fred has deemed his favorite sleeping spot. This isn’t the first time this has happened, but this time the missus was able to grab said Fred in mid-retch and fling him off the side of the bed to do his puking on the floor instead of the bedsheets. Fred is about 21 years old and has gone from being a magnificent specimen of over18 pounds with a long, luxurious gray coat and a long, luxurious gray tail to now a skinny, stinky, matted-haired, no-tailed 7-pounder who poops and pees and vomits all over our lovely home. God love him, he tries to get it in the litter box, but he usually manages to pee on the floor around the box (thus the adult-sized pee pad ever present at the litter box). He’s lucky to poop at all, so the poop ends up wherever he can get it out, i.e. this morning after cleaning up the spew on the bedroom floor, my bare feet encountered Fred’s night-time stool sample as I was preparing to throw out the cleaned-up vomitus. Fred has a chronic kidney problem and is prone to urinary tract infections, and to keep him alive I have to force-squirt Clavamox antibiotic into his mouth twice a day (he really loves this), and we have to inject him with lactated Ringer’s IV solution subcutaneously nightly (he doesn’t seem to mind this so much). Indeed, I got a good deal on a case of lactated Ringer’s at Costco a couple of weeks ago. Otherwise, Fred sits on the kitchen counter all day long and screams for food. His food is on the kitchen counter because the damn dog will eat it if it’s on the floor, but that’s another story.

Our beagle, Lenny, is a rescue who had been passed around from house to house and shelter to shelter and finally hit the jackpot when we “adopted” him. Lenny thinks that the bodily fluids constantly emanating from his buddy Fred are a delicacy, so another consideration in cleaning up Fred’s vomit this morning was once again trying to keep Lenny from licking it up. Lenny can tell when Fred’s working on a poop and will follow him around with his nose in Fred’s butt waiting for the warm loaves to fall from the vault, so to speak. (As I sit here typing, Fred has again shat on the kitchen floor and Lenny snatched up another treat) He can smell Fred poop a mile away, and I think Lenny has managed to dispose of more of it than I have. Lenny has been known to wake up in the middle of the night to snack down on a newly-expunged Fred turd out in the hallway. Lenny himself is a mighty urinator and goes outside to pee on an average of 8 to 10 times a day. As we don’t have a back yard for him to just go do his thing, this means getting the leash out and walking him those 8 to 10 times a day. Otherwise, Lenny will just pee on the floor. Lately, he has taken to peeing on our balcony (and trying to lick it up), so in the relative heat of the summer, the smell of urine seems ever present in the background. I do a Lysol-and-broom on the balcony about every day, but like lilacs or honeysuckle, some smells linger and just don’t seem to go away. As mentioned, Fred’s food is on the kitchen counter, but when we’re not paying attention, Lenny manages to get on a kitchen chair and leap to the kitchen counter to devour any food left on Fred’s dish. Lenny knows he’s not supposed to do this, but it’s one of the great joys of his life, so he’s always alert for his next opportunity. Well, a couple weeks ago, he was once again on the counter eating Fred’s food when I happened to catch him. On leaping to the chair and to the floor, Lenny accidentally caught one of his back claws somewhere on the chair and yanked it clean out, so when he hit the floor and walked away, there were little puddles of Lenny blood all over the house as he walked. More bodily fluid. So, Lenny went to the vet and had it cleaned and dressed and had to wear a dressing and a sock and a cone on his head (and be dosed with the above-mentioned antibiotic Clavamox) for a couple of weeks. He really, really loved this. I’m starting to get some insight on why Lenny was passed from house to house and from shelter to shelter.

Ah, the joys of pet ownership.

Jury Duty

2008-02-01T19:58:00.001-08:00

I was summoned for jury duty this past week. Here in California, we have what they call one day--one trial jury duty. You're on the hook for a week, and if you're called in to report for jury duty, you only have to hang out for one day waiting to be chosen for a jury panel, and if you're actually selected for a jury, you only have to serve for one trial. After either one of these takes place, you're off the hook for another year. I'd been summoned a couple of times before, but I was never called to a jury panel. This time, I was called along with 40 other people into the courtroom to select jurors for a DUI trial. They finished the tedious jury selection process yesterday, and I ended up being juror #3. Testimony was supposed to start today, so we jurors reported to the courtroom and waited outside for an hour or so while they took care of other business, and then we were sent to the jury room downstairs to wait for another hour or so. After a while, the judge finally came down and told us that "the case had been resolved." I assume this means they either dropped the charges or the guy pleaded. So that was my jury duty experience for this year.

While I was waiting in the courthouse for those three boring days, I played the look-alike game for various people milling about the courthouse. There were look-alikes for Karl Rove, John Bolton, Jada Pinkett-Smith, my neighbor Warren, Josh Marshall of Talking Points Memo, Matthew Modine, the bald guy from the last installment of Top Chef on television, and a few others I can't remember right now. The best part of jury duty was the cafeteria. I generally like grill food and cafeteria food anyway, and this place was great. The first day I had a chicken taco that was big and juicy with delicious chicken and great toppings for about $3.50. The second day I had teriyaki chicken with fried rice that was almost as good for about $6.50. Today I had the fish & chips with French fries straight out of the deep fryer that was great for about $6.00. So if you're ever in the neighborhood, I recommend the Airport Courthouse cafeteria for lunch.

Happy Birthday

2007-12-16T15:22:00.000-08:00

It's the boy's birthday today. Time marches on...... Happy birthday, son.

I Wonder About Stuff

2007-05-17T20:38:00.000-07:00

I wonder about...coffee. Cowboys used to drink coffee out on the range, didn't they? I saw it in Dances With Wolves so it has to be true. There's no percolator or Brewmaster or Mr. Coffee out there on the range. What did they do? Did they boil up a pot of water on the campfire and mix in some ground coffee and let it steep and then strain out the grounds? Mmm, that sounds good, doesn't it? Yikes.

And how did people start drinking coffee, anyway? Did someone find or grow some coffee beans and try to eat them raw and say, "Well, this tastes terrible, but I got a buzz. I know! Let's roast 'em, grind 'em up, and make a hot drink out of it."? How do you make that leap? It's hard enough to make a good cup of coffee with a drip coffee maker and some decent commercial ground coffee. How bad did it taste in the old days? And people still kept drinking it? And why do some people still say "expresso"?

I wonder about...gold. Is there something intrinsically valuable about gold that makes it the basis of our currency in the U.S.? Or is it just because it looks pretty? Imagine, an entire system of currency based on something whose value is simply looking pretty. Our currency used to be redeemable for an equal value in gold from the government. I think it was also once redeemable for an equal value in silver. But not any more. What makes a ten-dollar bill worth ten dollars' worth of goods or services? Certainly not the value of the paper and ink. You can't even redeem it for shiny pretty metal any more.

I wonder about...croutons. How did croutons come to be something you put on a salad? I worked in a commercial bakery one summer, and they used to put loaves of old, outdated bread out on the loading dock to dry out and get stale so they could make croutons. Why in the world do we put old, dried-out cubes of stale bread on our salads and call 'em croutons and say, "Boy, I really like these croutons on my nice fresh salad."?

I wonder about stuff...

Bad Mickey

2007-05-10T09:17:00.000-07:00

First of all, I'd like to thank all of my readers for their thoughtful and insightful responses to my first annual Reader's Survey. My staff is still analyzing the data, and we'll implement changes to You'll Have This in keeping with your suggestions.

Some days it just pays to read the news. Redux Beverages LLC based in Las Vegas has been selling and marketing an energy drink called "Cocaine." Seriously. Cocaine energy drink, by the way, contains no cocaine but does contain 1,100 mg of caffeine, an amino acid called taurine, something called guarana which is a stimulant from a South American plant, along with vitamins and other ingredients. Redux recently stopped shipping Cocaine and will change the name of the drink after pressure from the FDA and the attorneys general of Texas, Connecticut and Illinois, but they're still fighting for their right to sell Cocaine. Apparently, the FDA thinks that Cocaine energy drink will unfairly cut into the market share of legitimate cocaine distributors or something like that. I don't know which is more ridiculous--the fact that Redux is actually selling a drink called Cocaine or that the FDA and others are trying to stop them.

Researchers at Johns Hopkins have reported in the New England Journal Of Medicine that promiscuous oral sex can carry a higher risk of throat cancer than smoking or excessive alcohol consumption. Here's the official report from the New England Journal and here's a snarky summation from The Register in the UK. I was going to write something clever here, but these guys did it much better than I could.

Hamas-affiliated Palestinian Al Aqsa TV has been featuring a television program with a Mickey Mouse look-alike (the link has been corrected) urging Palestinian children to fight Israel and work for global Islamic domination. When questioned at the Home For Retired Non-Digital Disney Cartoon Characters in Burbank, CA, Minnie Mouse, Pluto, and Goofy had no comment.

Reader Survey

2007-05-08T11:53:00.000-07:00

Dear readers, please participate in my first annual Reader Survey to determine direction and possible changes to You'll Have This. Thank you very much.

1. Is this blog a waste of time?

2. Does anyone even read this any more?

3. Should I just stop wracking my brain and feeling bad for not posting regularly?

4. Does this shirt make me look too fat?

Please post your survey responses in the Comments section. Your input is greatly appreciated.

Chad

2007-05-03T12:12:00.000-07:00

The country of Chad and neighboring Sudan just signed a reconcilliation agreement pledging to cooperate with the United Nations to help stabilize Sudan's Darfur region and neighboring areas of Chad.

I'm sorry, but every time I see the country of Chad in print, I immediately think of some guy named Chad that everyone went to high school with. Ol' Chad has become pretty important in the world lately. Last I remember, Chad worked at his dad's auto repair shop and was flunking English.

Darfur is obviously a very serious subject, but I just love that the warring militia is called Janjaweed. Also, the president of Chad is named Idriss Deby.

Didn't Chad and Deby go to the prom together?

Somebody Smack That Dog

2007-03-12T21:38:00.000-07:00

I used to walk a little Yorkshire terrier for a lady who lived in a convalescent home here in the 'hood and was more or less bedridden. The dog weighed about 3 pounds and could just about fit in the palm of your hand. Anyway, the lady had to move from the home into a house with her sister, who is apparently a real flake. I talked to the lady on the phone the other day and asked how her little dog was doing. She said that the dog follows her sister around constantly, and it turns out that her sister was going into the bathroom all day long to smoke heroin, and the dog always followed her in. Well, after a couple of months of being in the bathroom with the heroin-smoking sister every day, the dog is now a heroin addict. No wonder the dog follows her around all the time.

Bye-Bye

2007-02-04T19:41:00.000-08:00

There are two types of people in this world: people who are willing to be the first to say "bye-bye" at the end of a phone conversation, and people who absolutely, positively have to wait for the other person to say "bye-bye" first at the end of a phone conversation before they'll say "bye-bye." I'm a guy who's not afraid to say "bye-bye" first, but sometimes I like to play the game of trying to get the other person to say "bye-bye" first. It usually goes something like this: "Well, I'll see you later." "Okay." "Have a good one." "Take care." "Talk to you later." "Alright." "See ya." "M-kay." "Be careful out there." And on and on and on...... Finally, I'm usually the one who ends up saying "bye-bye" first.

Which are you, dear readers, a "firster" or a "waiter?" If you're a "firster," try getting the other person to say "bye-bye" first some time and see how frustrating it is. If you're a "waiter," try living on the edge some time and surprise the other person and say "bye-bye" first. It just might change your life.

Stubble

2007-01-23T16:41:00.000-08:00

I have a moustache. I've had a moustache on and off for about 15 or 20 years now. Every once in a while I'll shave my moustache off, and I look really bad and I quickly grow it back again. My grandfather had a moustache, my dad had a moustache, and my brother has a moustache. I was well into my adulthood before I could grow a respectable moustache. And it seems that right after I could grow a respectable moustache, it turned gray. Damn. Right now I'm sporting a moustache with one of those soul patches under the bottom lip. Just in case the casting director from Deadwood on HBO calls me. All those cowboy guys have the little soul patch under their bottom lip. All the cowboy guys on television, anyway.

Moustaches used to be really cool. The Beatles grew moustaches. When I was young, I wanted to have a moustache like Chuck Negron of Three Dog Night. Now it seems like the only guys with moustaches are cops, firefighters, bikers, and gay men. At least around here.

Isn't it about time that goatees went out of style? I mean, they were pretty cool in 1993, but c'mon. I still see way too many goatees. I guess technically the goatee is the part that grows on your chin, and a goatee with a moustache is a Van Dyke. Whichever it is, I'm tired of seeing men with goatees. Shave 'em off guys.

Here's a pet peeve: The words "data" and "media" are PLURAL, folks. So, saying "the data shows..." or "the media is..." is incorrect. Datum and medium are singular, data and media are plural. Sheesh, dammit.

Speaking of Data, here's what I don't understand. In Star Trek: The Next Generation, they have an android that looks, acts, and reacts exactly like a human being, can do everything a human being can do, speaks like a human being, and is human-like in just about every respect; yet, they couldn't quite get the skin color right. Yeah, right.

Who Says Prices Are Going Up?

2006-12-28T20:52:00.000-08:00

According to the LA Times, a gram of pure Afghan heroin will set you back about $90.00 here in Los Angeles. At approximately 10 cents per milligram, a nice 5-mg jolt (a typical hit) of this Afghan smack will cost you about 50 cents and just might kill you with its purity (shoot up only 1/2 to 3/4 of what you're used to, just to be safe). However, elsewhere in the country, overdoses will occur because their non-Afghani heroin is spiked with fentanyl, which is about 5 times as potent as pure heroin.

How's that law-enforcement approach to drug abuse working out, DEA? Prices for heroin and cocaine have dropped at least 80%, and the number of drug dealers going to prison still soars. At least the price of premium marijuana is still through the roof, thus sparing our youth from that most dangerous scourge of all.

ADDENDUM: I do not mean to imply by my comment above that I believe kids should be encouraged or permitted to smoke marijuana. Like alcohol, marijuana is not for children.

Happy Birthday, Son

2006-12-15T16:24:00.000-08:00

Well, it's the boy's birthday again. I wish he'd stop having these things. It makes me feel old (hell, I am old -- who am I kidding?). Neveretheless, I couldn't be prouder. Happy birthday, son. Let's go to Chuck E. Cheese and play some Skee-Ball or something.

Halloweens

2006-10-30T12:02:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, we used to go out trick-or-treating starting two days before October 31. It was just accepted, I guess, that you could go door-to-door and get candy on October 29 and October 30 as well as October 31. Some kids didn't even wear costumes until October 31. They just knocked on your door two days before Halloween and got candy. Do they still do this anywhere?

I remember one Halloween when Tim was really young and there was a torrential rainstorm that night. I went door-to-door with the boy (I love to say "the boy"), and he got candy and I got drenched. I didn't mind a bit.

My rock band once played a Halloween party in my hometown, and the best costume that night (and one of the best I've ever seen) was six guys walking together dressed as a six-pack of Genesee. Brilliant.

I used to play in the marching band in junior high school and high school, and our town had a Mummer's parade on Halloween night. The band always had to march in the parade, and I remember it was always really, really cold. The spit would freeze dripping out of the spit valves on the trumpets and trombones. It could be 75 degrees in the days leading up to Halloween, but it was always freezing for the damn parade.

You always hear the stories about evil people putting poison or razor blades in candy at Halloween. Did this every really happen or is this an urban legend? My money's on the urban legend.

Anyway, Happy Halloween to both of my readers. Stay out of the rain, don't let your spit valves freeze, and watch out for razor blades in your Hershey Kisses.

Happy Birthday, Coach Wooden

2006-10-16T09:46:00.000-07:00

It's my annual Happy Birthday wish to Coach John Wooden, one of my heroes. He's a philosopher, a poet, and a generous soul whose wisdom and grace has influenced people on and off the basketball court for over 70 years. I just missed a chance to see and hear the guy speak at a little church in our neighborhood about a year ago, and I understand it was packed. There's not much that would get me to go to church these days, but if it was to see and hear Coach Wooden, I'd be there.

Happy Birthday, Coach. May you have many, many more.

Catching Up

2006-10-05T20:55:00.000-07:00

Just thought I'd catch up on a few things I wrote about in the past (largely because I'm too unimaginative to come up with anything new at the moment).

In "Waterspouts And Tigers" (February 2005) I wrote about my battery-operated desk clock that spontaneously started running backwards and how I thought my backwards-running clock was holding the universe together. Well, the damn thing ran backwards for about 6 months and then stopped. When I changed the batteries, it ran normally again, and the universe didn't end. To my astonishment and delight, last week it started running backwards again. This makes me very happy and gives me hope for all of mankind.

In "Dammit" (January 2005) I wrote about Francis the homeless guy who dresses better than I do. I hadn't seen Francis for a while, but he started showing up again a couple of weeks ago. The guy looks pretty darn good. Maybe he was out of town for the summer. This morning, he was wearing a new pair of Nike Shox running shoes and a Columbia fleece hoodie with a new JanSport backpack on his back. All this while rummaging through the dumpster looking for his lunch.

In "I Hate Music" (August 2006) I wrote that I was going to play the piano for the old folks at the assisted-living apartment down the street. Well, I finally played this past Sunday. The lobby was jam-packed, a hush came over the audience, the spotlight shone, and I began to play. Okay, there was no hush and no spotlight. Anyway, I played a bunch of old standards, a bunch of Gershwin songs, a couple of light classical pieces that went over like a lead balloon, and I butchered the Maple Leaf Rag. I got all sweaty and nervous for the first 10 minutes like it was a graded recital or something, but then it passed and I actually had fun. Everyone seemed to like it and invited me back, although I haven't gotten paid yet, so maybe I wasn't as good as I thought I was.

In "More Neighbors" (March 2006) I wrote about our new neighbor, the actress Xian Xiong. Well, Xian stayed for about a month and then surreptitiously moved out and secretly advertised the apartment in a local rental newspaper as if she herself owned it and ended up renting the place to some unlucky guy who thought it was hers to rent and didn't know that it's illegal to sublet an apartment in Santa Monica. Now the poor schmuck, who's actually a nice guy, has been served eviction papers, and Xian Xiong has been sued by the apartment building's owner, who happens to be the biggest commercial real estate owner in the Los Angeles area and has deep, deep pockets and dozens of attorneys on staff. Serves that Xian Xiong right, dammit.

In "Sneakers I've Loved" (Novermber 2005) I wrote about my beloved gold Adidas Campus sneakers. Well, they finally wore out, and I had to throw 'em away and break out the new navy blue ones (I mistakenly said they were black). It damn near broke my heart to throw the gold ones away, but there was a hole in them, and it was time. I had a simple but dignified ceremony, and into the dumpster they went. I thought about giving them to Francis, but his sneakers are always much nicer than mine.

It's Not Always A Man's World

2006-09-18T17:54:00.000-07:00

I've come to realize that both jobs that I'm presently working are jobs that are done traditionally by women. I've been a medical transcriber for about five or six years, and the Mrs. and I started a dogwalking/petsitting business about three months ago. The vast majority of medical transcribers have always been women, and now I'm finding that the majority of dogwalkers/petsitters are women, too. This is curious.

In my former life, I was a rock and roll/R&B musician, about as testosterone-fueled a business as you can find outside of professional sports. The other thing that occupied a lot of my time was playing basketball, which is also a dude-oriented pursuit. So I've done an occupational 180-degree shift. I do both of my jobs side-by-side with Mrs. Shnooky, and we've never been closer. Our dogwalking/petsitting business is going just as I imagined it would, and we're both really good at transcription.

I don't know what this all means or if it even means anything. But I get to work from home where I love it and not have to deal with co-workers or bosses face-to-face. I don't even see the dogwalking clients for the most part -- just the dogs. I don't feel my masculinity is threatened, and it's kind of interesting being a guy in a gal's world.

I heard a great record by James Brown on the radio the other day. Apparently, the Godfather of Soul made an album in the late 60s with some big-time jazz bands instead of his usual band, and I heard a recording of "It's A Man's World" with JB and the Louis Bellson Big Band. Amazing stuff. Maybe I don't hate music after all.

Music Redux

2006-08-29T17:57:00.000-07:00

We have a neighbor who is a really nice guy, unassuming, doesn't talk about himself, loves our dog, etc. He has two pet birds named Chris and Warren. Anyway, he had surgery recently, and Mrs. shnooky helped him with his postoperative care, changing his dressings, etc. While she was in his apartment, she noticed a platinum record on the wall. It was for Aja by Steely Dan and it was inscribed to our neighbor. When the Mrs. got home, we did a Google search for our neighbor's name and Steely Dan, and we found an interview with Donald Fagen. Turns out our neighbor was the tour manager for Steely Dan (when they still toured), and Fagen kept in touch with him. When Fagen was working on lyrics for the Aja album, he needed a sports team metaphor for a song. Fagen knew nothing about sports, so he called our neighbor, whom he knew was a sports fan, and asked him to name some colleges and their sports nicknames -- Notre Dame Fightin' Irish, Michigan Wolverines, Washington Huskies, Florida Hurricanes, North Carolina Tarheels. When he got to Alabama Crimson Tide, Fagen said "that's it."

So our neighbor and friend is responsible for the lyric "They call Alabama the Crimson Tide -- Call me Deacon Blues."

I Hate Music

2006-08-28T21:15:00.000-07:00

Okay, I don't really hate music. But I have no objectivity or prespective any more when it comes to music, especially contemporary popular music. My neighbor asked me to listen to his friend and protege's latest effort. The act is a duo called Master McCarthy, and my neighbor, who is a veteran engineer/producer, produced and engineered the sessions. I know the McCarthy half of the duo, and he's a good guy and seems really smart and thoughtful, but I'd never heard him sing and play. Anyway, I listened to the four songs on their MySpace site, and I just don't know what to say. I think it sounds great. It's obviously very well performed, recorded, and produced. They had some top-notch session players record the songs (who are all old enough to be Master and McCarthy's fathers), and the singers' voices blend really well. I've always been dubious about pairs of singers who claim to have that special, unique blend with each other, but these guys do sing well together. But I don't know what to say about the songs themselves. As a musician and former studio guy, I hear things I don't like, but I don't know if any of that makes any difference. And I know I can't just plug into what a listener half my age would plug into and just hear and appreciate the music as a music lover and/or potential fan. I'm way too jaded and cynical. Are these guys great? I don't know. I don't hate it. I don't think it sucks.

Mrs. shnooky and I have launched a new dogwalking/petsitting business (but that's another blog post). Anyway, I walk a dog for a lady who lives in a retirement apartment building about a block away, and in the lobby of this building is a beautiful grand piano. The lady whose dog I walk gave me the name and number of the activities director of the place, so I called her and told her I'd like to come play for her. Apparently, they have a regular schedule of people who come in and play for the old folks there. So she set up an informal audition where I'd play from 4:30 to 5:00 just as the folks were filing in to go to dinner. Well, I arrived at 4:30, and the damn lobby was jammed standing-room-only with about 30 or 40 old folks there to hear me play. I threw some Gershwin at 'em, some "Danny Boy," and some show tunes. I even sang a few songs, because I think some of the other acts who play there do sing-along stuff. Well, they seemed to like it, though the activities director lady told me later to just stick to playing the piano and not to sing any more (fine with me), and they're going to add me to their regular rotation of piano players. She already asked me to come in and substitute for one of their regulars who called in sick, but I don't have an hour's worth of material prepared yet. I'm going to learn some more standards, some Jerome Kern and Cole Porter, etc. My first official gig there is on October 1. There are quite a few retirement homes in the 'hood. This could be a whole new career for the shnookster.

In the park where I walk this lady's dog, there is a guy who comes every day and sets up his music stand and his music and plays his cheap guitar and sings simple, dumb songs there in the park. Some day I'm going to show up with my accordion and ask the guy if I can sit in with him. He usually has another guy who sings with him, and I think it might be fun to join in for a few numbers. Any chance to play the old accordion, I say.

So check out Master-McCarthy or Master/McCarthy or mastermccarthy or however the hell you write it, and let me know what you think. I sure don't know what to think.

Dear Shnooky

2006-06-11T20:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Shnooky:

When I fire my old .22 Marlin lever-action rifle, the shells aren't ejecting when I try to chamber another round. The ejector seems to be lined up properly, and I've cleaned the rifle, but the spent shell won't eject from the rifle. Am I using the wrong ammo? Help!!

Dejectedly,

Old-Timer

Dear Old-Timer:

This may be due to a build-up of powder residue on the bolt face. Some of the residue may have settled between the ejector lever and the bolt, especially if it's an old rifle. This will cause the ejector to lift ever so slightly and not fully engage the rim of the shell. Try using a pipe cleaner with some solvent on it and clean that ejector lever really well. You might try some compressed air, too.

Accurately,

Shnooky

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Dear Shnooky:

I'm a little paunchy right now, and I can't seem to find the right swim suit that will be flattering yet forgiving for my figure this summer. Should I stay with a two-piece? Should I go with high-cut leg openings to make my legs look longer? I feel like an old lady when I try on a one-piece with a little skirt. Help!!

Reubenesquely,

LouAnne

Dear LouAnne:

You're not paunchy; you're just a real woman. If you have a little "pouch-and-roll" going this summer, I'd suggest a cute "tankini" in dark blue or dark green. I'd skip the high-cut legs, dearie. No one over the age of 21 should wear them, and they'll just make your thighs look bigger. Splurge on a nice short, wavy new hair-do, and get yourself a nice wrap-around in a bright floral pattern to complete your new ensemble. And carry yourself like the confident, sexy woman that you are!

Swimmingly,

Shnooky

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Dear Shnooky:

I'm an ER physician, and I'm trying to set a both-bone forearm fracture on a 12-year-old kid, and I'm not sure if I should do an open reduction, internal fixation under general anesthesia or a closed reduction under local. The kid's in a lot of discomfort, so I need an answer soon. Help!!

Emergently,

Doc Rocket

Dear Doc:

First take AP and lateral x-rays and then C-arm fluoroscopy in the OR and check how displaced the fracture is. Consider the closed reduction first, but if the fractured ends don't line up anatomically under fluoro even with a compressive dressing, you'll have to do the ORIF. Try 0.25% Xylocaine with 1:100,000 epinephrine for the local. Be sure to check the capillary refill in the fingers post-procedure.

Clinically,

Shnooky

Gmail Spam

2006-04-30T13:49:00.000-07:00

I don't read my spam email from my Gmail account, but Gmail lists them in the spam folder along with the sender and the first line of each email. Here's a sampling of the first lines of some of those spam emails:

...see scorecard it's debunk may broadway it pinnacle and commonweal...it fragment in sextuplet see plywood a scm but perez, hum see balled be testbe...in passageway may panoply but betel or consortium, elmsford see fahrenheit...or prelude some coward be scowl but chastity some tributary...may isn't or effluent try buxtehude some protozoan or ketch try grosbeak in...Hi, X P V C V A L arll A meno A A L bvaz G L liixa R...

Jennifer Kirk, Aliz Schenk, Irving Leal, Jenna Coon, Adan Golden, and The luger must be awfully busy sending out these obviously important and vital messages to me on such a regular basis. I admire their stamina.

Simple Tastes

2006-04-22T16:40:00.000-07:00

I am a man of simple tastes. God help me, I love peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Gotta be Jif peanut butter, but the jelly can be just about any grape or strawberry. I even put butter on the bread before the PB&J. I don't know why I'm a man of such pedestrian tastes. Gourmet food is wasted on me. Gimme spaghetti with meatballs, pepperoni pizza, burgers, Taco Bell, Shake 'N Bake, and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches.

I grew up in a pretty isolated smallish town, and until I moved away I didn't realize that the rest of the country didn't have the same foods as my hometown. There was a sub shop on just about every other corner in town - seems like an average of one sub shop for every 10 residents or so. They all use the same ingredients for the most part, so they're all really good. I had no idea how hard it was to get a good sub anywhere else. And pretzels. In the local grocery stores, there are about 50 different varieties of pretzels, most of 'em local or semi-local, and all unique and pretty damn wonderful. Here in the big city out west, we're lucky to get Rold Gold or Snyder's Of Hanover. I may not like sushi, but I know the difference between Extra Dark Splits and Wege's Sourdough, dammit. God, I miss good pretzels.

I used to eat Lebanon bologna a lot, and some of the local butchers used to make their own homemade Lebanon bologna that was just amazing . Nothing like a Lebanon-bologna-and-American-cheese sandwich on white bread. Who knew you couldn't get Lebanon bolonga outside of central Pennsylvania? My dad used to eat this stuff called souse, which is apparently a gelled loaf made with pig's ears, feet and tongues. I think there's a souse made with beef parts, too. He also used to eat scrapple, which is made of hog offal (great word, offal) and cornmeal and other "trimmings." I skipped the souse and scrapple.

Anyway, whenever I go back to the old hometown, I have to load up on Lebanon bologna, subs, and good pretzels. I can still get Jif and jelly here, thank God.

More Grand

2006-04-10T19:54:00.000-07:00

One of our neighbors (again with the neighbors) just had plastic surgery. To save money, she went for a package deal in Costa Rica(!) where you get the surgery and a two-week recovery period at a resort-type place. She had the bags sucked out from under her eyes, some fat sucked out from her jawline, the tip of her nose lopped off, and she had a chin put in. She thought that it would be easy and practically painless, and she thought that it wound change her life and she'd be beautiful and find a man. Well it changed her life, all right. Her face is still swollen more than a month later, she's in constant pain and takes a lot of Vicodin, she can't open her mouth all the way and has to clench her teeth while talking, and she has a bacterial infection in her mouth. Her eyes, jawline, and nose actually look okay, but her new chin makes her look like a transvestite. So far she hasn't found a new man. In fact she kinda looks like a new man.

As an addendum to my last post, there's also a Pontiac Grand Am in addition to the aforementioned Pontiac Grand Prix. To me, the Grand Am is even more puzzling than the Grand Prix. I remember the Pontiac Trans Am. Yeah, okay, Trans Am - Trans (across) Am (America) - I get it. But Grand Am? What the hell's a Grand Am?

For those of you contemplating a lucrative career in show business, I just got a long-awaited, long-anticipated royalty check from ASCAP, which tracks and pays you for your works that are broadcast on radio or television or in movies. I wrote and produced and recorded the music for a six-part television series on PBS about 8 years ago that continues to run regularly on various PBS stations all over the country. Over Thanksgiving and Christmas and in February, I happened to catch some of the episodes running on all three of the PBS stations available here in the LA area. My ASCAP check for that time period totaled $7.17. Oh boy. Now I can get that Costa Rican cosmetic surgery I've been wanting.

Accordion to me

2006-03-30T19:40:00.000-08:00

I'm actually going to be playing the accordion on an upcoming recording session. It's for a song or two by my songwriting buddy with whom I've performed and recorded music for about 25 years. I've been a keyboard player my whole life, but this'll be only the second time anyone's actually hired me to play the accordion on a recording session. The other time was for a Cuban singer/songwriter named Wilkins back in the late 90s, and one of those songs actually made it into the movie "American Pie" as source music. The songs I'm going to be playing this time are some older songs I'm already familiar with that we're going to record with new arrangements. My buddy wants a Clifton Chenier-type feel, and since Clifton is dead, I'm going to try to cop Clifton's sound and apply it to these songs. That's my specialty. No actual style of my own, but if you want someone else's style copied and applied to your song, I'm your man. Anyway, I'm pretty excited. The only drawback is that I don't have any place to practice here at home before the session. The only thing more annoying than hearing your neighbor practicing the accordion is........... well, nothing. I may have to go up to the roof of the building or something.

I always wondered what genius at General Motors Pontiac Division came up with the name "Grand Prix" for the Pontiac Grand Prix. Not Gran Prix, not Grand Prize, but Grand Prix. Why not Gran Prize? What's next? Moulin Red?

I was giving some thought to attending my #%&!-year high school class reunion this summer. But then I got to thinking about the last one I went to #%&! years ago. It was like I regressed back to being 17 years old again. The same people pissed me off. The same girls that were cute but unapproachable were still cute but unapproachable. The band nerds were still band nerds. The arrogant jocks were still arrogant jocks. The same guy who used to get drunk and drop trou got drunk and dropped trou. I still felt like a misfit outcast, even though I don't think I necessarily was a misfit outcast back then. Nah, I think I'll pass.

More Neighbors

2006-03-02T22:09:00.000-08:00

My next-door neighbor in my apartement building is a guy named Charlie who looks like a cross between Jackie Gleason, Rodney Dangerfield, and Tony Soprano. He's a jazz piano player who went to Julliard, but now he owns and operates an air-conditioning duct cleaning service. Anyway, Charlie has a habit of starting out most of his conversations by saying, "No! No!" As in, "How you doing, Charlie" "No! No! I'm doing okay." Or, "Here's that Vaseline you wanted to borrow, Charlie." "No! No! I just want to use it to put on some cotton to put in my ear because I have his God-awful ear infection." Or, "Man, this marinara sauce your brother Bernie made is unbelievable." "No! No! There's a bunch of it in the freezer if you want to take some home with you." We love Charlie.

My upstairs neighbor is a hooker. She used to be a grifter and con artist who had a fake athletic shoe company that she and her con artist partner used to scam a bunch of people out of a considerable amount of money. That deal finally fell through, and she still has process servers showing up to serve her papers on a regular basis. Now she's dropped all pretense of being anything but a hooker. She has a series of sleazy-looking guys show up at around 10:00 at night or so, and it's immediately to the bedroom and lights out. About 20 minutes later, it's a couple of trips to the bathroom, and then a break for TV or booze or whatever they do, then it's back to the bedroom and lights out again. The guys always sneak out of the building through the back door when they're finally finished at aroud 1:00 a.m. Then the next morning, she's off to the laundromat with the sheets.

One of the apartments on the first floor near ours was vacated in January. It used to be rented by a singer named Jemma Griffith who went on to bigger and better things. Anyway, the building manager, who's from the Ukraine and wonderfully ignorant of much of our pop culture, told us that the new tenant was a Chinese actress with two kids and two dogs. She couldn't remember this actress's name, but it was something like Xian Xiong. Well, this person moved in a couple of weeks ago, and the first thing we noticed was that she wasn't Chinese. I was watching her through our courtyard window as she talked on her cell phone one afternoon, and as I started to get a good look at her, I asked my wife what Lana (the building manager) said the new tenant's name was again. My wife said it was Xian Xiong or something like that. Hmm.... Xian Xiong... Xian Xiong... Then I suddenly realized who it was. She's a former A-list actress who starred in movies with the likes of Kevin Costner, Bill Murray, and Harrison Ford. Then she started to get a reputation for being kind of wack and pulled some off-the-wall stunts and pissed off the powers that be. Then she married someone outside the movie business and moved to New Mexico for about five years or so. Now she's back in Los Angeles trying to revive her once-promising career, but she's no longer A-list. And she's definitely not Chinese. She's still a beautiful woman, though. Xian Xiong... Xian Xiong... Xian Xiong...

Hinky

2006-01-16T20:28:00.000-08:00

About three months ago, a couple of girls moved into an apartment on the third floor of our building (I live on the first floor). Neither of these girls seemed to have a job or any visible means of support. They immediately started having a bunch of thug-looking guys who don't live here in and out of the building at all hours of the day and night. Lots of loud parties, lots of suspicious-looking people, lots of complaints from the neighbors. Okay, fair enough. Don't jump to any conclusions.

Last night I heard the sound of the front doors of our security building being forced open. I sauntered out to check who forced the doors, and there was a really hinky-looking guy who strolled in with a couple of beer bottles in his hand and pushed the button and waited for the elevator. Bad-looking dude -- rough trade, as they used to say. Anyway, I sort of eavesdropped on him when he got off the elevator to see which apartment he went into. Yeah, it was that one. Okay, fair enough. Don't jump to any conclusions.

When he got on the elevator on the first floor, a neighbor who lives near me on the first floor got off the elevator and walked right by him. When this neighbor saw me checking out this guy, he asked me which apartment he went to. I told him where the hinky guy went, and my neighbor told me the hinky guy had a handgun in his waistband. Okay, fair enough. Don't jump to any conclusions.

The neighbor called the police and told them what happened, and sure enough, about ten minutes later seven cops arrived and knocked at the two girls' apartment with guns drawn. Three cops pulled hinky dude out and frisked him and questioned him while four cops went into the apartment and looked around and questioned the girls who were there (one of whom was not the original tenant). The cops ended up letting the guy go, apparently because they themselves didn't see him with the gun and didn't see anything hinky enough in the apartment to hold him for. Okay, fair enough. Don't jump to any conclusions.

Turns out that the parents of one of the two girls who originally moved in had been paying the rent on the place (which is pretty substantial) until they realized what was going on and pulled their daughter the hell out of there, and God knows what the girl who's left is doing to pay the rent. Apparently it has something to do with hinky guys who drive pimped-out Mercedes Benzes, force their way into my apartment building, and carry handguns in their waistbands.

Okay, fair enough. Don't jump to any conclusions.

New Year's Resolutions

2005-12-26T17:49:00.000-08:00

1. Stop being frustrated when people say "New Year's." "What are you doing for New Year's?" "I have the cutest outfit I'm wearing for New Year's." "New Year's this year is going to be the biggest party of all." No longer will I let this this bother me.

2. Get a damn flu shot.

3. No more internet Russian midget amputee S&M porn.

4. Try to embrace my feminine side without getting a run in my pantyhose.

5. Love like I don't need the money, dance like I've never been hurt, and work like no one's watching.

6. Finish that dirigible I've been building in the basement.

7. Try to get off the oxycodone and switch to Dilaudid.

8. Be nicer to the household staff, especially Clive, my valet.

Love Them Soccer Club Names

2005-12-19T17:03:00.000-08:00

In Germany, there's a professional soccer club called Verein für Leibensubungen Borussia Mönchengladbach. Really.

In Wales, there's a professional soccer club called Clyb Pel-droed Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwylllantysiliogogogoch. Honest.

In the Netherlands, there's a professional soccer club called NAC Breda, or Nooit Opgeven Altijd Doorzetten Aangenaam Door Vermaak En Nuttig Door Ontspanning Combinatie Breda. Swear to God.

Happy Birthday, Son

2005-12-16T14:14:00.000-08:00

Well, it's that time of year again, and I just want to say Happy Birthday to the boy. I couldn't be any more proud of you, and every time I say that, I'm prouder still. I'm sorry we don't get to spend more time together, but the frequent emails and phone calls are almost like being there. Have a wonderful 25th, dude, and be careful out there among them English.

Counter-Productive

2005-12-05T20:49:00.000-08:00

I put the counter in by blog about 4 months ago, and I see it just turned over 1000 hits. Amazing! Of course, 600 of those are probably mine, but still... It's good to see that both my readers continue to check out You'll Have This. To you two I say thanks, and I'll try to post some more. Of course, I'm a hard act to follow.

Funny thing happened to me at the drugstore this evening. I went to get a prescription filled for my wife, and I had two chocolate bars with me at the pharmacy check out when I bought the pills. The pharmacist gal at the cash register looked at my chocolate bars and started talking about how she just looooves chocolate and smiling at me and batting her eyes, and all of a sudden I realized, "This girl's flirting with me!" I'm usually kind of thick and don't pick up on that stuff, and it's been a long, long time since it's happened to me. I wasn't trying to hide my wedding ring or anything, and she knew the prescription was for someone with a female name. Plus, I'm old! But she was still flirting with the ol' Shnooky. Kind of put a spring in my step.

I'm one of those people who work at home. My wife and I work for a large corporation and do all of our work at home on computers. I'm here to say that, yes, we do work in our pajamas. Just because we can.

Profound randomnity

2005-11-12T17:05:00.000-08:00

I've started taking pen and paper along with me when I walk my dog so I can put notes on cars that are parked by idiots. The notes can range from a simple "Nice parking, dickhead." to "Do you have to be an asshole before they let you drive a BMW, or does driving a BMW turn you into an asshole?" to "Do they let you park on the sidewalk where YOU live?" to "Not only are you parked at a red curb -- you're parked 6 feet out from a red curb, moron." I'm certain that when the owners of these cars read my notes, they'll be chastised and vow never to park so foolishly again. Anyway, it makes me feel better.

An observation: Often I'll see a woman or a girl walking down the street who suddenly believes someone might be looking at her ass, so she'll put her hand back there or start pulling at her shirt or sweater in back to try to cover it up. Well, I probably wasn't looking at your ass before you started doing this, but I'm for damn sure going to stare at it now to see what the hell you're trying to cover up. Hint: If you don't want people to look at your ass, don't start doing contortions to try to cover it up.

I like Green Day. I don't know much about 'em, and I don't have any of their CDs, but I just like 'em. They might be real jerks, and they may have sold out, and their new stuff might not be as good as their old stuff. I don't know about any of this, and I don't really care. All I know is whenever I see 'em or hear 'em, I like 'em.

To both of my male readers, here's some advice: Practice strict birth control. Always use a condom. I know a guy who was a confirmed bachelor whose life is now a living hell because he didn't sleeve up after a night of too much to drink with the wrong woman at the House Of Blues. His is now a Life Of Blues, and the mother of his only child is a truly evil, stupid woman who heard that biological clock ticking and said, "Oh yeah. I'm on the pill," and has freely admitted that her main goal in life is to make my friend suffer. If you're going to be too drunk to remember later, put the condom on before you start drinking. Seriously.

Also to both my male readers: If you're going to get a dog, for crying out loud don't get a little fluffy dog. No man looks good walking a Pekingnese or a poodle or a Chihuahua or even a Jack Russell terrier. Even a dachshund is borderline. I don't care if the little dog is easier to take care of or easy to train. You look stupid walking it.

Sneakers I've Loved

2005-11-02T21:08:00.000-08:00

Ever since I got my first pair of Converse All Stars when I was in seventh grade in 19?? (okay, I'm insecure about my age, dammit), I've been hooked on sneakers. I consider myself ahead of my time in this regard. When I got that first pair of Cons, NBA and college players still wore 'em, Nike and Reebok didn't exist, and Adidas made only track and soccer shoes. Here is my reminiscence about some cool sneakers I've worn along the way.

My high school basketball team wore Pro-Keds instead of Converse, so I had a couple pair of high white Pro-Keds canvas basketball shoes. In fact, I had a pair of the precursor to the Pro-Keds shoes called Royals. Royals were way cool. After a couple pair of Pro-Keds and Converses, I got my first pair of Adidas Superstars when I was a senior in high school. Bliss! Having sprained each of my ankles a few times, I moved on to Adidas Promodels (high tops). Probably my favorite all-time basketball shoe. Adidas has re-issued the original Promodels, and you can get 'em on clearance at Eastbay for about $30.00 buck dollars. That's about what they cost in 1972. I then moved on to suede leather high top Pro Keds for a while (in white). Had a couple of pair of those. Looked great, not much ankle protection.

Through the years I had a couple of pair of Reeboks when they first came out, some Converse leather All Stars when Julius Erving wore 'em, and Ponys because they were pretty cool and not too expensive. I haven't had much success with Nike basketball shoes. I had a pair of Nikes before there was Nike Air or Air Jordans, and they never fit me right. I had a pair of the first Air Jordans, and they were awful. Gave be blisters. I had a pair of Asics leather high tops in Laker purple and gold and more leather Cons and a pair of the Olympic Adidas high tops with the red, white and blue stripes like Bill Walton used to wear. Had some Patrick Ewing model Adidas Conductors in New York Knick white, orange and blue. Those things were the most complicated sneakers to lace that I ever saw. Actually had two pair of those suckers. In around 1987 I found a pair of original Adidas Superstars before they re-issued them and Adidas was not doing well and only Run-DMC was wearing them - on clearance for $20.00 buck dollars. Bliss again! All along the way I usually kept a pair of high black Cons in the closet, too. I had a pair of cheap Puma running shoes called Puma Crack, believe it or not (this was in around 1972, before the great crack cocaine epidemic). I also had a pair of suede Puma Baskets around that time.

I have since retired from playing basketball, but I still wear sneakers all the time. I have a pair of goldish-light-brown-with-green-stripes Adidas Campus (low-cut suede) that are my faves right now, and a back-up pair of Adidas Campus in black with white stripes that I'll break out when the gold ones finally wear out. I have a pair of black suede Puma Baskets that aren't the most comfortable shoes but very cool nonetheless. I have a pair of high-top Nikes called Vinnie Gs that were on clearance that I've worn to shoot hoops about twice in the last six or seven years. I have two pair of Adidas running shoes - a pair of Adidas Galaxys that are about worn out and another pair the name of which I don't know that are pretty damn ugly but are great shoes and were cheap.

Gotta mention Adilettes. I wear Adilettes all year long, and my feet have permanent Adilette suntan lines on 'em. I've loved Adilettes since only German swimmers and Swedish soccer players wore 'em. When I die, I want to be cremated and have my ashes made into a pair of Adilettes.

I know I've probably forgotten some sneakers I've worn and loved, but I think I covered most of 'em. Thanks for your indulgence.

Happy Birthday Coach Wooden

2005-10-14T10:48:00.000-07:00

Former UCLA basketball coach John Wooden turns 95 years old today. Coach Wooden is a giant among men. He's a philosopher, a poet, and a legend. All of his former players will tell you that they use something he taught them about life every day. The UCLA basketball team's dominance under his direction and leadership will never be equaled.

Happy birthday, Coach.

Career Highlights

2005-10-07T14:43:00.000-07:00

Here are a few highlights from my long, storied musical career:

I was the producer on a vocal recording session where we had Chaka Khan come in and sing a few parts. She arrived and immediately wanted to know where the food was. We ordered some food, and she ate all of the chicken before she would sing a note.

I worked with a producer who was chosen to record a couple of songs for a new Ringo Starr album, although the producer told me he never met Ringo and didn't know why Ringo chose him. Anyway, we got the charts for the songs Ringo wanted to do, and the producer had me do some simple MIDI sequences to sort of map out the songs, and then we'd record real instruments to replace the MIDI parts after Ringo sang some guide vocals. The producer told me to keep the MIDI drum parts simple because Ringo would eventually replace them anyway. Well, Ringo arrived, and the first thing he said when he heard our guide tracks was something to the effect of, "Who the hell did those drum parts?" My good friend the producer pointed at me and shook his head. Ringo pretty much said they sucked, and I slithered out of the studio never to work with Ringo again.

I worked with another producer who was recording a couple of songs for a Smokey Robinson album. Cool! Smokey! So Smokey had this song he had written, and once again I did some MIDI sequences for the song, only this time the sequences were supposed to be keeper parts. This was R&B, after all. Anyway, it was just Smokey and me working at the producer's home studio, and it was sounding good, but the song needed an intro. Smokey says to me, "Write an intro. I'm gonna take a nap." So Smokey lay down and fell asleep right there on the couch, and I started writing an intro. Smokey would wake up every 10 or 15 minutes and listen and say "Sounds good, " and go back to sleep. After about an hour or an hour-and-a-half, we had an intro. I didn't get any writer's credit for the song, though I did get some writer's credit on a Howard Hewitt song from around the same time period that I had absolutely nothing to do with.

Also around the same time, I was working with an up-and-coming hip-hop trio who wasn't too thrilled about a white dude doing their tracks. But then I played basketball with them and kicked ass, and it worked out fine after that. Hey, shnooky's got skills!

While working with the same producer, I once went to England to do some MIDI tracks for a band he was producing. The producer had flown over earlier, and I followed a couple of days later. The producer and his manager didn't leave me the proper info for my visa, and somehow I filled in something wrong on the paperwork. When I got to Customs in England, they confiscated my passport and allowed me to stay for only three days. When it came time for me to go back home, they still kept my passport, had two guards escort me onto the plane, gave my passport to the flight crew, had two guards meet me at LAX and escort me off the plane before everyone else, and finally gave me back my passport. I quit working with this producer not long after the Smokey session.

Speaking of Europe, I was once in a rock band that did a number of tours in Europe. My first time over, we did a sound check at the venue, and I made a visit to the restroom before we headed back to the hotel. The band and the manager didn't know I had gone to the restroom and left the venue without me and never even realized that I wasn't with them. The crew was scheduled to stay at the venue until the show, but they felt sorry for me, so one of the crew gave me a ride back to the hotel. The band and the manager still didn't know they had left me back at the venue. I guess it was because I was the new guy.

Later on that same tour, we were in Paris, and as a couple of my bandmates and I were walking around the city one fine spring day, I thought I noticed that people were sort of staring at me. I figured I must look like a cool American rock star or something. After a couple of hours, we returned to the hotel, and I looked in the elevator mirror and saw that I had black grease of unknown origin smeared on my face. Yep. Cool American rock star, all right.

Dem Guns

2005-10-05T20:22:00.000-07:00

I have some friends whom I like and respect who are gun owners and will never vote for a Democrat. These friends of mine aren't criminals. They're not careless about their guns. They're not stupid. They are intelligent people who not only own guns, they are well-informed about guns and their history, they use their guns safely and responsibly, and they also belong to the NRA.

Whatever you may think about the second amendment and its interpretation, guns are an integral part of our history, and they're here to stay. Many gun-control laws have done nothing to prevent crime. Some gun-control laws are just plain stupid, like the now-elapsed federal ban on "assault weapons." This was basically a law that banned certain weapons because they look scary.

There are probably political issues that affect the lives and well-being and livelihoods of my gun-owner friends more directly than gun control, and my friends might be more inclined to agree with the Democrats on some of those other issues. But they honestly believe that liberals and the Democratic party are ultimately out to confiscate their guns. You could say this about religion and abortion too, in a way. There are probably many political issues that affect the lives and well-being and livelihoods of conservative religious people more directly than intelligent design or separation of church and state, and those people might be more inclined to agree with the Democrats on some of those other issues. And there are probably many political issues that affect the lives and well-being and livelihoods of some liberals more directly than abortion rights, and some of those liberals might be more inclined to agree with conservatives on some of those other issues. But we all choose what's important to us, and to my gun-owning friends, gun control is the deciding issue. In that regard, gun control is no more or less important an issue than any other. And you can't stereotype gun enthusiasts any more than you can stereotype other so-called conservatives or people who believe strongly in abortion rights or other so-called liberals.

But just because a politician tells you he doesn't believe in gun control doesn't mean he's on your side or will have your best interests at heart. Same for abortion rights and religion, too. I think that the Democratic party would be doing itself a big favor by publicly modifying its position on gun control. It's not a simple issue, and I think most gun enthusiasts are a lot more reasonable and intelligent than the Democratic party gives them credit for. And a lot of them would make fine voting members of the Democratic party.

Damn! Religion and politics. I thought I was going to stay away from those.

Fun with Babel Fish

2005-10-02T14:37:00.000-07:00

Just for fun, I ran my last post through Babel Fish Translation on Alta Vista and translated it from English to Greek, Greek to French, French to German, and finally German back to English. This is the result:

In favor of the law estimated governor Schwarzenegger likewise signed at the law accounts, where: for celebreties simplifies collectionné the substantial damage exaggerated aggressive paparazzi to demand the insurance agents so that it pays up to the value of two years provisional expenditures for accommodation for the fire victims in a destruction region, while their houses are again developed, it requires the health circles, so that it keeps the automatic exteriors defibrillators at speed, and it teaches their personnel, how, whom he uses her and that he maintains, demand the pharmazeuten so that it fills the incomes as morning after that pillules of birth control, even if they have the moral objections against their job, it from costs soil security on low returned their expands Kaljfo ' rnja and it urge $2,500 by infringement for the use of the electronic post office up, so that they deceive the consumers at the discovery of the personal private information as numbers of post office credit cards owing to the plant as legal enterprises. All these accounts were supported by the democrats, how all were them those, which it prevented.

Makes much more sense this way.

Fair and Balanced

2005-10-01T19:55:00.000-07:00

In the interests of fairness, the esteemed governor Schwarzenegger also signed into law bills that will: make it easier for celebreties to collect substantial damages from overly aggressive paparazzi, require insurers to pay up to two years' worth of temporary housing costs for fire victims in a disaster area while their homes are being rebuilt, require health clubs to keep automatic external defibrillators on hand and teach their staff how to use and maintain them, require pharmacists to fill prescriptions such as morning-after birth control pills even if they have moral objections to their use, extend low-cost insurance to low-income drivers with good driving records in various counties in California, and impose penalties of up to $2,500 per violation for using email to deceive consumers into divulging personal private information such as Social Security numbers or credit card numbers by posing as legitimate businesses. All of these bills were sponsored by Democrats, as were all of the ones he vetoed.

Kill Bill Part 3

2005-09-30T11:39:00.000-07:00

I'm so proud to be a Californian! Our illustrious governor Schwarzenegger vetoed 52 bills on Thursday. Among the bills he killed are proposals that would have: legalized gay marriage, raised the minimum wage, expanded penalties for employers who pay women less than men or resist paying workers' compensation claims, provided more oversight of the stem cell research program , protected California nurses from being required to work mandatory overtime or having to lift patients on their own, helped consumers buy cheaper prescription drugs from Canada, and allowed workers locked out by employers during wage disputes to collect unemployment benefits.

According to a recent poll by the Public Policy Institute of California, Schwarzenegger's approval rating has plummeted to 33%.

At least the weather's nice...

Fighting Irish

2005-09-26T11:38:00.000-07:00

I'm usually very cynical about things, sports included. But this story brought a tear to my eye.

A Thousand Million

2005-09-19T22:09:00.000-07:00

It's my impression that most people don't really understand the difference between a million and a billion. When the government throws around figures that include billions, I don't think most people truly appreciate that a billion is a thousand million. To a lot of people, a billion sounds like 2 million or 20 million or 200 million and not a thousand million. Some people talk about streamlining the government by cutting programs that cost a couple of million and ignore programs that cost billions, and I think that either they don't understand that a billion is a thousand million or they believe that whomever they're talking to doesn't understand that a billion is a thousand million.

I propose that from now on the government refer to a billion of anything as a thousand million just to make sure everyone understands how much a billion really is. If the war in Iraq costs 100 to 200 billion dollars, let's just call it 100-to-200-times-a-thousand-million dollars just to be sure we all know what we're talking about. If cleaning up after Hurricane Katrina costs 200 to 300 billion dollars, let's just call it 200-to-300-times-a-thousand-million dollars and take it from there.

Dammit.

Update: I was more timely with this post than I knew.

Never Did Learn To Play No Chords

2005-09-12T16:31:00.000-07:00

When I read the newspaper these days, I am often reminded of Steve Martin's character in the movie "Roxanne" (a wonderful movie) when he walks down the street and puts a quarter in the newspaper rack, reads the headlines and gasps, and puts another quarter in the newspaper rack and puts the newspaper back in. I wish it was that easy.

You know who I just can't figure out? Carlos Santana. Here's a guy who's had his own band under his own name for almost 40 years. He doesn't sing, and he doesn't write the songs. His job, which has brought him international stardom, is simply to noodle on his guitar and play solos. He's used the same overdriven, distorted, Gibson-humbuckers-on-10 guitar sound for all of those 40 years. He's noodled the same single-note licks on every song I've ever heard him play. I'm sure he's a real spiritual guy and all that, but c'mon Carlos. Try a Fender guitar some time. Play something different. Write some lyrics. Sing something. Sheesh.

Speaking of guitar players, I once heard B.B. King say in an interview that he "...never did learn to play no chords." Well, he was not exaggerating. When Ray Charles died, there was a big tribute concert, and B.B. sang and played a solo song--the first time I ever heard him play and sing without a band behind him. He didn't accompany himself on guitar. He would simply sing a phrase without any accompaniment and then noodle a guitar fill after the vocal phrase and then sing another phrase and then noodle another guitar fill, etc. etc. etc. and this was how he did the whole song. It was just like there was a band behind him, but there was no band. Just B.B. singing a song a capella and then noodling blues licks between the vocal phrases. It was very strange. I guess he really "never did learn to play no chords."

I arrogantly decided a while back that I would like to try my hand at writing some short stories. After all, I know good writing when I read it, so it stands to reason that I could just do it myself. Yeah, right. This is like saying I know good music when I hear it, so naturally I can write good music. So I've been reading a book of short stories by Kurt Vonnegut that he wrote in the late 50s and early 60s that were published in various magazines at that time. The book's called "Bogombo Snuffbox." First of all, it reminded me of how much I've always liked Vonnegut's writing. He's funny and insightful and warm and ironic and sardonic and not preachy. Vonnegut's take on humanism and Jesus and evolution goes something like this: "How do humanists feel about Jesus? I say of Jesus as all humanists do, 'Since what he (Jesus) said is good, and so much of it is absolutely beautiful, what does it matter if he was God or not?' " and "Evolution is so creative. That's how we got giraffes." Second of all, this book reminded me that just because I like good writing it doesn't mean I can do it, too. Instead, I think I'll re-read "Sirens of Titan" and "Cat's Cradle" and "Breakfast of Champions." It doesn't get any better than that.

We had a massive power failure in Los Angeles today, and John Gibson on Fox News was practically foaming at the mouth hoping that it was a terrorist attack and/or rioting and looting in the streets. Fox carried a picture of the smokestacks at the refineries in Wilmington which regularly emit a flame as part of the refinery process, and actually captioned it "Fire Burns In Los Angeles." Hey John--Fire burns in Guam and Schenectady and Capetown and Buenos Aires, too. Idiots. The power failure was due to some guy with a backhoe who was working for the Dept. of Power and Water and accidentally severed an underground power line, though the official DWP story is a little more creative. Nonetheless, no terrorists. No rioting. No looting. Sorry to diasppoint you, John.

I think Charles Schulz said it best: "I love mankind. It's people I can't stand."

I mean....

2005-09-06T19:32:00.000-07:00

I'm glad to see that the state of Pennsylvania has seen fit to allow beer distributors to be open on Sunday afternoons. Just in time for football season. I know that both of my readers are familiar with the arcane beer and liquor laws in Pennsylvania, so I won't go into detail. But it's one small step for beer, one giant leap for beer-kind.

I just discovered that if you press and hold the alt key and type 164, you get a letter "n" with a tilde over it, or ñ! Now I can type words like piñata and.......well, I can't think of any more. But if I do, I'll let you know. If either of my readers know of any more of these woñderful features, please let me know. Thañks.

I once heard many years ago that Candice Bergen claimed to have never set foot in a McDonald's or eaten any McDonald's food. I didn't know whether to admire her for that or be annoyed. But then when I thought about it, I have never set foot in a Starbucks or had any Starbucks coffee. Ever. And I'm damn proud of that. There are at least 4 Starbucks within walking distance of my home, and I haven't been to any of 'em. So to Candice Bergen I say, "You go, girl."

Don't you hate it when people reply to a question by first saying, "I mean..."? Like you say, "How's your job going?" And they say, "I mean, it's going okay, but I'm looking around." Or you say, "Your car's running good." And they say, "I mean, it's running okay, but it needs a tune-up and an oil change." I mean, I hate that.

Mañana! That's another one. Mañana! I'll hit my piñata mañana. Cool!

M-M-M-My Audition

2005-09-02T17:46:00.000-07:00

When I first moved to Southern California from Pennsylvania in 1978 to become a working musician, I didn't really know anyone here, so I registered with Musician's Contact Service. MCS was a company where, for a fee, players looking for bands could hook up with bands looking for players. One of the first auditions I got through MCS was in the late summer of '78. They didn't tell me the name of the act or anything about them, but I packed my gear into the back of the old Pinto station wagon and drove to a rehearsal studio in Hollywood for an audition. I looked like a typical musician in 1978--longish hair, a goatee, and bell-bottom corduroy jeans. I walked into the rehearsal studio, and there were these four guys all dressed in tight, straight black jeans, black boots, white shirts, and skinny black ties, with hair that was shorter than the hair I was used to seeing on musicians. The guitar players both had cool old Vox AC30 amplifiers and nice guitars. There was one guy who seemed to speak for the rest of them, so I introduced myself and told him I'd bring my gear in. He told me I didn't have to and pointed to an old Wurlitzer electric piano in the corner. I sat down and thought we'd all decide on a tune or two to jam on. But the spokesman-type guy came over to me and asked me if I knew any Beatles tunes, since I had written on my MCS profile that The Beatles, Chuck Berry, and Gershwin were some of my influences. Well, I was in luck, because I knew the piano parts to a bunch of Beatles songs lick for lick. So I played "Martha My Dear" and the piano solo in "Lovely Rita Meter Maid" and the Billy Preston piano solo in "Get Back" and the harpsichord solo in "In My Life" and a couple of others. The main guy seemed pretty impressed, and the other guys just kind of milled around. Finally, the main guy said they really liked me and asked me if I would be willing to shave my goatee because they weren't into facial hair. I originally grew my goatee because Wilt Chamberlain had a goatee and I thought it would improve my basketball game, but I said sure, I'd shave my goatee, no problem. So the main dude said okay, fine, we'll give you a call and let you know what we decide. Nobody else said anything, and nobody else played a note besides me. They never told me who they were. I had a phone number that MCS gave me for these guys, and I called a couple of days later, and the guy said they hadn't really decided if they were going to add a keyboard player, but I was the front-runner if they were. Didn't hear from them again.

About a month later, I was walking by the record store in the mall, and there was a big display in the front of the store with a new album, and on the front of the album was a picture of those guys, all dressed exactly the same as they were dressed the day of my audition.

The Knack. My Sharona.

I guess they decided not to add a keyboard player.

Badminton

2005-08-21T11:02:00.000-07:00

I watched a little bit of the finals of the International Badminton Federation World Championships from the Arrowhead Pond in Anaheim on television last night. It was broadcast on the local Asian television station, KSCI in Los Angeles. What a strange and wonderful sport! Badmintion is huge throughout the world, especially in Asia, but here it's considered to be little more than something you play with your cousins at the family picnic.

On Thursday night, Tony Gunawan and Howard Bach became the first American men's doubles team to advance to the quarterfinals of the IBF championship. They then defeated fourth-seeded Luluk Hadiyanto and Yulianto Alven of Indonesia on Saturday to advance to the men's doubles final tonight. Bach was born in Vietnam and moved to Orange County, California five years ago. He works part-time at Home Depot in Orange, CA. Gunawan won an Olympic gold medal in 2000 playing for Indonesia with his partner Sigit Budiarto. Gunawan married his teammate from the Indonesian national team, Eti Tantra, and moved to a one-bedroom apartment in Orange County last year. Gunawan is not a U.S. citizen but was allowed to compete for the U.S. after a waiver was granted by the IBF. He recently passed the interview to receive a green card to allow permanent resident status.

Are all the future American badminton players going to continue to come from Indonesia and Vietnam? Where are the future badminton John McEnroes and Andre Aggasis?

On Friday night, the Thai mixed doubles team of Sudket Prapakamol and Saralee Thungthongkam lost to Jun Zhang and Lin Gao of China. I just threw that in because I love those names.

Anyway, I'm now an international badminton fan. Hopefully, ESPN or Fox will start carrying some badminton tournaments in the near future. It's an interesting sport that demands speed and quickness. You gotta love a sport that uses a shuttlecock and manages to say it with a straight face.

I'm right -- No I'm right -- No I'm right

2005-08-20T09:08:00.000-07:00

In the recent past, I've gotten into some pretty heated exchanges with people over the internet. A lot of these exchanges have to do with politics and/or religion, some are about sports and/or entertainment, and some have even been about switchblades, for crying out loud. Sometimes I fall asleep obsessing about these exchanges and wake up plotting my next tirade. Sometimes I use carefully worded and researched tomes to make my point, and sometimes I just let loose a knee-jerk barrage. Ultimately, though, I end up feeling pretty silly.

What a colossal waste of time and effort!

Blogs and internet forums are wonderful places for empty arguments without the threat of actually hearing something that might change your mind. There's no real give-and-take. You don't have to consider anyone else's position. You don't even have to look him in the eye or be in the same room. You can always find plenty of sources on the internet that will support your point of view and link to them as proof of the validity of your opinion.

Is anyone's opposing viewpoint going to cause me to reexamine my own opinions? Probably not. Is my viewpoint going to cause anyone else to reexamine his opinions? Nope. I just hope I'm not as self-righteous and self-absorbed and inflexible and arrogant as some of the people with whom I've had these exchanges. And I hope that they fall asleep obsessing about it, too, and wake up the next morning thinking about what they should've said and what they're going to say next. I'm going to make a real effort to stop doing this to myself and not get into another heated argument with anyone on the internet, trying to convince them that they're wrong and I'm right. Instead, maybe I'll go ride my bike or read a real book or take some pictures or go for a swim or tell my wife I love her.

Obsessive arguing on line is like trying to convince my dog that it doesn't really feel good when he licks and scratches himself down there.

UPDATE: Okay. One last time I just had to tell off one switchblade asshole who's been a pain in my ass for a long time. I had to make nice with him before because we both moderated the same switchblade forum. Now I'm done with him, too. I feel better. Honest.

The Library

2005-08-17T17:13:00.000-07:00

I love the library. I love the idea of the library. Most of the books I read come from the library. I used to buy a lot of books, but I ended up giving most of them away or getting practically nothing for them at the used book store (I also love the used book store). There's a new library being built here in Santa Monica, and it'll be finished soon. The old library was a pretty amazing place, and the new one is supposed to be huge and even more wonderful. The Downtown Central Library in Los Angeles is seven stories tall (I think) and is the Taj Majal of public libraries. I keep saying I'm going to visit it some day, but downtown LA isn' t my favorite place, so I haven't gone yet.

In my experience, libraries often attract some strange people. I guess a free place to sit all day and read and use the bathrooms is a pretty attractive thing to some of the denizens of the city. Nevertheless, to me that's part of the library's charm.

From time to time, I've been a student of the Kennedy assassination, and I've read most of the standard books on the subject from the library. I have a good friend who's a pretty serious student of the JFK assassination, and he buys all the books. He likes to call me up, depending on if he's bought a new JFK assasination book recently, to discuss assassination theories, and every so often I'll include a JFK assasination book when I check books out of the library just to refresh my memory and keep up with him. Apparently, there will always be another JFK assassination book, and my buddy will probably buy it and want to discuss it with me.

One of my favorite authors is a guy who writes under the pseudonym of KC Constantine. He's written a series of police procedurals which are actually character studies and subtle social commentaries, and I look forward every time there's a new one out. When a new Constantine book is in the stores, it'll soon be at the library. He writes the best dialogue I've ever read, and his characters talk like real people talk and have problems that real people have. Anyway, in the KC Constantine book called Bottom Liner Blues, one of the characters is a mean old Russian immigrant author whom I suspect is a stand-in for Constantine himself. This character has an interesting position on libraries. He believes that libraries flagrantly violate the U.S. Constitution and should be banned. Article 1, Section 8, paragraph 8 of the Constitution states "The Congress shall have the power to....promote the progress of science and useful arts, by securing for limited times to authors and inventors the exclusive right to their respective writings and discoveries." The fifth amendment states "No person shall be...deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation." His reasoning is that libraries are tax-supported institutions that make his copyrighted material available to the public for free, thus taking his property for public use without just compensation. I suspect that Constantine had one too many people tell him that they're devoted fans and have read all of his books, and that they get them from the library (like me). I never thought of it that way, and I suppose he has a point. I've bought four or five of Constantine's books over the years, but I have to confess that I get the majority of them from the library. But if I had to buy them, I probably wouldn't read them.

So to both of my readers, I highly recommend the library. Free books are your friends.

Oh yeah. Oswald didn't shoot anybody that day, Oswald was definitely a CIA operative, there's been a massive ongoing coverup involving the Secret Service and others, there were at least five shots fired at the president including at least two head shots, the autopsy was a sham, the autopsy photos and x-rays are faked, and the Zapruder film was tampered with and edited.

Stuff

2005-08-15T21:27:00.000-07:00

Delta Airlines transports about 50,000 dead bodies per year, according to the Wall Street Journal, 5/17/2005.....
The average resident of Rome, Georgia drinks 1,000 Coca Colas per year, more than any other place on earth, according to the Atlanta Journal Constitution, 8/5/2001.....
At Yale University from 1964 to 1968, George W. Bush's grade average was 77. He got a 69 in astronomy and an 88 in history, philosophy, and anthropology, according to the Boston Globe, 6/7/2005.....
In John Kerry’s freshman year at Yale, he got a 61 in geology, and a 63 and 68 in two history classes. His highest grade was an 89 in a senior year Political Science course, according to the Boston Globe, 6/7/2005.....
After his capture in 1964, for almost 30 years, Ivan the Gorilla lived in a concrete cage at the B&I shopping mall in Tacoma, Washington, where his job was to entertain customers. In 1994, Ivan was transported to the Atlanta Zoo, where he still lives, according to the Boston Globe, 10/22/1994.....
When Japanese corporation Maspro Denkoh decided to sell its collection of Impressionist paintings, it couldn't decide between Christie's and Sotheby's. Takashi Hashiyama, the corporation's president, decided that a game of rock-paper-scissors would be "'the best way to decide between two things which are equally good.'" Christie's and Sotheby's were instructed to write their choices on a sheet of paper. Christie's scissors beat Sotheby's paper, and Christie's went on to sell four works for $22.8 million dollars, according to The Chicago Sun-Times, 5/1/2005.....
President Franklin Pierce was driving his carriage back to the White House after visiting a friend's home one night in 1853 and hit a woman identified as Mrs. Nathan Lewis, who was uninjured. President Pierce was promptly arrested by Constable Stanley Edelin, but the charges were later dropped, according to The Washington Post, 2/18/1996.....
In their e-mails, French government employees are prohibited from using the word "e-mail." In July 2003, France advised all government employees that they should refer to e-mails as "courriels" rather than "e-mails" in an effort to stem the invasion of English words into the French language, according to Agence France Presse, 7/9/2003.

Industrial Hemp Farming Act of 2005

2005-08-10T10:20:00.000-07:00

A bill was just introduced in the U.S. House of Representatives, sponsored by five Democrats and one Republican, to amend the Controlled Substances Act to exclude industrial hemp from the definition of marijuana and allow cultivation of industrial hemp as a commercial product in the U.S. If this bill is passed, it would allow individual states exclusive authority to regulate growing and processing of industrial hemp. Anyone familiar with the potential uses and benefits of industrial hemp knows how important this is. Hemp has the potential to revolutionize textiles, feedstocks, and construction, as well as providing substantial reduction in pollution and less reliance on FOSSIL FUEL. The list goes on and on.

Hemp is not marijuana. Marijuana is grown for its unpollinated female flowers. Hemp is grown for its fibrous stems and stalks and the oil from seeds. Marijuana plants are bushy and leafy. Hemp plants are tall and straight with minimal leaves. Actually, widespread cultivation of industrial hemp is a marijuana grower's nightmare. If you're trying to grow high-grade sinsemilla and there's industrial hemp growing all over the place pollinating your female plants, you've got big problems.

Hemp cultivation could literally be a lifesaver to farmers in the U.S.

Shorter

2005-08-06T19:19:00.000-07:00

I used to be 6 feet 4-1/2 inches tall. My pants were a 36-inch inseam. Recently I went shopping for a pair of pants, and the inseam that fit me best was 34 inches. I went home and measured myself, and I am now 6 feet 3 inches tall. What the hell happened? I liked being six-four. Six-three isn't as cool as six-four. I'm bummed.

The best five dollars I've spent recently was on a fake surveillance camera I mounted in my front window. It sure looks real, and it has a motion sensor that makes the thing go back and forth whenever someone walks past our door. It's funny to see how different people react when they see our "camera." Some people wave. Some people smile. A few people are absolutely outraged. One neighbor actually had a lawyer send us a letter accusing us of aiming a surveillance camera at her door, which is really funny because her apartment is directly above ours, and the camera points straight out, not straight up. We can't even see her door, so I'm puzzled as to how she thinks our camera is aimed at her. We've told most of the neighbors that it's fake, and they all get a kick out of it. We haven't told the upstairs neighbor.

Speaking of neighbors, our neighbors to the left are a Russian man married to a Filipina woman. The Russian man, Alex, is a very cool guy. Alex is really smart (he does the NY Times crossword every day), and he knows more about American jazz and blues than I do. He's sort of larger than life. He laughs big, he smokes big, he eats big, he drinks big, and he works hard. He used to be a house painter, and now he drives for a limo service. His wife is an amazing cook. She's one of those people who can just throw together a bunch of stuff from scratch, and it's the most delicious, unusual food you've ever tasted. Once in a while she brings something over for us, and it's always amazing. They have a 14-year-old daughter who is the sweetest, nicest, prettiest girl in town. They should be very proud.

One of the major athletic shoe stores here in town, maybe The Athlete's Foot or the Foot Locker, distributes free athletic shoes to the homeless. Transients come from miles around to get these shoes. It's not unusual to see people who are obviously out of their minds, shuffling down the street yelling to themselves, sleeping in the park, draped in stinking, ratty, filthy clothes, wearing brand-new Air Jordans or Adidas Promodels on their bare, dirt-encrusted feet. Maybe they all have sweet jump shots. I don't know.

Chico and Pepe

2005-05-02T21:06:00.000-07:00

I was going to suspend my pledge to not write about religion and politics, but not this time. Instead, do yourself a favor and pick up the May issue of Harper's magazine. You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll be scared shitless. Honest. Now on to the story of Chico and Pepe.

The story of Chico and Pepe is a tragedy, to be sure, but somehow it always made me chuckle, albeit a nervous chuckle. For my 12th birthday (yeah it's another story about my childhood--last one, I promise), Mom and Dad bought me a much-coveted, brand-new "English bike." 'Twas a beauty--a shiny black Hercules with a 3-speed Sturmey-Archer, hand brakes, and a leather Brooks saddle. Well, one fine July day, I went for a ride on my new Shnookycycle through Brandon Park in my hometown of Williamsport, PA. I had that baby maxed out in third gear, and I must've reached a good 17 or 18 mph coursing through the winding streets of the park. As I rounded a curve, I couldn't help but suddenly notice to my left a little girl of about 8 or 9 walking two Chihuahuas on skinny little leashes across the grass in my direction. Next thing you know, one of the little Mexican bastardos broke loose from the little girl and ran right in front of me and my beloved Hercules. I swerved, but of course it was too little, too late. The damn dog ran right under my front wheel. I ran over his little neck, and he was killed instantly. Dead in the streets of Brandon Park. I skidded to a stop and turned back, afraid of what I already knew. The little girl ran over to the body of the little dog there in the street and screamed, "You killed Chico!! You killed Chico!! What am I going to tell my parents? What am I going to tell Pepe?" I asssumed Pepe was the other Chihuahua. I picked up the lifeless body of Chico and laid him gently in the grass by the side of the road, and li'l Pepe came over and sniffed him sadly and promptly peed on the nearest tree. By now, both the little girl and I were in tears. I apologized profusely and told her I didn't have a chance to avoid him, and eventually she agreed that there was nothing I could have done. I told her I'd help her take Chico back home, but she shook her head defiantly, picked up Chico, and headed back in the direction from whence she came, little Pepe toddling along obediently. With tears streaming down my murdering face, I saddled up the killer cycle and slowly rode home.

I love dogs. I really do. And I don't know why this story strikes me as morbidly funny. Maybe it's the juxtaposition of my cool new bike and the tragedy awaiting me just around the corner on a fine summer day. I often think about Chico and Pepe and wonder whatever happened to Pepe and that little girl. I never even told her my name. I do know that my bike was never the same after that fateful day.

Perfect Pitch

2005-04-25T20:16:00.000-07:00

I can already tell this is going to be a long one. Sorry about that.

When I was about 7 or 8 years old, I had been taking piano lessons for about 3 years, and my mom took me to see a movie about Franz Liszt starring Cornell Wilde called "A Song To Remember." Terrible movie. Anyway, later at home, I remarked to my mom that the lady in the movie sure held that high B-flat for a long time. She asked me how I knew it was a B-flat. Whaddaya mean how'd I know it was a B-flat? That was like asking me how I knew my shirt was blue. So mom ran to the piano in the other room and played some notes and some chords and asked me what they were, and I told her. She asked me to sing some notes, and I did. Shnooky, she said, you have perfect pitch. I never heard of perfect pitch. I honestly didn't know that not everyone could hear pitch the way I did. Apparently I was born with it.

From that day forward, my fate was sealed. When I was a kid, the last thing I wanted to be was different from everyone else. I already hated the piano because I got home from school at about 3:30 and dinner was always at 5:00 sharp, and I had to practice the piano immediately after school. My friends had already been out playing for half an hour or 45 minutes before I could go out, and I always felt left out. None of my neighborhood friends were musicians. Somewhere along the line after I really understood what this perfect pitch thing implied, I decided that okay, I'll do this music thing. I'll take the piano lessons. I'll sing in every school choir and church choir. I'll play in the band and the orchestra. But I'll put forth the minimal amount of effort required. And I'll show zero enthusiasm. You can make me take lessons, but you can't make me like it. And whenever I wanted to do something or go somewhere that I thought everyone else was allowed to do and my parents didn't let me, I always figured it was because I was Music Boy, because that was the only thing I could see that made me different from everyone else. More reason to hate being Music Boy.

Our school system had a good music program with free summer instrumental lessons, so when the summer after fourth grade came around, it was decided that Shnooky would learn THE VIOLIN. THE VIOLIN. So while my friends were riding bikes and squirting each other with hoses, I took VIOLIN LESSONS along with piano lessons. Later, I took clarinet lessons and finally saxophone lessons. Oh yeah. I also learned to play the bassoon. I played in all the school orchestras and all the school bands. I went to district band and state band. I sang in all the choirs. I went to district choir and state choir. And I put forth an absolute minimum amount of effort, because I didn't like being Music Boy. There was no payoff for me. I never discovered music on my own. It was thrust upon me. I didn't ask for it. I didn't get off on it. And I had this damn perfect pitch.

Here's the thing. When I was in elementary school and the teacher would tell us to write about what we wanted to be when we grew up, other kids would say I wanna be a fireman or I wanna be a policeman or I wanna be a cowboy or I wanna be a veterinarian. I always said, "Well, I'll probably be a public school music teacher/band director/choir director and be a church organist/choir director and piano teacher." Because that was all I knew. That's what you did when you were into music and grew up where I did. I had it all figured out by about third grade. And even that young, I probably realized that I would never have the kind of talent for anything else in life that I had for music, like it or not. So I knew all along that my fate in life was to do this thing I hated.

All along, I've known people who bought the whole music package. They loved music and everything about it. It brought them joy and happiness and fulfillment. They loved to sing and play and talk about singing and playing. When I played rock and roll, I knew people who lived every minute for their music, listened to music when they weren't playing it or writing it, surrounded themselves with music. I never bought the whole package. I always resisted it. I always wanted to do other stuff, try other things, be good at something I wasn't born with, something at which I had to put forth more than a minimal effort. I got pretty damn good at basketball, and there was a time I would have traded all of my musical talent to be 6' 8" and be known as a basketball player and not as Music Boy.

I hear pitch everywhere. I can walk into a bathroom and speak a few words and hear what the resonant frequency of the room is and hum it until the walls shake. I used to do that in my high school auditorium until they told me to cut it out. I used to be able to tell how fast my dad was driving over the Market Street Bridge by the pitch of the tires against the metal roadway grating. I know the key of every song I hear on the radio, and I know what every note is that they're singing. You can play a random cluster of notes on a piano that's in tune, and I can tell you what every note is. I can tell you which string on your guitar is out of tune. I can tell you what notes your doorbell plays.

To be successful in the music business, I've always felt that you need three things: love, luck, and talent, in that order. You have to buy the whole package. You have to love what you're doing so much that you'd do it all day for free. You also need to have a bit of luck and/or connections, whether it's your brother-in-law who works at Universal or Bruce Springsteen was in your first rock and roll band or something like that. Sometimes the love can determine the luck. Third on the list is talent. I've always had talent to spare, but I never had the love, and my connections and luck have always been few and far between.

So here I am with a gift I never asked for. It's like I was given an amazing wood shop at the age of 4 with the most modern and sophisticated woodworking tools imaginable, and I don't like carpentry. Damn perfect pitch.

Guilty TV Pleasures

2005-04-05T18:06:00.000-07:00

1. America's Next Top Model. Maybe it's because of Tyra. Maybe it's all the melodrama. I don't know. All I do know is that I find this show strangely compelling.

2. Craft Corner Deathmatch on the Style Network. Indescribably subversive. Great host. Twisted format. Kind of like Iron Chef meets The Apprentice only much more humiliating.

3. The Maury Povich Show, but only when he does paternity tests. Otherwise known as Mybabydontneednodaddy. The best moment in television is when Maury is handed the envelope and says the words, "When it comes to.....you are NOT the father."

4. Real Pro Wrestling on PAX. I just discovered this one. It's collegiate-style wrestling with professional teams representing states of the union; i.e. the Pennsylvania Hammer, the Oklahoma Slam, the Iowa Stalkers (?!),and the New York Outrage. With weight classes and everything. Sweaty mens with bare chests and tight shorts groping each other. And I'm not even gay.

5. Tales Of The Gun on The History Channel. From flintlocks to percussion caps. From Colt .45s to S&W Police Specials. From M1 Garands to Thompson submachine guns. From Colt Model 1911s to Walther P38s. You get the idea.

6. America's Funniest Home Videos. I've loved this show since Bob Saget was the host. I never get tired of talking cats and dogs and people falling on their faces.

7. Women's Pro Beach Volleyball. Self-explanatory.

I only have basic cable, so that leaves out all the premium stuff I have yet to sample. If you have any suggestions, I'm open, dammit.

Scions and poltergeists

2005-03-14T13:04:00.000-08:00

I guess it's too late for my son to be a scion. Sorry Tim. Just what are the qualifications for being a scion? Can scionage skip a generation? Personally, I'd rather be a fellow. Maybe it's not too late to be a fellow somewhere.

I saw a unbelievably transcendentally beautiful girl at the grocery store the other day. You could tell that she tried to dress down and not call attention to herself, but it was as if she had a spotlight trained on her. As I watched the men in the store stop dead in their tracks and stare at her and follow her around, it occured to me that having a perfect, natural beauty is in a lot of ways like having a big growth coming out of the side of your head. People don't see anything else. People will stare dumbfounded. People will try to treat you normally, but everyone knows what everyone's thinking. Next time I see someone with a big growth coming out of the side of his or her head, I'll think of this beautiful girl at the grocery store and marvel at my own insight.

I have a simple, surefire way of making myself smile and be happy for a couple of moments. It works every time. All I have to do is give my dog some peanut butter. Anyone who's done it knows what I mean. The dog loves it, and it gives me a good laugh. I recommend it.

Come to think of it, most foods I like can be made tastier by adding either some peanut butter, a little onion, or some cheese of some sort. Not all on the same dish.

We have a poltergeist in our apartment. Once every three or four months, the towel ghost messes up the towels on the rack in the bathroom. I make it a habit to straighten the towels on the towel rack perfectly at night, and sure enough a couple of days ago I awoke to find them all mussed up. It hadn't happened for a while, but I'm pretty sure it was the work of the towel ghost. Next thing you know, she'll (I think it's a she) be starting in on the dishtowels or the paper towels. Go to the light, towel ghost.

I Saw Him Standing There

2005-03-03T14:15:00.000-08:00

I've been a musician all my life, and I used to work in a big recording studio. A while back, there was this guy who used to hang around in the lobby of the studio for hours and try to flirt with the studio manager Tiffany (not her real name), who was about six feet tall and strikingly well put together. Anyway, this guy's name was Brian and he had long blonde hair, and he was really pale - sort of opaque or translucent - with pale blue eyes. He was pretty annoying, and I don't think Tiffany particularly liked him, either. I had heard that he was a guitar player, but I never worked with him or heard him play.

One night years later, I was watching an HBO-I-think-it-was special with Paul McCartney playing in Red Square in Russia. And there playing guitar in Paul McgoddamnCartney's band in Red Square was - yep! - Brian the annoying opaque guy. Sure enough, Super Bowl comes around, there's - yep! - Brian the annoying opaque guy playing at halftime in the SupergoddamnBowl. Brian plays guitar when Paul McCartney plays bass, and Brian plays bass when Paul McCartney plays piano or guitar. Unbelievable.

His name's Brian Ray, and he's probably a real nice guy. I'm sure he's got a website and everything. He probably plays really well. Am I jealous? Damn right I am. I wonder if Tiffany would go out with him now.

Waterspouts and Tigers

2005-02-23T16:34:00.000-08:00

Yesterday afternoon, I saw two waterspouts touch down over Santa Monica Bay, and this morning they shot and killed a 600-pound Bengal tiger that had been living in the foothills north of Los Angeles for almost a month. Strange days, indeed.

About 8 months ago, I was staying in a Marriott in Orange County under bad circumstances. Anyway, the toilet paper in the hotel bathroom was way down at ankle level, so it was awkward to use. And the best part was, the perforations on the toilet paper only went about 3/4 of the way across the sheet. So I'm sitting there bent over trying to tear off a hunk, and the damn thing won't tear all the way off, and it tears up the roll instead of across the roll, and......well, you get the picture. Who invented this cruel toilet paper, anyway? And did they recommend installing it at ankle level?

On January 14, 2005, at about 4:50 a.m. the battery-operated clock on my desk spontaneously started running backwards, and it's been running backwards ever since. The second hand goes backwards, and the minute hand and hour hand go backwards, too. Somehow I think my backwards clock is now holding the universe together, and if I try to mess with it, life as we know it will cease to exist.

When I hear the administration talking about phasing out Social Security (yes, they want to phase it out) and limiting class-action suits against corporations, I can't help but think of my late father whose last years were made easier with the help of Social Security and who died of asbestos-related mesothelioma, one of the many illnesses that now fall under the conservatives' "tort reform." Dammit..

Say it isn't so, fellas...

2005-01-21T11:32:00.000-08:00

First Tinky Winky, then Abraham Lincoln, and now SpongeBob? Hasn't anyone heard of "Don't ask, don't tell?" Next thing you know, somebody will tell me that Smithers or Velma...What?...No!...It couldn't be!....

Not that there's anything wrong with it.

Surprise, Surprise

2005-01-16T09:07:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when I read the Sunday LA Times, all I can say is "What a world." Today I'm saying "Surprise, Surprise."

When Condoleeza Rice was provost at Stanford University, she was well known for actively stifling any dissent among staff and faculty. Marsh McCall, who is a professor of classics and who served as the dean of adult education and dean of summer session, was called to Rice's office after criticizing a university ad campaign. Ms. Rice told Mr. McCall "Either you're a member of the team, or you're not a member of the team." Where have I heard that one before?

The other "surprise" is that Newt Gingrich is fully rehabilitated and is once again a formidable power in the GOP. He may actually consider a run for the presidency in 2008. Of course, compared to guys like Dennis Hastert and Tom DeLay, Gingrich looks like Winston Churchill. Dammit.

Dammit

2005-01-15T15:53:00.000-08:00

Some of the guys in the governing body of Sinn Fein, otherwise known as the Ard Chomhairle, have the coolest names I've ever run across. Like Aengus O'Snodaigh and Caoimhghin O'Caolain. God, I love those names. Maybe at one of Sinn Fein's Ard Fheiseanna, or annual conferences, they can make me an honorary member and give me a cool new name.

I've decided that in the new year, I will end all of my spoken sentences with "dammit." Like "Gimme a Bud Light, dammit." Or "What time have you got, dammit?" Or "I'll see you later, dammit." Or "I love you, dammit." It adds some extra urgency necessary in this post-9/11 day and age. Dammit.

I've also decided that I liked Alicia Keys better when she sat at the piano and wore big hats, dammit.

There's a homeless guy who has been hanging out near my home for the last 10 or 12 years whom I dubbed Francis because 10 years ago he was a dead ringer for Francis Ford Coppola around the time of Apocalypse Now, with the short salt-and-pepper beard and wire-rim glasses and the baseball cap. Francis's beard is longer and grayer now, but I swear the guy dresses better than I do. Yesterday, he was wearing a nice pair of green khaki trousers with a sharp crease and cuffs, a nice brown mock-turtleneck sweater, a beautiful soft, light-brown, buttery leather jacket, and new shoes. He looks like your friendly neighborhood college professor. Sometimes I don't deposit my dog's poop bag into the dumpster where he's looking because I don't want to spoil his breakfast or lunch. Maybe homelessness is just his hobby.

Any time there's violence in Spain, it's always attributed to Basque separatists. Now, I don't know what the hell a Basque separatist is, but by golly, if a bomb blows up in Spain, it's the work of Basque separatists. Who are these Basques and why do they want to separate? Can't they all just get along?

Dammit.

Slightly Above Average

2004-12-26T11:20:00.000-08:00

I want to be slightly above average. I want to blend right in. I want people to remember me fondly, but not remember me too much. I want to be a functional cog in a big machine. I want to be a medium-sized fish in a decent-sized pond. I want to know what's going on but not have anyone ask me what's going on. I want to stand out just a little. I want the boss to figure I'm okay because he hasn't heard anything bad about me. I want to have a nice car but not so nice as to call attention to itself. I want to have a nice smile. I want my work to speak for itself but not too loudly. I want to be a good team player. I want to get as many rebounds as points. I want my efforts to contribute to a whole which is greater than the sum of its parts, and I want to be one of those parts the sum of which is greater than the whole. I want to be expendable but hard to replace. I want the guy next to me to make me look good, and I want to make the guy on the other side of me look good. When they interview my neighbors, I want them to say, "He always seemed like a nice guy, but I didn't really know him all that well."

Happy Birthday

2004-12-16T19:01:00.000-08:00

I've got nothing to say except Happy Birthday, son. You make your old man proud.

Random Stuff

2004-12-05T10:24:00.000-08:00

I have an ugly, ongoing dispute with my neighbors who live in the apartment directly above me. It's probably the nastiest thing I've ever been involved with, and I have a visceral hatred for these two delusional, sociopathic grifters. The eviction process is underway, but these idiots won't leave until the marshall shows up and drills out their front door lock and bodily evicts them and their stuff. And it won't happen for at least another month. Anyway, I've learned (once again) that there are people who use and manipulate other people as a matter of course. There are people who lie and lie about lying and believe their own lies. There are people who think nothing of stealing from others while convincing themselves that the people they're stealing from are "investing." After all, investing is a crap shoot, and investors lose money all the time, right? This has dominated our lives for six months, and I just want it to be over. Enough of that.

When Michael Jordan first retired and then un-retired from the Chicago Bulls in 1994, he briefly wore jersey number 45 before switching back to his familiar number 23. While Mike was wearing number 45, a concerned mother asked coach Phil Jackson which replica jerseys she should buy for her kids-- 45 or 23. Jackson thought for a minute and replied, "Buy them books." I like Phil Jackson.

Speaking of basketball, one of my personal heroes, and a man whose philosophy of life is as relevant today as it was when he developed it, is John Wooden, former head coach of the UCLA Bruins. Everyone who ever played for Coach Wooden says that every day they utilize something he taught them about life and how to live it. His Pyramid Of Success is more popular and relevant now than ever. The man is exactly the same today as he was 60 years ago, and the fact that he's still around is a wonderful thing. He was an extraordinary coach and an even greater man. He's a national treasure.

Mickey's Song

2004-11-17T16:40:00.000-08:00

This is the true story of how Mickey got his Rolls-Royce. It's kind of long, so please bear with me. The names have been changed because I always wanted to write something in which I could change the names..

Mickey was born and raised in Los Angeles, the son of a corporate lawyer and a doting mother. Mickey's father did well enough to send Mickey to private schools and ultimately to USC. Mickey loved and idolized his father the corporate lawyer. Here's what Mickey's father did in his spare time: He filed lawsuits. The family would go on vacation or take a cruise, and afterwards Mickey's father would sue the hotel or sue the airline or sue the cruise line for something or other. More often than not, the hotel or airline or cruise line would settle out of court to avoid bad publicity, and Mickey's father would pocket a couple hundred grand for the effort. Mickey really admired his father for this and often said so.

Mickey wanted to get into show business, but he was pretty untalented at anything having to do with show business, so of course he became a manager. He managed some stand-up comedians and actor-types for a while with little or no success. In the meantime, Mickey's beloved father passed away relatively young (in his early 60s), and Mickey became executor of his late father's estate. Eventually, Mickey decided he wanted to manage a sucessful country-western act, though he knew nothing about music, and he hooked up with a cowboy singer-songwriter named Billy. Billy was a real live cowboy who lived in the state of Washington on his dad's ranch and had a little band who traveled about and played Billy's songs, and Mickey became their manager. Along the way, Mickey began drinking a little more than he should have, though not nearly as heavily as lots of people we all know. Mickey spent a lot of his family's money trying to become a big-shot country-western manager and trying to make Billy a star, and there was certainly no shortage of folks who were perfectly willing to take Mickey's money in the process. Mickey bought Billy's band a van, some musical equipment, studio time, and clothing, and he sent those boys out on the road. But no matter how much money he spent, Mickey just couldn't make Billy a country-western star. Part of this was probably because though he was a good singer and songwriter, Billy looked like a cross between Buddy Holly and those Scottish twins called the Proclaimers who "would walk 500 miles just to be the man who....." Anyway, after a year or two, Billy's band broke up, and Billy stayed on by himself in Los Angeles for a while trying to make it as a songwriter and solo act. Realizing he had blown a sizable chunk of his family's money, Mickey decided that instead of admitting defeat, he would just go into alcohol rehab, and he tried to convince everyone that his problem wasn't incompetence and lack of talent but substance abuse. Off Mickey went to Hazelden, and he came back even more insufferable, boring, annoying, and very sober.

Now, the one thing that Billy was really, really good at was yodeling. Billy was as good a yodeler as anyone I've ever heard. While Billy was living in LA on his own trying to make it in show biz, Mickey used to send him out on little studio gigs and promotional cowboy appearances. One day in about 1998 or so, Mickey sent Billy to a studio session where the client needed someone to do some yodeling. The client was a new internet start-up company, and they were looking for a short signature trademark sound, and they thought they'd try some yodeling. Well, Billy went to the little studio and yodeled on tape for about an hour and collected his $300 union scale and gave Mickey his 15% to 20% and pretty much forgot about it.

Fast forward to the 2001 Super Bowl. Mickey's in Los Angeles spending most of his time sponsoring recovering alcoholics and apologizing to his doting mother for spending most of the family's money, and Billy is back on the ranch in Washington. One of the major sponsors of the 2001 Super Bowl turned out to be that little internet start-up company, which was now a very big, very well-known internet company, to whom Billy had supplied an hour's worth of yodels trying to find their signature trademark sound. Lo and behold, while watching that fateful Super Bowl telecast, Mickey realized that that internet company's trademark yodel, that signature Yahoo!, had been yodeled by none other than Billy during that little session three years ago. Mickey's wheels started turning, and before you could say 15% to 20%, Mickey had filed a lawsuit on Billy's behalf for eight million dollars (I believe that was the amount) against that very big and very well-known internet company. To avoid bad publicity, the big, well-known internet company actually settled the lawsuit for close to the requested amount and hired Billy to do promotional appearances, and Mickey got his 15% to 20%. You can do the math.

And that's how Mickey got his Rolls-Royce, even though it's over 30 years old and leaks a bit of oil. Mickey's dad would be proud.

Biba Golic

2004-11-12T18:12:00.000-08:00

I have seen the beautiful face of the future of women's table tennis, and her name is Bilijana "Biba" Golic. She's 25 years old and is originally from Croatia. She played for NCAA champion Texas Wesleyan in 2004 and is now a featured player on the Killerspin circuit. The girl can play ping-pong. Biba Las Begas!!

BMWs

2004-11-05T17:26:00.000-08:00

Where I live, people who drive BMWs are a**holes. I'm sure BMW makes wonderful automobiles, and maybe some really reasonable people actually do drive them, but you couldn't prove it by me. With that in mind, here are some of my thoughts about people who drive BMWs (with apologies to Jeff Foxworthy):

If you're the kind of guy who likes to go 60 mph between stop signs in residential neighborhoods...you just might be driving a BMW.

If you think that signs that read "Handicapped Parking Only" are really saying "Park here because it's close"...you just might be driving a BMW.

If you actually believe that everyone's jealous of you and your precious car...you just might be driving a BMW.

If #1 on your speed dial rings up a skinhead named Hans who works for Helmut's Bavarian Autohaus and knows your car's engine inside and out because he has to service it every other week...you just might be driving a BMW.

If you're a really ugly girl whose daddy bought her a new car for her 16th birthday, and a new car for high school graduation, and a new car for college graduation, and you have a boyfriend whom you don't really like much and you think he doesn't really like you much but for some reason he still hangs around and he LOVES to use your car...you just might be driving a BMW.

If you consider pedestrians to be pylons...you just might be driving a BMW.

If you had to show the automobile dealer the big red "A" on your driver's license that stands for A**HOLE before they'd sell you a car...you just might be driving a BMW.

If everybody in front of you just drives too damn slow ALL the time...you just might be driving a BMW.

If you like 4-way stop signs because that means everybody else has to stop except you...you just might be driving a BMW.

If you have no job, and you still live with your parents, yet you still manage to swing that $1200 a month car payment and however much you paid for those stupid rims...you just might be driving a BMW.

If your idea of multitasking is talking on a cell phone, fixing your hair in the mirror, adjusting the volume on the CD player, looking for chicks, and pretending you're in a car commercial-- all while tailgating someone in the right lane so that you can save 13.7 seconds on your precious commute time...you just might be driving a BMW.

If you've been a loser all of your life and you're stupid enough to think that girls will like you now because of your car...you just might be driving a BMW.

Aftermath

2004-11-05T10:35:00.000-08:00

I will try to avoid posting about politics or religion, but here's my two cents' worth three days removed from the election. I live in California, so you can probably guess who was my choice for President. I'm not so out of touch that I just can't possibly understand why folks would want to vote for George Bush and not for John Kerry. But I am baffled by some of the responses from conservatives about what this all means.

Some Christian conservatives truly believe that liberalism is an evil ideology, and they don't hesitate to spout it. They believe that liberalism "vomits upon the morals, values, and traditions we hold sacred: God, family, and country...(liberals) attempt to divide Americans through their relentless warfare against class, ethnic, and religious unity..." on and on ad infinitum. I know a fair number of Christian conservatives, but I don't know anyone who truly believes this stuff. "Morality" played a significant role in this election -- more than any in my memory. And Mr. Bush came across with his image of being a moral man, a guy whose morals and ideals are the same as the people who voted for him, as manufactured and cultivated and cynical as this image really was.

Other people who might not have bought into the whole conservative package nonetheless just couldn't bring themselves to vote for John Kerry with all of his baggage. A fair amount of this baggage was, of course, sliced and diced and served up by the Swift Boaters and the Karl Rovians who distorted facts and just plain lied. A fair amount of this baggage was also reflected in Kerry's voting record in the Senate and his own sometimes convoluted words.

All of what I'm trying to say here has, of course, been said better and more succinctly elsewhere. Maybe Bush does have a mandate. Maybe he does really reflect the morals and values of a majority of people in the country. Maybe Bush and his cronies will truly turn us into a more moral people, turn us all into small business owners, make us all ignore the ridiculous posturing of Hollywood actors and musicians and Michael Moore, and spread democracy throughout the world. I'm not sure if I believe that we've just made the world and our country vastly more dangerous than it has been for the last three years. I'm not sure how history will assess the eight years of George Bush; I won't be around long enough. Frankly, I'm more concerned that people like Sean Hannity, Robert Novak, Ann Coulter, Rush Limbaugh, and their ilk will be all the more in our faces, believing their own bullshit and convincing more and more people that liberals are evil.

Okay. I'm done now.

Switchblades

2004-11-04T13:39:00.000-08:00

I love switchblades. I've loved 'em ever since I was a kid. I loved "West Side Story," "Rebel Without A Cause," and "The Blackboard Jungle." My dad thought that a switchblade would turn you into a juvenile delinquent, and it was tough to get a switchblade in the '60s. I used to buy these cheap, flat, little "Cat" knives and loosen the backspring a little and turn 'em into flick-of-the-wrist knives. The first real switchblade I ever saw belonged to my friend Hugh's dad. He had a black swingguard stiletto in a dresser drawer, and Hugh let me play with it a little one day when I was about 12 or so. Man, I've been hooked ever since. I was lucky enough to be able to travel to Europe semi-regularly in the '80s and I bought a few of 'em and brought 'em back, and I thought my switchblade fix was finally fulfilled.

Nowadays, you can buy switchblades over the internet. There are hundreds of places to buy 'em. There's even a couple of ebay-type auction sites devoted to knives -- mostly switchblades. The history of switchblades is actually quite interesting, especially the Italian stilettos. Now I have about 2 dozen switchblades, and I want more. Some Italian switchblades that were novelty items in the '50s and sold for five or ten bucks now command thousands of dollars.

I'm not a juvenile delinquent or an adult delinquent. I don't carry any of my switchblades. But I just love sitting at the computer or watching television with a switchblade in my hand, just flicking away. It somehow just seems right.