The other day I’m looking at the 2pm lunch special at Sbarro’s. There’s no one around, business is slow and has been slow since the 30,000 students left on winter break. I kindly ask the cashier to give me the 2pm special at the 1pm time. She says she can’t. Really?? I tell her that I won’t be hungry in an hour and that I’m here, ready to buy. No. I asked if she could ask the manager to override this rule and to give me the 2pm special price. She finally acquiesces. Was it the threat of asking the manager or just the threat of retribution of corporate policies on her?
This cashier had a limiter response to my request. This transaction was by a limiter, someone who obeys the rules of his clan or corporation. This is one of those things, a microcosm of the larger problem of our society. We’ve trained people to uphold stupid rules in the name of capitalism and economics and like the Fear of God, the fear of losing your job is the threat held over one’s head. This process allows so little leeway and flexibility in adapting to a new situation or just a change in the rules of an interaction. This is the same thing when a “robot” human checks your twenty dollar bill. Really?? We train people to ensure our currency is real? Why not check my singles and fives too? Who placed them in charge of the monetary supply and to enforce its rules? Checking for fake money is what banks do.
If you expand these events to the macrocosm, we have the attitudes and behaviors behind totalitarianism. Yes, those kindly German kids during WWII espoused hatred and took arms against the evil doers. Or how we inculcate ten year old boys after they’re taken hostage or kidnapped to fight wars in the Republic of the Congo. The latter by force and the former by cultural desensitization. We’re never far enough away from our past because the chain has always repaired itself after being destroyed.
Down the chain of command, this cashier at Sbarro’s or even your demurrer office colleague can’t take initiative because he or she has been guided by insipid rules. Those regulations have disregarded imagination and stifled customer service. And, me, almost begging for Sbarro’s 2pm discount price just to save $2.00 on overpriced pizza. That’s sick. And the kid, who’s in charge of her little link in the chain holds it together like a good soldier. She finally approved of the discount price after I explained how ridiculous this whole interaction and transaction is. Fuck it!
In the bureaucratic world of higher education, people like her are limiters too. They find ways of doing less at the expense and harm to those who want to do more. The limiters do as little as possible and don’t want to produce work for others. They no longer say it’s not my job. They just don’t act upon requests because their actions are dictated from above. If you don’t cc their supervisor in an email, they won’t do anything to help you unless they perceive some benefit to themselves. For those whose temperament like mine is to create (hopefully abundance), these types of people hinder drive and ambition. Instead of thinking creatively to solve problems and think of solutions, the limiters are injected into the process because we have to ask them about the rules and money and other things that are at odds with the functionality of creativity and thinking.
The limiters are just responders to another limiter above him so that the chain of command isn’t broken but kept welded together like a heavy chain. Even pointing out their folly doesn’t change the structure. The main limiter, the padlock, will eventually rust and break but another will replace it because the structure is built around that lock and we haven’t created another structure that’s independent. In a monotheistic society we have one God, and at the university, we have one lock as in monolimitism. (Sorry, I’m trying to create a new lexicon which will be quoted elsewhere by pseudo-intellectuals to make a name for myself or I will perish from the world of publishing; which I’ve never published before) People are scared to disobey the rules created by the corporations and organizations so they protect their status and jobs by upholding the rules and the processes. Otherwise, they’re jobless. They are the chain and gain strength from its size. They have no other imagination than what is allowed or supplied down that steel link from above. And once you destroy the chain, another appears.
The part that bothers me is that after the chain breaks, the structure repairs itself and replicates elsewhere. When a poor immigrant obtains part of the American dream, like a buying his or her first home, he will hire some low skill worker/s at a the same pay rate he got when he entered the country. We blame the limiters which they should be blamed but we need to change the padlock and chain by inventing something else. What then, you smugly ask?
Nothing. That’s right. We can’t be peaceful and happy in our society. Our differences create obstructions. All our systems have created rules of unhappiness. There’s nothing more to do. We can’t have a system where the rewards are knowledge and peace because there’s too many individuals who want power; there’s always someone with the need to collect things (cars, houses, vacations, money), to desire objects (partners, toys) and some others need to obey just like the church wants you to and has programmed you to do. Obey the rules and you’ll get rewarded in heaven. There’s no heaven. On the outside chance there is, there’ll be more rules, perhaps worse ones than here. How do you know there’s not? Maybe there’s lots of sex and violence too. I wouldn’t want to give up the sex part just because I don’t have a body though I wouldn’t mind not using the toilet.
Is this a cop out? Naw. If you really cared about starving children in your city, you’d ask the government to stop directing money into banal things and give it to the kids. Or we all should quit our jobs, grow and barter food and give it to people for free. Right? Nope. We’re greedy and self-centered, the way our systems have trained us. Go on Sbarro girl and be your righteous corporate self. I think the corporation can become a liable and legal identity (like a person) now and the courts will still continue protecting its legal, non-physical body status and identity.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Spite
Bernard’s back in Canada now after two years of teaching ESL in Korea. For the past two weeks he’s been playing golf and watching sports on TV; his gf is travelling, I imagine. It’s almost two years since I’ve been back. I have a lot of “I should haves” and “shouldn’ts…” I imagine Bernard is starting to miss hard, those days in Korea. It’s difficult to describe the feeling of being there, working less than forty hours a week but feeling you have more than enough time to live and travel. You do. I should be sitting on the roof of my Gok-Pan apt right now, drinking and watching the sun set. Hearing kid’s excited voices echoing up the alley ways after their piano lessons or late night ESL classes. I could be catching up on emails at PC Ban, drinking that sweet apple soda and feeling rebellious by smoking cigarettes indoors. Feeling that I’m living the good life rather than now, just living a life. I don’t regret coming back; I regret leaving. The things you do for love will multiply somewhere, down the road, and eventually your detour panned out correctly in spite of the shitty directions you got in your life.
Bernard is golfing with his dad a couple of times a week. My own dad is somewhere in the south figuring out prostate tests and his next move. Bernard comes back to an economy recovering and his girl friend is still figuring out if beauty school is what she wants. He’s applied to grad school and the acceptantce letters are slow coming.
Although Gok-Pan’s apartment had its faults, I still think it was home and my “running away” (in quotation marks for now) was a brilliant idea in 2008 and what I needed. In three years (2013), I’ll run away again with a Masters degree and will feel like I’m the “master” of my destiny or at least, can choose a path that’s not lined with so much disappointment.
In Fall 2010 I should start my Masters in ESL. I second guess. “Should” because I still need to send in my letters of recommendation before July. And the school doesn’t have to accept me though I’m qualified. They can always find something legitimate to deny you. I always think about contingencies when it comes to school and work. With love, however, I don’t. I’m not in love anymore. I don’t speak with confidence and it shouldn’t matter. The school will make a decision in spite of my good grades and letters. In spite of my classroom visits and a dozen emails with one of the program professors. Life will spite me.
The car I’ll borrow from my mom to drive to class, will fail and waiting for her to make a choice about anything, no reasonable person should wait that long. The linguistics class I took two quarters ago and hated will be needed in the classroom. The knowledge I gleamed and those ugly nights I studied and suffered and got a tutor that saved me, will come alive like the resentment and anger I felt then because the course was a pre-requisite. I hope it won't be a premonition with the master's program. With those events my career path will be called into question again. I need something in my career to jettison me out of my career rut. If there is a thread in my life, it’s working in and around education. And, will a Master's help? We'll see.
Bernard and Charlene will meet later this year after three months of separation. Will their two year Korean relationship continue in the North American continent? Will all those things I told him he’ll miss about Korea shake him of his couch back home in Canada? Do LA Koreans who haven’t been back in twenty years, be so Americanized that they forget the real Korea? The feeling of walking down Gok-Pan’s streets, after a night of drinking and eating, when the world is calm and ajumas are throwing water over their restaurant sidewalks, will they long for this too? Is America’s life so much better and unique? Maybe Seoul made you feel claustrophobic but do you really believe that living in Los Angeles is better?
Bernard is golfing with his dad a couple of times a week. My own dad is somewhere in the south figuring out prostate tests and his next move. Bernard comes back to an economy recovering and his girl friend is still figuring out if beauty school is what she wants. He’s applied to grad school and the acceptantce letters are slow coming.
Although Gok-Pan’s apartment had its faults, I still think it was home and my “running away” (in quotation marks for now) was a brilliant idea in 2008 and what I needed. In three years (2013), I’ll run away again with a Masters degree and will feel like I’m the “master” of my destiny or at least, can choose a path that’s not lined with so much disappointment.
In Fall 2010 I should start my Masters in ESL. I second guess. “Should” because I still need to send in my letters of recommendation before July. And the school doesn’t have to accept me though I’m qualified. They can always find something legitimate to deny you. I always think about contingencies when it comes to school and work. With love, however, I don’t. I’m not in love anymore. I don’t speak with confidence and it shouldn’t matter. The school will make a decision in spite of my good grades and letters. In spite of my classroom visits and a dozen emails with one of the program professors. Life will spite me.
The car I’ll borrow from my mom to drive to class, will fail and waiting for her to make a choice about anything, no reasonable person should wait that long. The linguistics class I took two quarters ago and hated will be needed in the classroom. The knowledge I gleamed and those ugly nights I studied and suffered and got a tutor that saved me, will come alive like the resentment and anger I felt then because the course was a pre-requisite. I hope it won't be a premonition with the master's program. With those events my career path will be called into question again. I need something in my career to jettison me out of my career rut. If there is a thread in my life, it’s working in and around education. And, will a Master's help? We'll see.
Bernard and Charlene will meet later this year after three months of separation. Will their two year Korean relationship continue in the North American continent? Will all those things I told him he’ll miss about Korea shake him of his couch back home in Canada? Do LA Koreans who haven’t been back in twenty years, be so Americanized that they forget the real Korea? The feeling of walking down Gok-Pan’s streets, after a night of drinking and eating, when the world is calm and ajumas are throwing water over their restaurant sidewalks, will they long for this too? Is America’s life so much better and unique? Maybe Seoul made you feel claustrophobic but do you really believe that living in Los Angeles is better?
Saturday, November 21, 2009
It's been a while
I haven’t written a blog entry in two months. That’s okay. My audience has left for “greener” pastures. Selfish. But aren’t we all? We want to be surrounded by bright-sided light, not bogged down in the "darkness" of scatological acrimony. We want to watch Oprah, not—some other popular TV show which is the opposite of Oprah’s--which I don’t know the name of--for appearing current and hip in our culture.
I’ve been writing my first novel. What’s it about? It’s about love lost but redeemed in Korea. Or as my writing teacher puts it, a book about hope in Alaska in 1959. Inside joke.
See you soon. I hope.
I’ve been writing my first novel. What’s it about? It’s about love lost but redeemed in Korea. Or as my writing teacher puts it, a book about hope in Alaska in 1959. Inside joke.
See you soon. I hope.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Erving Goffman is not dead, he just smells funny or so he thinks you observe
Lately, I’ve been thinking about Erving Goffman. He’s from the school of symbolic interaction I studied as a sociology major in college. His theories are interesting and relevant then and today. He looked at our face to face world of interaction and how we project and observe each other in different settings and most importantly, how we manage our "faces" or "masks" during these interactions.
In my novel writing class there are a couple of women who are good looking. They usually arrive dressed in their office garb: skirts and heels and nicely done make-up. One of them is blond and the other brunette. Each of us reads, out loud, a page from our novels each week. They are both better writers than me. The blond reads from her memoir / novel and the brunette has a story about a couple traveling somewhere in the mid west. If you look at them, they seem totally normal. But after you hear them read from their current works, they are messed up. These are really crazy, hurting women. You wouldn't know it. If you just talk to them like they’re your co-worker rinsing her coffee cup in the kitchen sink, you wouldn’t think of them as these “fictional” characters. But underneath their skin, from their writing hand, come a “fictional” story hidden in their character’s lives. So, on one hand, they are managing their face at work which is (I greatly assume) normal and professional. On the other hand, during the novel writing class, their first person narratives are messed up individuals. I perceive them through a lens and filter of their writing which is “fiction” while at the same time I observe their classroom masks. Oh, it’s all very complicated, this symbolic interaction stuff. How can I be sure?
In a symbolic interaction way, I think I know how people observe me. Most people have learned the skill of concealment so that they can live and work in the private and public world and in an Erving Geoffmanesque way, understand how others observe them and properly maintain and manage a "face." So, one day they’re feeling depressed. Or angry. No one really knows. You can’t tell. With me, however, you can—so I think. I observe people who are observing me and from their feedback and reactions, I deduct their reactions to me! I don't think that I have not learned proper management of my public or private mask. I’m sure others would dispute this but I feel certain, although with no factual basis, that the two chicks in my class are on the edge of something which none see. But what we see or how they fictionalize themselves in their writing, the masks are not concealed. Or are they?
The blond picks at herself to manage her emotions. It’s subtle when she's in the classroom. Outside, during the break, nothing. The brunette, when you watch her eyes carefully, nervously darts them. She also does this subtle squinting thing, almost like a scowl and her voice, when reading her pages out loud, cause me to feel at ease. She’s this tense crumpled paper of constant revisions thrown in frustration on the floor. Maybe if she read some Dickinson or Shakespeare this voice of hers would sound normal. Maybe others in the classroom observe her "face" the way I do. Maybe reading our novels, masks drop and our real selves emerge?
What would Goffman say about my characters in my novel and are their "faces" the composite of mine which I portray and manage on paper and in person? Can you completely separate out any character "face" from your own character "mask"? Are all characters some facet of us which we manage and maintain both public and private faces? When the two chicks read their novel out loud, am I hearing their private "face," a composite of them vis a vis their character? Or, when I observe them in class, not reading, are their public "face" replaced by another which makes one pick at herself and the other one a ball of tension?
In my novel writing class there are a couple of women who are good looking. They usually arrive dressed in their office garb: skirts and heels and nicely done make-up. One of them is blond and the other brunette. Each of us reads, out loud, a page from our novels each week. They are both better writers than me. The blond reads from her memoir / novel and the brunette has a story about a couple traveling somewhere in the mid west. If you look at them, they seem totally normal. But after you hear them read from their current works, they are messed up. These are really crazy, hurting women. You wouldn't know it. If you just talk to them like they’re your co-worker rinsing her coffee cup in the kitchen sink, you wouldn’t think of them as these “fictional” characters. But underneath their skin, from their writing hand, come a “fictional” story hidden in their character’s lives. So, on one hand, they are managing their face at work which is (I greatly assume) normal and professional. On the other hand, during the novel writing class, their first person narratives are messed up individuals. I perceive them through a lens and filter of their writing which is “fiction” while at the same time I observe their classroom masks. Oh, it’s all very complicated, this symbolic interaction stuff. How can I be sure?
In a symbolic interaction way, I think I know how people observe me. Most people have learned the skill of concealment so that they can live and work in the private and public world and in an Erving Geoffmanesque way, understand how others observe them and properly maintain and manage a "face." So, one day they’re feeling depressed. Or angry. No one really knows. You can’t tell. With me, however, you can—so I think. I observe people who are observing me and from their feedback and reactions, I deduct their reactions to me! I don't think that I have not learned proper management of my public or private mask. I’m sure others would dispute this but I feel certain, although with no factual basis, that the two chicks in my class are on the edge of something which none see. But what we see or how they fictionalize themselves in their writing, the masks are not concealed. Or are they?
The blond picks at herself to manage her emotions. It’s subtle when she's in the classroom. Outside, during the break, nothing. The brunette, when you watch her eyes carefully, nervously darts them. She also does this subtle squinting thing, almost like a scowl and her voice, when reading her pages out loud, cause me to feel at ease. She’s this tense crumpled paper of constant revisions thrown in frustration on the floor. Maybe if she read some Dickinson or Shakespeare this voice of hers would sound normal. Maybe others in the classroom observe her "face" the way I do. Maybe reading our novels, masks drop and our real selves emerge?
What would Goffman say about my characters in my novel and are their "faces" the composite of mine which I portray and manage on paper and in person? Can you completely separate out any character "face" from your own character "mask"? Are all characters some facet of us which we manage and maintain both public and private faces? When the two chicks read their novel out loud, am I hearing their private "face," a composite of them vis a vis their character? Or, when I observe them in class, not reading, are their public "face" replaced by another which makes one pick at herself and the other one a ball of tension?
Friday, September 25, 2009
Palmer, Matthew
A while ago I worked in an office where we had this woman who was as dumb as they come. Look: I can be pretty judgemental about people, and for the record, I am incredible tough on myself more than others. I call myself "dumb ass" or "stupid" and don't to other people.
This one particular co-worker, though she was generally nice to me and everyone else--as far as I can tell--she was a complete imbecile. Forgot about the skill sets matching the job description or her attitude and disconnect between her job tasks and skills needed to do clerical work, she was just a freakin idiot. I felt bad at the time for thinking that about her. I was nice and not condescending and spoke to her as an equal. I gave her stuff to do but she didn't do it well and her attitude towards the work was terrible. Basically, she sat there and answered the phone and stapled and paper clipped. That's it. She has a kid now. Poor thing, he has some stupid genes in him. Maybe he'll be lucky and it will skip several generations.
What is it with dumb people having kids? Don't we have enough dumb people? Of course they don't really know the scale of their stupidity but can't their DNA forge a synaptic connection with common sense? A lot of them have multiple kids and then multiply that by some being poor and we have a recipe for disaster! And why is it that dumb people use Jesus and religion as a basis for intelligent talk? Having faith does not make you smart. Arguing or discussing religion particularly Christianity, and arguing over the Bible's lessons, is not interesting fodder.
I made a dentist appointment on 9/8/09 for a regular cleaning. I took the open 9/17 appointment and gave the dental assistant my name, information and requested Dr. C. She calls me on 9/15 to confirm. First, she asks if "Palmer, Matthew" was there. I said, "yes, that's me." Second, she re-confirms the wrong time with Dr. C. I'm thinking, she's over worked or dyslexic. Everything's fine. The next day, however, she calls and tells me that the doctor had an emergency and needs to reschedule. I said okay. I reiterate it's a regular cleaning and that 9/25 is fine. On 9/25/09 she calls and asks if "Palmer, Matthew" is there. I answer, "This is Matthew Palmer." She tells me that the doctor he has the flu. I said, "what do you mean, he? You mean 'she.'" She said, "no, Dr. W is sick. Dr. C only works on Tuesday and Thursday." All this time, she got my name and appointment wrong! "Fine," and I told her. I called her back to say I found another dentist. It's not worth my time and energy to communicate any further with dumb people.
When your employees are this dumb that they can't figure out a surname from a first name and a patient gets re-scheduled twice, then it's time for you to choose another professional. I worry about employers who hire dumb ass employees. What does it say about them? And, why not pay more money for someone who has greater potential and brain power? Is it an industry standard to hire dumb dental assistants? Is it an attitude we have towards menial tasks like clerical workers and kitchen staff? These jobs require different skill sets and there are plenty of people really great at it. Not everyone is a PhD or expert but we can be experts in our jobs. That includes getting names and times correct and learning more skills than stapling! And what does it say about me writing this blog entry when I'm supposed to be working at my desk! Damn hypocrite!
This one particular co-worker, though she was generally nice to me and everyone else--as far as I can tell--she was a complete imbecile. Forgot about the skill sets matching the job description or her attitude and disconnect between her job tasks and skills needed to do clerical work, she was just a freakin idiot. I felt bad at the time for thinking that about her. I was nice and not condescending and spoke to her as an equal. I gave her stuff to do but she didn't do it well and her attitude towards the work was terrible. Basically, she sat there and answered the phone and stapled and paper clipped. That's it. She has a kid now. Poor thing, he has some stupid genes in him. Maybe he'll be lucky and it will skip several generations.
What is it with dumb people having kids? Don't we have enough dumb people? Of course they don't really know the scale of their stupidity but can't their DNA forge a synaptic connection with common sense? A lot of them have multiple kids and then multiply that by some being poor and we have a recipe for disaster! And why is it that dumb people use Jesus and religion as a basis for intelligent talk? Having faith does not make you smart. Arguing or discussing religion particularly Christianity, and arguing over the Bible's lessons, is not interesting fodder.
I made a dentist appointment on 9/8/09 for a regular cleaning. I took the open 9/17 appointment and gave the dental assistant my name, information and requested Dr. C. She calls me on 9/15 to confirm. First, she asks if "Palmer, Matthew" was there. I said, "yes, that's me." Second, she re-confirms the wrong time with Dr. C. I'm thinking, she's over worked or dyslexic. Everything's fine. The next day, however, she calls and tells me that the doctor had an emergency and needs to reschedule. I said okay. I reiterate it's a regular cleaning and that 9/25 is fine. On 9/25/09 she calls and asks if "Palmer, Matthew" is there. I answer, "This is Matthew Palmer." She tells me that the doctor he has the flu. I said, "what do you mean, he? You mean 'she.'" She said, "no, Dr. W is sick. Dr. C only works on Tuesday and Thursday." All this time, she got my name and appointment wrong! "Fine," and I told her. I called her back to say I found another dentist. It's not worth my time and energy to communicate any further with dumb people.
When your employees are this dumb that they can't figure out a surname from a first name and a patient gets re-scheduled twice, then it's time for you to choose another professional. I worry about employers who hire dumb ass employees. What does it say about them? And, why not pay more money for someone who has greater potential and brain power? Is it an industry standard to hire dumb dental assistants? Is it an attitude we have towards menial tasks like clerical workers and kitchen staff? These jobs require different skill sets and there are plenty of people really great at it. Not everyone is a PhD or expert but we can be experts in our jobs. That includes getting names and times correct and learning more skills than stapling! And what does it say about me writing this blog entry when I'm supposed to be working at my desk! Damn hypocrite!
Monday, September 21, 2009
Does Capitalism make it all civil?
Why do I have the feeling that so much of our interactions are disingenuous? I was at the post office today, and some student was so emphatic about thanking the male clerk for his help that it made me think about the societal rules that govern our interpersonal interactions. “Thank you, so much! Thank you, so much! Thank you, soooo much! Thank you, so so much!” I guess the latter would be a double-negative, the “so, so” part and it would just be as efficient to say “so much” instead. Anyway, where the fuck was I? I had just gotten there and looked at his reaction and looked over at her and thought: there was a major disconnect, between his services versus her enthusiasm. For Christ sakes, it was just a roll of stamps! Whatever! He didn’t bother to look up as she left. I thought that she was one of those pain in the ass customers, with their innumerable questions, their picky piquant demands interrupting another customer because she wants special treatment. I have no way of knowing. He was the sole clerk amid a line, ten deep. He looked miserable. Was she trying to cheer him up? Was she really thankful? She reminded me of one of those customers who always seems to be in front of you at the supermarket.
Remember the time you were running late to your relative’s house and you stopped by Ralphs on Sunset, for some Aunt Jemima syrup, some Kaiser brown foil and a pair of blunt scissors? And some old biddy, her hands shaking from Parkinson’s and knuckles bent from arthritis, was in front of you, slowly counting her change, finding more coupons, getting her shit double bagged and arguing with the cashier over the price of cat food? You were the one, behind her, tapping your foot, arms folded; face red, exhaling and sighing wondering when you’re next?
The clerk at the post office was definitely over worked and he hated his job—at least today he did. But my feeling from the customer’s inflection was this fake, disingenuous “thank you.” It said, as I am an expert interpreter of bitch language (mostly from my failed relationships) that: “I am a bitch and I know it but thank you for putting up with it, you lowly postal clerk...” Maybe I am off on my assessments but I pride myself on being a keen observer of the human condition and though I may go too far in my enthusiasm for humans who do show bright spots of generosity in between the dark episodes of maiming and raping each other, I think: Hey, I’m right on about my observation at the post office today. Look: Even Hitler was good to his wife, right? I often hear this “thank you, so much” epitaph as part of the lexicon of Los Angeleno’s dialect that I have developed my radar for this crapola.
It hails from the under paid actress cum waitress who survives on tips from the well-to-do women who seem to have it all; it comes from the crowd of yuppie pilate mom’s of Beverly Hills who just gave the valet a two dollar tip; I hear it from office workers who tell UPS-- who fucked up a delivery. Are all these banalities necessary to make our lives better? For our society to operate just above inch worms, do we really need to utter these provincial proverbial provocations? These “thank you” formalities are sound bites, filler for the undercurrent of dislike and keep us in control of our feelings so that we remain civil. We use it to convince ourselves that this interaction matters. Politeness is reinforced and for us to keep up the social interaction; our give and take constructs alive and operating so that our society remains kind. But we’re not. It is in these situations, of commerce, of dollar transactions for goods and services; we have learned to keep things civil to keep the machine going. What about the other situations?
You can see it when people ignore each other, pretend that the other is invisible when walking down a hall way or at a meeting. The uppity professor, the unfriendly co-worker. The person we “don’t know.” If the President was walking down the East Wing, and some lowly handler for Senator So and So was standing there, do you think he would ignore the President? How about the neighbor who’s barking dog is heard every night, across the street? When you approach her and tell her about it, she counters and says, “he barks a little.” You feel that your rights and comfort are secondary to a dog’s! In fact, we spend billions on dogs each year while there’s a homeless dude you walked by in Westwood last weekend, who eats worse than your neighbor’s dog. People don’t take responsibility for these interpersonal interactions because there’s no monetary association. How about the person who takes the last cookie from the corporate kitchen and does not take a quick moment to throw away the doily or put the dish in the sink? Humans are steaming turds on the sidewalk of life! This is the world we live in. If we want to build successful social constructs or ways of being nice to each other we should put a monetary value on them. Then, perhaps, the world might be more civil.
Humans find loop holes and when chance happens, they operate in their true form and these behaviors have consequences. People are wishy-washy unless there’s money associated in the transaction. Then, they’re charming and nice. I rather have those then assholes. We can monetize each behavior, make it some sort of economic interaction and reward others for being nice to each other. Like a Good Samaritan who prevents a robbery from happening or reward the person who takes the last cookie by giving her a little Peet’s coffee card. If we make each transaction, like in the post office, between customer and clerk, a real economic one, rather than the failed social ones we currently have, then we could possibly make this world more civil. Would that be disingenuous? Does Capitalism make it all civil?
Remember the time you were running late to your relative’s house and you stopped by Ralphs on Sunset, for some Aunt Jemima syrup, some Kaiser brown foil and a pair of blunt scissors? And some old biddy, her hands shaking from Parkinson’s and knuckles bent from arthritis, was in front of you, slowly counting her change, finding more coupons, getting her shit double bagged and arguing with the cashier over the price of cat food? You were the one, behind her, tapping your foot, arms folded; face red, exhaling and sighing wondering when you’re next?
The clerk at the post office was definitely over worked and he hated his job—at least today he did. But my feeling from the customer’s inflection was this fake, disingenuous “thank you.” It said, as I am an expert interpreter of bitch language (mostly from my failed relationships) that: “I am a bitch and I know it but thank you for putting up with it, you lowly postal clerk...” Maybe I am off on my assessments but I pride myself on being a keen observer of the human condition and though I may go too far in my enthusiasm for humans who do show bright spots of generosity in between the dark episodes of maiming and raping each other, I think: Hey, I’m right on about my observation at the post office today. Look: Even Hitler was good to his wife, right? I often hear this “thank you, so much” epitaph as part of the lexicon of Los Angeleno’s dialect that I have developed my radar for this crapola.
It hails from the under paid actress cum waitress who survives on tips from the well-to-do women who seem to have it all; it comes from the crowd of yuppie pilate mom’s of Beverly Hills who just gave the valet a two dollar tip; I hear it from office workers who tell UPS-- who fucked up a delivery. Are all these banalities necessary to make our lives better? For our society to operate just above inch worms, do we really need to utter these provincial proverbial provocations? These “thank you” formalities are sound bites, filler for the undercurrent of dislike and keep us in control of our feelings so that we remain civil. We use it to convince ourselves that this interaction matters. Politeness is reinforced and for us to keep up the social interaction; our give and take constructs alive and operating so that our society remains kind. But we’re not. It is in these situations, of commerce, of dollar transactions for goods and services; we have learned to keep things civil to keep the machine going. What about the other situations?
You can see it when people ignore each other, pretend that the other is invisible when walking down a hall way or at a meeting. The uppity professor, the unfriendly co-worker. The person we “don’t know.” If the President was walking down the East Wing, and some lowly handler for Senator So and So was standing there, do you think he would ignore the President? How about the neighbor who’s barking dog is heard every night, across the street? When you approach her and tell her about it, she counters and says, “he barks a little.” You feel that your rights and comfort are secondary to a dog’s! In fact, we spend billions on dogs each year while there’s a homeless dude you walked by in Westwood last weekend, who eats worse than your neighbor’s dog. People don’t take responsibility for these interpersonal interactions because there’s no monetary association. How about the person who takes the last cookie from the corporate kitchen and does not take a quick moment to throw away the doily or put the dish in the sink? Humans are steaming turds on the sidewalk of life! This is the world we live in. If we want to build successful social constructs or ways of being nice to each other we should put a monetary value on them. Then, perhaps, the world might be more civil.
Humans find loop holes and when chance happens, they operate in their true form and these behaviors have consequences. People are wishy-washy unless there’s money associated in the transaction. Then, they’re charming and nice. I rather have those then assholes. We can monetize each behavior, make it some sort of economic interaction and reward others for being nice to each other. Like a Good Samaritan who prevents a robbery from happening or reward the person who takes the last cookie by giving her a little Peet’s coffee card. If we make each transaction, like in the post office, between customer and clerk, a real economic one, rather than the failed social ones we currently have, then we could possibly make this world more civil. Would that be disingenuous? Does Capitalism make it all civil?
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Minion
No disrespect to the slaves of the world but your jobs suck! Being a minion is working for the master—your overseer. Anytime your job involves booking, calling, scheduling, coordinating, organizing, reminding and purchasing…that is minion’s work. A call to arms you Slavic fools and cubicle drools! All minions cast off your modern chains of cell phones, SMS FaceBook and Twitter updates, your Myspace accounts and free yourselves.
I am a realist; almost all jobs require minion work. Most lower and some higher. It’s the lower minion class that irks me. We can be a minion to our kids or parents or loved ones—that’s fine. It’s healthy to help them. But a minion to your job is not. I would say being a minion is now a disease, like that of alcoholism. Minions are growing because the service sector (the key housing statistic of minions like me) keeps expanding, and we’ll still be in demand ten years from now when our parents are too weak to wipe their asses!
You know that movie scene in V for Vendetta when actress Natalie Portman is imprisoned and tortured by her mentor, V? She thinks the bad guys have her but the ensuing days of interrogation break her down mentally and physically until her capturer, V, thinks she has had an epiphany and suddenly releases her. She discovers, to her disgust and dismay, as well as the audience, that she’s been held in V’s cramped New York apartment all the time! What a mind fuck! Of course, at the end of the film he dies (oh! the sympathy of tears) and she cries (“I really do love him!”) and has more respect for him despite her beat down. Here’s the small analogy: being that we’re her (Portman) and our employer is him (The Vster), and at the end of the film or our day at work, we are still indoctrinated and fight and defend the status quo. Minions reject this!
V wanted her to understand the feeling of being a minion and well, she did, perhaps but we who also may gripe and grumble about the injustice of it all, are still seduced by the big, fat pay check: the rewards of servitude to the master. My paycheck is about 41,000 a year. That’s barely enough to live without a car, in a shared 3-bedroom apartment on the Westside of L.A. V wanted to start a revolution whereas your humbled and chained writer, dear reader, doesn’t. He wants to be a minion. I can’t follow or be a follower and besides the economy is expanding!
If I was a caring, Che Guevara type of revolutionary (I like him better than Mao because facial hair looks cooler than a clean shaven revolutionary face), I would gather the forces and fight. But for this minion it’s particularly discouraging and evident to me that when I do organize something revolutionary, like a simple breakfast run to the cafeteria at work; my three coworkers respectfully decline and politely say no. So, ha! to the revolution! And, if you’re not hungry for it because you’re still full from yesterday’s leftovers from the “big meeting” in which we quietly pecked at the leftovers like vultures, then you won’t go. I still picking my teeth.
I am a realist; almost all jobs require minion work. Most lower and some higher. It’s the lower minion class that irks me. We can be a minion to our kids or parents or loved ones—that’s fine. It’s healthy to help them. But a minion to your job is not. I would say being a minion is now a disease, like that of alcoholism. Minions are growing because the service sector (the key housing statistic of minions like me) keeps expanding, and we’ll still be in demand ten years from now when our parents are too weak to wipe their asses!
You know that movie scene in V for Vendetta when actress Natalie Portman is imprisoned and tortured by her mentor, V? She thinks the bad guys have her but the ensuing days of interrogation break her down mentally and physically until her capturer, V, thinks she has had an epiphany and suddenly releases her. She discovers, to her disgust and dismay, as well as the audience, that she’s been held in V’s cramped New York apartment all the time! What a mind fuck! Of course, at the end of the film he dies (oh! the sympathy of tears) and she cries (“I really do love him!”) and has more respect for him despite her beat down. Here’s the small analogy: being that we’re her (Portman) and our employer is him (The Vster), and at the end of the film or our day at work, we are still indoctrinated and fight and defend the status quo. Minions reject this!
V wanted her to understand the feeling of being a minion and well, she did, perhaps but we who also may gripe and grumble about the injustice of it all, are still seduced by the big, fat pay check: the rewards of servitude to the master. My paycheck is about 41,000 a year. That’s barely enough to live without a car, in a shared 3-bedroom apartment on the Westside of L.A. V wanted to start a revolution whereas your humbled and chained writer, dear reader, doesn’t. He wants to be a minion. I can’t follow or be a follower and besides the economy is expanding!
If I was a caring, Che Guevara type of revolutionary (I like him better than Mao because facial hair looks cooler than a clean shaven revolutionary face), I would gather the forces and fight. But for this minion it’s particularly discouraging and evident to me that when I do organize something revolutionary, like a simple breakfast run to the cafeteria at work; my three coworkers respectfully decline and politely say no. So, ha! to the revolution! And, if you’re not hungry for it because you’re still full from yesterday’s leftovers from the “big meeting” in which we quietly pecked at the leftovers like vultures, then you won’t go. I still picking my teeth.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Twitterland
As of this month, Twitter.com is growing to become THE social media application. As one evangelist and devotee of Twitter land, or shall we call him, Mr. Twit, said, “It’s bringing the conversation to where people are. There is where the conversation is at.” Thus, if you want to be in the conversation, you must go there. In a year, they’ll move from there to over there but for now, they are there and we are over here. Hello, World?In our great grandparent’s day, with those bobby sox and cheesy loafers, children were to be seen and not heard. At least today, in Twitterland, in full hipster regalia and huge salaries, we can now be there at the adult’s table and finally be heard.
And who doesn’t want to be there, in the conversation? Maybe your 75 year old uncle, in his black sweat pants and top, who spends too much time in the back of the video store perusing and selecting Adult movies.
Uncle reading video title: “’Wild Girls Gyrate to the Rhythm of Market Mayhem.’ Hmmm. I think I rented that one all ready…”
Maybe your dad, who lives far from there, while you keep calling him to be there with you in this new social conversation. You could invite your relatives over there, where you are, but there is not an interesting place for them. It’s here where he and your uncle want to be. At their current moment, they’re interested in why you’re interested in being over there instead over here...
(in a heavy New York Brooklyn accent) "Must you check your Twitter account whenever we’re here?” my uncle asks eating his lox and cream cheese bagel slowly.
My dad: “if you want to be here, with us, do we need to make an appointment to meet you there? Shall we Tweet you instead?”
Twitter invites us into their conversation. There, among like-minded Twits, we type our 140 character bursts, each containing important social conversation, that’s supposed to fire our imagination….
Tweet: “What’s up? Taking a poo. Gotta go!”
Tweet back: Bought some t.p. at Ralphs. So expensive!
Tweet: Obama will need lots of it to clean up this health care mess! ;)
Tweet back: http://www.doubleplytoiletpaperforhealthcare.com/. Interesting, accurate, non-partisan paper from Charmin, Inc on how to wipe this healthcare mess from forward to back without the helping hands of constipated republicans.
Tweet: I just blew it up, man. Ba-bam, ba-bomb! Guy in stall next to me…poor choking slob… could use some double ply paper action. Only one wipe, my friend?
Our Twitter conversations have really moved from the kiddy’s table since our great grandfather’s time. Until then, I’ll see you there!!
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Swimming with the fishes...
This is not about poo. It’s not about vomit. Or the feeling you have when you scrap off the road kill from your car tires; it could be the same, if you read on. It’s about bugs. Big, ugly creatures created to give us the feeling and justification that we are the superior beings in the food chain on this planet! Bugs are the kind of vermin you secretly fear will find a home in your shoes or hidden under your blankets when you jump into bed to sleep off the wine you drank too much during dinner.
Last night I took the bus home. As usual, it was crowded and congested with smells and odors that stick to your clothes. Whenever I get home, I change out of my military wear of jeans and dress shirt, immediately. Sometimes I notice the “Bus Butt,” that waif of odor that clings to your cotton denim jeans which a good wash eliminates.
One time I saw a bug on the Big Blue Bus. It happens. It’s a jungle in there. People droppings and such. Another time, on the Chicken Bus, in Guatemala, a couple brought their hen on board and placed it above them in the open luggage compartment, feet tied. Later, during a particular thorny section of road, the hen crowed or whatever they do, and a steady stream of urine bounced off the farmer’s straw hat.
After a nice dinner last night, we sat on the couch in our civilian wear of pajamas and tee shirts. The sun had already set. As the night became cooler, the fan in the living room spewed forth a nice cool breeze of West Los Angeles air; not too smoggy. Watching Season Five of the Sopranos, I got distracted by something crawling on the floor. It was a gigantic grass hopper! It was huge! I was excited. I haven’t seen one since I lived in Long Island, with a real back yard and sand pile. There were always cool bugs there. Like a Tony Soprano dream sequence when he realizes that his best friend was flipped by the FBI, I realized too, that the bug’s body shape was completely wrong and I saw the ugly truth unfold before me as he ran. It was a cock roach.
What happened next was from any Sopranos’ episode, take your pick. We both jumped up and like a gang initiation gone bad, beat it up with our slippers and shoes. I gave it a few more whacks, Soprano style. I guess we went crazy. Blood and guts oozed forth as it tried to limp away. We pinned him down and shouted at him with our obligatory New Jersey-ian Italian accented profanity: get the F!#@$!# out of here, or you’re dead! I guess we missed the Sopranos episode where the guy actually is allowed to walk away; not this roach. He dead. He is swimming with the fishes.
Last night I took the bus home. As usual, it was crowded and congested with smells and odors that stick to your clothes. Whenever I get home, I change out of my military wear of jeans and dress shirt, immediately. Sometimes I notice the “Bus Butt,” that waif of odor that clings to your cotton denim jeans which a good wash eliminates.
One time I saw a bug on the Big Blue Bus. It happens. It’s a jungle in there. People droppings and such. Another time, on the Chicken Bus, in Guatemala, a couple brought their hen on board and placed it above them in the open luggage compartment, feet tied. Later, during a particular thorny section of road, the hen crowed or whatever they do, and a steady stream of urine bounced off the farmer’s straw hat.
After a nice dinner last night, we sat on the couch in our civilian wear of pajamas and tee shirts. The sun had already set. As the night became cooler, the fan in the living room spewed forth a nice cool breeze of West Los Angeles air; not too smoggy. Watching Season Five of the Sopranos, I got distracted by something crawling on the floor. It was a gigantic grass hopper! It was huge! I was excited. I haven’t seen one since I lived in Long Island, with a real back yard and sand pile. There were always cool bugs there. Like a Tony Soprano dream sequence when he realizes that his best friend was flipped by the FBI, I realized too, that the bug’s body shape was completely wrong and I saw the ugly truth unfold before me as he ran. It was a cock roach.
What happened next was from any Sopranos’ episode, take your pick. We both jumped up and like a gang initiation gone bad, beat it up with our slippers and shoes. I gave it a few more whacks, Soprano style. I guess we went crazy. Blood and guts oozed forth as it tried to limp away. We pinned him down and shouted at him with our obligatory New Jersey-ian Italian accented profanity: get the F!#@$!# out of here, or you’re dead! I guess we missed the Sopranos episode where the guy actually is allowed to walk away; not this roach. He dead. He is swimming with the fishes.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Pregnancy and social mores
“I see pregnant women,” I told my girl friend. Young, twenty somethings, bellies full, ankles swollen and bladders working over time. They walk to and from the rest room, by my office, sometimes their skin is sullen and other times a pinkish glow. Recently, I counted six co-workers gimping along ready to burst forth their little bean out of the watery warm womb of blood, protein and that alien-like viscous birth fluid. I think about the baby’s world, floating on their placenta Lazy Boy, remote in hand. Every day is Sunday football…I can remember it well. Maybe all baby’s know what that familiar banging sound they hear when mommy and daddy are getting busy? Maybe their hearts race a little fast too when mommy is upset because daddy doesn’t want mommy to breast feed their son?
These women are in their prime birth years. Their careers are on a path, they’ve met "the man of their dreams" and now they are ready. At this age they are really just baby machines: progenitors of the next generation out of some biological selfish drive, burdening society with their off spring, some of which will maim and others which will do good. When couples copulate, they don’t think about it. This world of ignorant ideologues, barbaric practices and arrogant war mongers. But…children are beautiful, even little Adolf Schicklgruber was cute. His mom loved him too.
Never ask women if they’re pregnant.
Some recently gained a lot of weight. Others, whose pregnant bellies protruding forth, may elect not to keep it or carry with them, a familial history of false, as in “oops,” starts or rotten genetic finishes. Jesus. The formalities we carry out just to keep the outer appearances propped up and alive.
A while ago I noticed a co-worker’s sparse collection of manicured and pedicured carrot and celery sticks had multiplied, along with her weight. In breaking a social more, I asked:
“Are you pregnant?” Instead, of an answer, I got a blank, stoic stare. And later, in falsetto like indignation, I overheard her telling her co-workers of my social faux pas.
“I can’t believe he asked me that!” she said incredulously, rubbing her stomach.
“He’s so insensitive,” another quipped.
“Did you pick out a name yet?” the third chirped in.
About two and a half months later, she finally told everyone. We all feigned surprise! “Really, you’re pregnant? Wow,” they said in a high pitched voice with a wide-open mouth and expression-filled eyes. Except me, I sat darkly in my corner cubicle, because, (in one of those big, polished radio announcer voices): I am the EVIL ONE.
After she left to delivery her healthy daughter from the warm clutches of the baby remote and placenta lazy boy, I covered her desk. She was breast feeding and eating carrot sticks while I did the work of two people. And, did the kid thank me? No. Did my co-worker forgive me for my awkward question? No, probably not. Now…How are we supposed to ignore the “elephant in the room?”
In case you have a pregnant co-worker or someone you know has some sort of physical ailment that you can’t talk about, you can practice this politically correct moment when they reveal to everyone, when it’s safe and okay to do so, their very obvious condition:
Step One. Please feign surprise. It helps to say “really.”
Step Two. Use a high pitched voice, with a wide-open mouth and eyes filled with wonder and amazement when receiving the news, and lastly;
Step three: Say: “This blog piece is over?”
These women are in their prime birth years. Their careers are on a path, they’ve met "the man of their dreams" and now they are ready. At this age they are really just baby machines: progenitors of the next generation out of some biological selfish drive, burdening society with their off spring, some of which will maim and others which will do good. When couples copulate, they don’t think about it. This world of ignorant ideologues, barbaric practices and arrogant war mongers. But…children are beautiful, even little Adolf Schicklgruber was cute. His mom loved him too.
Never ask women if they’re pregnant.
Some recently gained a lot of weight. Others, whose pregnant bellies protruding forth, may elect not to keep it or carry with them, a familial history of false, as in “oops,” starts or rotten genetic finishes. Jesus. The formalities we carry out just to keep the outer appearances propped up and alive.
A while ago I noticed a co-worker’s sparse collection of manicured and pedicured carrot and celery sticks had multiplied, along with her weight. In breaking a social more, I asked:
“Are you pregnant?” Instead, of an answer, I got a blank, stoic stare. And later, in falsetto like indignation, I overheard her telling her co-workers of my social faux pas.
“I can’t believe he asked me that!” she said incredulously, rubbing her stomach.
“He’s so insensitive,” another quipped.
“Did you pick out a name yet?” the third chirped in.
About two and a half months later, she finally told everyone. We all feigned surprise! “Really, you’re pregnant? Wow,” they said in a high pitched voice with a wide-open mouth and expression-filled eyes. Except me, I sat darkly in my corner cubicle, because, (in one of those big, polished radio announcer voices): I am the EVIL ONE.
After she left to delivery her healthy daughter from the warm clutches of the baby remote and placenta lazy boy, I covered her desk. She was breast feeding and eating carrot sticks while I did the work of two people. And, did the kid thank me? No. Did my co-worker forgive me for my awkward question? No, probably not. Now…How are we supposed to ignore the “elephant in the room?”
In case you have a pregnant co-worker or someone you know has some sort of physical ailment that you can’t talk about, you can practice this politically correct moment when they reveal to everyone, when it’s safe and okay to do so, their very obvious condition:
Step One. Please feign surprise. It helps to say “really.”
Step Two. Use a high pitched voice, with a wide-open mouth and eyes filled with wonder and amazement when receiving the news, and lastly;
Step three: Say: “This blog piece is over?”
Fake nails
Ever since I’ve been living with my gf, I’ve been eating yogurt ice cream once a week. It’s good! Never before would I venture into those yogurt shops that, during the 1980’s in Los Angeles, were in business like crack dealers on every corner. The new dealers on the block are: Pinkberry, Yoku Yoku, Penguins, Red Mango, TCBY, Frugos and the like. They are here again with new flavors, pretty furniture and “healthier” toppings.Last night me and my gf shared a chocolate and a French vanilla yogurt topped with mango. As in most franchises, they hire young high school kids. This one had long, curved fake nails painted with black and white spotted dots, the kind of Rorschach pattern you see on the cows from Ben and Jerry’s ice cream pints. Imagine her trying to squeeze a zit or pick up a glass of water with those?
In between spoons of the low fat substance, my gf said that fake nails are not good for food service positions especially in the kitchen. They limit your ability to handle a knife or hold plates. While I pondered this and the fat / sugar content of our medium sized yogurt--and wondered if I should be eating ice cream instead--the high school kid dropped a glass on the floor. You could hear the sharp pieces of glass bouncing off the off-white tile. She was right.
Long, fake nails are only practical for swinging down a pole in Vegas and or giving a BJ in a porno.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
The weighing of compliments
The other day, a co-worker named E, a fellow writer and a brother of the grape, said I had writing talent. Coming from a professional screen writer and producer, someone who has produced a film, written over a dozen screen plays, was a really nice thing to hear. I said thanks. This compliment made me reflect on how society and I, receive and give these poo tokens of appreciation. Both Yanne and Kelly have given me compliments about some of my posts here. (Thank you guys, again. I press my hands in front of me, humbled like the Buddha himself, to form a prayer of thanks). So, what's the poo about? Aren't all compliments good, Palmer?
In our society, they are given--few and far between-- like the number of life preservers available to passengers on a sinking boat. So, in general, I am somewhat suspicious when I receive them and probably they're received with the same sort of incredulous blankness when I give them.
Can’t we just relax?
When compliments are given from people who are held in high regard in an area of expertise, then they're "true" compliments. Like Jimi Hendrix telling Eric Clapton he plays well. Like Bob Marley telling Tommy Chong that his stash went up in smoke. Do you notice the implicit hierarchies?
When they come from mere acquaintances, like your dorky co-worker, you know, the guy who microwaves left over fish every day, they are received as brown-nosing, noise or flirting. I think our culture trains us to be suspicious of compliments. Maybe it’s from our pilgrim origins of self-reliance and independence and our Max Weber-ian Protestant Work Ethic which we self-deprecate when faced with a public display of complimentary poo. I have no idea what the hell that means, but WTF. Besides, our ears, are highly tune to bull shit--because our society generates so much of it—and this critical filter is so sensitive that even, non-agenda, heartfelt and genuine compliments are wiped away like poo on paper.
I think you can never take a compliment from coworkers. There are always hidden agendas. Especially those who occupy a lateral payroll title like you, in the corporate hierarchy. Their compliments always come off as disingenuous especially if you don’t like them. If the person telling you was a hot chick, then it would be flirtatious. If the person talking to you said your talk with the Dean was thoughtful, then he or she is seeking more information from you. With compliments, it is always better to receive them from your boss—someone above you in the corporate tree—it doesn’t work the other way.
Compliments from friends and significant others, however, and unfortunately, cannot be as highly valued as the disinterested employer simply because, in our culture, they are from people who have an emotional bond and will have a hard time being objective. Name me one employer who would take a letter of reference from your mom? Of course we love compliments from our friends and loved ones. But we don’t have the same vestment as we seek from our peers.
Strangers and those who know your work ethic have no emotional commitment or attachment and offer the most accurate compliments. These are the people who are supposed to know the bottom line of your strengths and weaknesses and reward you accordingly. As a society we are really jaded about compliments. Would the building custodian really know about that Excel spreadsheet you created which was used in the final quarterly report?
When you're a super star bball player, for example, people love you and your talents, so compliments fly like poo from the proverbial fan. After hearing them a lot, they lose meaning. But in the hierarchy of life, a compliment coming from Michael Jordan, a hall of famer, as opposed to that spasmodic dude you see on the bball court, carries more weight and credence.
So thank you all for the compliments. They are not poo to me.
In our society, they are given--few and far between-- like the number of life preservers available to passengers on a sinking boat. So, in general, I am somewhat suspicious when I receive them and probably they're received with the same sort of incredulous blankness when I give them.
Can’t we just relax?
When compliments are given from people who are held in high regard in an area of expertise, then they're "true" compliments. Like Jimi Hendrix telling Eric Clapton he plays well. Like Bob Marley telling Tommy Chong that his stash went up in smoke. Do you notice the implicit hierarchies?
When they come from mere acquaintances, like your dorky co-worker, you know, the guy who microwaves left over fish every day, they are received as brown-nosing, noise or flirting. I think our culture trains us to be suspicious of compliments. Maybe it’s from our pilgrim origins of self-reliance and independence and our Max Weber-ian Protestant Work Ethic which we self-deprecate when faced with a public display of complimentary poo. I have no idea what the hell that means, but WTF. Besides, our ears, are highly tune to bull shit--because our society generates so much of it—and this critical filter is so sensitive that even, non-agenda, heartfelt and genuine compliments are wiped away like poo on paper.
I think you can never take a compliment from coworkers. There are always hidden agendas. Especially those who occupy a lateral payroll title like you, in the corporate hierarchy. Their compliments always come off as disingenuous especially if you don’t like them. If the person telling you was a hot chick, then it would be flirtatious. If the person talking to you said your talk with the Dean was thoughtful, then he or she is seeking more information from you. With compliments, it is always better to receive them from your boss—someone above you in the corporate tree—it doesn’t work the other way.
Compliments from friends and significant others, however, and unfortunately, cannot be as highly valued as the disinterested employer simply because, in our culture, they are from people who have an emotional bond and will have a hard time being objective. Name me one employer who would take a letter of reference from your mom? Of course we love compliments from our friends and loved ones. But we don’t have the same vestment as we seek from our peers.
Strangers and those who know your work ethic have no emotional commitment or attachment and offer the most accurate compliments. These are the people who are supposed to know the bottom line of your strengths and weaknesses and reward you accordingly. As a society we are really jaded about compliments. Would the building custodian really know about that Excel spreadsheet you created which was used in the final quarterly report?
When you're a super star bball player, for example, people love you and your talents, so compliments fly like poo from the proverbial fan. After hearing them a lot, they lose meaning. But in the hierarchy of life, a compliment coming from Michael Jordan, a hall of famer, as opposed to that spasmodic dude you see on the bball court, carries more weight and credence.
So thank you all for the compliments. They are not poo to me.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Electronic foot prints
People in this city are afraid of each other but not of leaving their electronic foot prints. Last night, after class, dressed in my $100 black leather hipster boots, wearing my $20 Ross blue jeans and a preppy, $12 Docker checkered dress shirt, I walked casually across the campus reveling in the feeling of being a student in a classroom again. Thinking about my home work assignment for next week and carrying a nike back pack, my contstant companion for the last 30,000 miles, the campus was peaceful, empty and beautiful.
As I waited at the bus stop near the campus bookstore, the darkness and shadow played upon us. Each person became suspect-- our senses heightened, pupils dilating-- preparing for an attack. Even though my body position at the bus stop bench was not in anyone’s direct path, it did not make others at ease. Students in dyads, walking by, talking loudly, or the solo ones yapping cheerfully like chip monks on their cells, shot hesitant glances sideways, a familiar neurological flare of self-preservation. The kid who rode up on his bicycle, talking to himself, singing—and both, shot his kickstand down, reached into his pocket to pull out a cig to smoke before the bus ride home. His hooligan features were suspect: dressed in the style of now of low slung jeans, an urban shoulder gait of tough-like posturing and tattoo arms hiding beneath his extra large, blue hoodie. Perhaps, people should be scared living in L.A.
Almost every male in Los Angeles, is a potential victimizer, fueled by a conscious-- and perhaps driven by—a subconscious rage. Where does this anger come from? We are constantly bullied by the media with their incessant barrage showing us the inequities between the rich and famous and the rest of us, helping to create a victim-like passive persona. We hurt but we show up smiling at the podium anyway. We hide in our cars behind air bags but have road rage. We hide in the open listening to our mp3 players, watching videos drowning out the cell phone conversations around us. We ignore others, even in the same room. Our physical reaction to all of this: become harden, untrusting, suspicious and discontent. We want money, attention and sometimes fame. The media, acting indignant, shows us how we lack these things others have and we wonder why we feel this constant ire. The media are the dope dealers of our world but we hide in our electronic foot prints.
As a society we don’t think about this being an issue. We are inculcated already; it all is normal. Our heightened senses when self-preservation is threatened are a natural reaction to the repetitions of fear. Once you have lived in another city or country where crime rates are low, you may realize that the life you had led has prevented you in becoming more human and vulnerable. Here, in the big digital lie, we avoid others while an electronic community surrounds us in its computer fan generated growth. People we interact with are now invisible and when an analog exchange between flesh and bone occurs , we act surprised or even afraid. Paradoxically, our internet lives are rich and dynamic.
Today, we lead public lives on private networks, often disclosing personal and intimate information, but this comfortable feeling navigating and communicating online with friends and others, is a façade. The electronic foot prints you leave behind follow you forever and our natural self preservation from attack is canceled. But your identity can be stolen, your personal preferences noted and your life tracked. Your acquaintances scorned by your privacy settings on your Face Book “wall.” The friendships networked and forged online are steeped in deception and hidden agendas. We want to be popular and cool so we compete for being first with new information. We create new things so that we defend against obsolescence. We get in touch with old friends only to re-vive the scars that didn’t heal. We use our electronic foot prints to cover, track and over-compensate from our past wrongs done to others. An electronic band aid, anyone?
After the excitement of reuniting fades, your feelings of insecurity come forward; comparing their achievements with yours—soon this curiosity and connection to him or her is dropped or blocked by a filter activated by you. The 3,000 relationships in your electronic footprint are not trust worthy: only the “s” on the end of “http” is, just maybe, for a while.
As I waited at the bus stop near the campus bookstore, the darkness and shadow played upon us. Each person became suspect-- our senses heightened, pupils dilating-- preparing for an attack. Even though my body position at the bus stop bench was not in anyone’s direct path, it did not make others at ease. Students in dyads, walking by, talking loudly, or the solo ones yapping cheerfully like chip monks on their cells, shot hesitant glances sideways, a familiar neurological flare of self-preservation. The kid who rode up on his bicycle, talking to himself, singing—and both, shot his kickstand down, reached into his pocket to pull out a cig to smoke before the bus ride home. His hooligan features were suspect: dressed in the style of now of low slung jeans, an urban shoulder gait of tough-like posturing and tattoo arms hiding beneath his extra large, blue hoodie. Perhaps, people should be scared living in L.A.
Almost every male in Los Angeles, is a potential victimizer, fueled by a conscious-- and perhaps driven by—a subconscious rage. Where does this anger come from? We are constantly bullied by the media with their incessant barrage showing us the inequities between the rich and famous and the rest of us, helping to create a victim-like passive persona. We hurt but we show up smiling at the podium anyway. We hide in our cars behind air bags but have road rage. We hide in the open listening to our mp3 players, watching videos drowning out the cell phone conversations around us. We ignore others, even in the same room. Our physical reaction to all of this: become harden, untrusting, suspicious and discontent. We want money, attention and sometimes fame. The media, acting indignant, shows us how we lack these things others have and we wonder why we feel this constant ire. The media are the dope dealers of our world but we hide in our electronic foot prints.
As a society we don’t think about this being an issue. We are inculcated already; it all is normal. Our heightened senses when self-preservation is threatened are a natural reaction to the repetitions of fear. Once you have lived in another city or country where crime rates are low, you may realize that the life you had led has prevented you in becoming more human and vulnerable. Here, in the big digital lie, we avoid others while an electronic community surrounds us in its computer fan generated growth. People we interact with are now invisible and when an analog exchange between flesh and bone occurs , we act surprised or even afraid. Paradoxically, our internet lives are rich and dynamic.
Today, we lead public lives on private networks, often disclosing personal and intimate information, but this comfortable feeling navigating and communicating online with friends and others, is a façade. The electronic foot prints you leave behind follow you forever and our natural self preservation from attack is canceled. But your identity can be stolen, your personal preferences noted and your life tracked. Your acquaintances scorned by your privacy settings on your Face Book “wall.” The friendships networked and forged online are steeped in deception and hidden agendas. We want to be popular and cool so we compete for being first with new information. We create new things so that we defend against obsolescence. We get in touch with old friends only to re-vive the scars that didn’t heal. We use our electronic foot prints to cover, track and over-compensate from our past wrongs done to others. An electronic band aid, anyone?
After the excitement of reuniting fades, your feelings of insecurity come forward; comparing their achievements with yours—soon this curiosity and connection to him or her is dropped or blocked by a filter activated by you. The 3,000 relationships in your electronic footprint are not trust worthy: only the “s” on the end of “http” is, just maybe, for a while.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Dreams don't come true
I was in a cafe or restaurant with Yanne and this punk-ass kid in his 20's, wearing an 80's style Gap green and orange (?), horizontal-striped shirt, (remember those polo style shirts from their 80's catalog?) decides that he doesn't like me. He says something threatening and then pushes me slightly backward. He is small, thin and aggressive. I know I can kick his ass. Instead, I walk back to my table and reach for my cell phone to call the police. As I am on the phone describing the incident, Yanne is concerned and asking me what is going on. Looking up, the punk is standing in front of me. I ask the 911 operator to hold, casually tell Yanne I will talk to her in a second, and briefly make eye contact with the punk but look past him. He continues walking to the back of the restaurant. I woke up from this dream around 5:50am.
On the bus this morning, around 7am, it's pretty full. I like sitting in the front but there are no seats. I walk towards the back and spot an empty aisle seat. As I approach, there's a kid who is using his leg to block the seat. I wave my hand to motion entry and when I sit down, I turn and look. This punk ass kid is wearing a Gap polo shirt with green and black horizontal stripes! Weird! He is small and thin. I've never seen him before. I remember the dream from earlier. I put on my headphones and listen to NPR. It was a nice bus ride. The end.
On the bus this morning, around 7am, it's pretty full. I like sitting in the front but there are no seats. I walk towards the back and spot an empty aisle seat. As I approach, there's a kid who is using his leg to block the seat. I wave my hand to motion entry and when I sit down, I turn and look. This punk ass kid is wearing a Gap polo shirt with green and black horizontal stripes! Weird! He is small and thin. I've never seen him before. I remember the dream from earlier. I put on my headphones and listen to NPR. It was a nice bus ride. The end.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
The snake
Hello blog readers. My dad's (Bob) mortal fears are snakes and dying of carbon monoxide. When he moved into his new house last year, he had his gas stove replaced with an electric one. And keeps a wooden Moses-like staff in his bedroom to kill visiting snakes and bible wielding Christians.
He lives in a small rural town and adjacent to his home, is a run-down trailer park; the kind that have torn and dirty curtains hanging from the windows. One day, in his absentmindedness, he left the back screen door open. While he was watching TV, a snake sneaked in. Well, so he thought. He discovered the door ajar and lived in mortal fear of snakes for two weeks. Luckily, no snake appeared. He carefully checked whole house, every day, while holding his Moses stick in hand. By the way, he does have a long, flowing white beard.
Well, last week, at the early 3am hour, when even mice sleep, he felt a smooth body crawl next to his leg. He jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs. When he re-gained his composure and looked around to make sure no one heard his girly 14 year old scream, he went upstairs and grabbed his Moses staff to kick some snake butt...but no snake! I guess his scream scared him off.
He spent the next 24 hours awake, unable to sleep, sitting on his living room couch. He left me several dramatic phone messages throughout the day, keeping me abreast of his lack of sleep and his imprisonment in his home.
The first message went something like this: "Matthew....(long pause, throat clearing) it's your papa....There's a snake in my home. I can't sleep, I am dying..." (sound of the receiver being lazily dropped onto the base).
The second message, a few hours later: "Matthew, my son...I've been up for 24 hours. I can't sleep in my bedroom. The snake will eat me! I might die from lack of sleep. I'm too tired to sleep. I am a prisoner in my own house. A prisoner..." (his voice fades, the receiver is sloppily hung up, probably up-side down).
After a couple of encouraging phone calls from me and my brother, he fell asleep on the couch down stairs, clutching his companion, Moses, in his dry arthritic hand. The next day he called a snake and rodent removal expert. He called the man three times asking for his arrival time. The man arrived and looked. Nothing. No snake. That visit cost him $125.
In the meantime, I did some research online and found that cats are excellent deterrents against snakes. My dad was not encouraged. The snake expert laid two traps consisting of live mice and for over a week, the mice sat helpless in the trap, whimpering softly and slowly dying of starvation. If only that stupid snake appeared again and ate the mice! Was he imagining it? Hmm. After the rodent removal man left, my dad took action and purchased an army style cot and placed it in the bathroom.
A week of sleeping in the bathroom, with the lights on and the army style cot hurting his gentle back, and the snake still did not appear. My dad lived in fear and could not sleep in his bed until he was sure the snake was dead.
Since he has no other life than to call and torment his sons with his snake updates, he paid a contractor $1,300 to build a partition around his bed in his bedroom. The wall goes from the floor to the ceiling and seals in his bed preventing snakes from rooming with him. Picture a room inside a room and that's his new bedroom. He can see out the window but in order to enter his bed, he must open a separate door that is inside his bedroom! He's crazy! At least he can sleep.
The live traps are gone. The snake never came back. They come into homes via small cracks, much like mice do, and look for room and food. Was there really a snake? Last week he drove home and was parking his car, when a little kid from one of the run-down trailers ran up to his car yelling, "Mister, mister....a snake, a snake in my yard!" My dad ran to his house and got Moses from the bedroom. It took him a while because when opening and closing his bedroom door, he made sure he didn't allow any snakes to enter his new partitioned-off room within a room, and ran back to the kid who already sought help with another neighbor.
When my dad arrived with his wooden stick, the other neighbor brought a shot gun. There, on a tree, resting in the warmth of the sun, was a black snake. The kids yelled, "The snake, the snake!" My dad felt powerless as the the neighbor fired and killed it. He turned to him and said in a sarcastic tone, "There's your snake, Bob!" Yes, reader. There's his $1,425 snake, dead, in the tree.
He lives in a small rural town and adjacent to his home, is a run-down trailer park; the kind that have torn and dirty curtains hanging from the windows. One day, in his absentmindedness, he left the back screen door open. While he was watching TV, a snake sneaked in. Well, so he thought. He discovered the door ajar and lived in mortal fear of snakes for two weeks. Luckily, no snake appeared. He carefully checked whole house, every day, while holding his Moses stick in hand. By the way, he does have a long, flowing white beard.
Well, last week, at the early 3am hour, when even mice sleep, he felt a smooth body crawl next to his leg. He jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs. When he re-gained his composure and looked around to make sure no one heard his girly 14 year old scream, he went upstairs and grabbed his Moses staff to kick some snake butt...but no snake! I guess his scream scared him off.
He spent the next 24 hours awake, unable to sleep, sitting on his living room couch. He left me several dramatic phone messages throughout the day, keeping me abreast of his lack of sleep and his imprisonment in his home.
The first message went something like this: "Matthew....(long pause, throat clearing) it's your papa....There's a snake in my home. I can't sleep, I am dying..." (sound of the receiver being lazily dropped onto the base).
The second message, a few hours later: "Matthew, my son...I've been up for 24 hours. I can't sleep in my bedroom. The snake will eat me! I might die from lack of sleep. I'm too tired to sleep. I am a prisoner in my own house. A prisoner..." (his voice fades, the receiver is sloppily hung up, probably up-side down).
After a couple of encouraging phone calls from me and my brother, he fell asleep on the couch down stairs, clutching his companion, Moses, in his dry arthritic hand. The next day he called a snake and rodent removal expert. He called the man three times asking for his arrival time. The man arrived and looked. Nothing. No snake. That visit cost him $125.
In the meantime, I did some research online and found that cats are excellent deterrents against snakes. My dad was not encouraged. The snake expert laid two traps consisting of live mice and for over a week, the mice sat helpless in the trap, whimpering softly and slowly dying of starvation. If only that stupid snake appeared again and ate the mice! Was he imagining it? Hmm. After the rodent removal man left, my dad took action and purchased an army style cot and placed it in the bathroom.
A week of sleeping in the bathroom, with the lights on and the army style cot hurting his gentle back, and the snake still did not appear. My dad lived in fear and could not sleep in his bed until he was sure the snake was dead.
Since he has no other life than to call and torment his sons with his snake updates, he paid a contractor $1,300 to build a partition around his bed in his bedroom. The wall goes from the floor to the ceiling and seals in his bed preventing snakes from rooming with him. Picture a room inside a room and that's his new bedroom. He can see out the window but in order to enter his bed, he must open a separate door that is inside his bedroom! He's crazy! At least he can sleep.
The live traps are gone. The snake never came back. They come into homes via small cracks, much like mice do, and look for room and food. Was there really a snake? Last week he drove home and was parking his car, when a little kid from one of the run-down trailers ran up to his car yelling, "Mister, mister....a snake, a snake in my yard!" My dad ran to his house and got Moses from the bedroom. It took him a while because when opening and closing his bedroom door, he made sure he didn't allow any snakes to enter his new partitioned-off room within a room, and ran back to the kid who already sought help with another neighbor.
When my dad arrived with his wooden stick, the other neighbor brought a shot gun. There, on a tree, resting in the warmth of the sun, was a black snake. The kids yelled, "The snake, the snake!" My dad felt powerless as the the neighbor fired and killed it. He turned to him and said in a sarcastic tone, "There's your snake, Bob!" Yes, reader. There's his $1,425 snake, dead, in the tree.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Our hunter and gatherer society
My friend Sharona has an instinct for free food. She is the new kind of hunter that has left the prehistoric forest and entered the urban gatherer society. Like Sharona, we drive to Ralphs, gather our food, go home and microwave it. Today’s hunter uses GPS and the combustion engine to find and gather. Our food is cleaned, cooked and sanitized. We no longer have to fight the four elements to gather our food supply. Instead, we maneuver our soft bodies through the urban landscape of parking lots, supermarkets and use sanitizers to clean off the ink from Sunday's coupon section. In our current state of work, Sharona is the new face of the organizational onion: She is the Tribal Leader of hunting down food.
Here’s an excerpt of a captured communication link between her and her hunter and gathering guard. Thanks to the Ray “Huang” and his magic pinky ring, we were able to intercept this secured email conversation and have a close up view of real time hunting and gathering in the work force.
Sharona: This is Tribe Leader One calling all available scouts. What are your positions? Come in, please. (static sound...)
Kelly: Ah, Tribe Leader…(static,) this is Kelly Unit over here in Collins Sector A dash Four Sixteen. (static sound) We are all green with salad and good to go in ten.
Sharona: Roger that Kelly. Please identify free food for rescue…
Kelly: Roger, Tribe Leader. Dianthia in K Sector had a visual of some Noah’s bagels in Gold Section 2 dash fiver with some possible garlic cream cheese south at the 6 o’clock position.
Sharona: Roger that Kelly. Can you secure the area from MBA’s by O eight hundred (0800)?
Kelly: That’s a negative. We have some MBAs and Profs milling around the coffee spigot.
Sharona: Hmm. Roger that, Collins Sector. The master room schedule has their departure over. Could you push for emergency exit?
Kelly: Ah, negative Tribe Leader. We have several Big Wigs collecting damaged goods for return to home base in Sector C dash 4 Sixteen.
Sharona: Roger that Kelly. On my count, send work study cub, Sam, for some scouting and clean up duty; that should get the ball rolling and bagels bagged. I’m hungry!
Kelly: Roger that Team leader. Cub Sam on his way for reconnaissance and push with show of force. ETA of goods at 0811, Over and out.
Here’s an excerpt of a captured communication link between her and her hunter and gathering guard. Thanks to the Ray “Huang” and his magic pinky ring, we were able to intercept this secured email conversation and have a close up view of real time hunting and gathering in the work force.
Sharona: This is Tribe Leader One calling all available scouts. What are your positions? Come in, please. (static sound...)
Kelly: Ah, Tribe Leader…(static,) this is Kelly Unit over here in Collins Sector A dash Four Sixteen. (static sound) We are all green with salad and good to go in ten.
Sharona: Roger that Kelly. Please identify free food for rescue…
Kelly: Roger, Tribe Leader. Dianthia in K Sector had a visual of some Noah’s bagels in Gold Section 2 dash fiver with some possible garlic cream cheese south at the 6 o’clock position.
Sharona: Roger that Kelly. Can you secure the area from MBA’s by O eight hundred (0800)?
Kelly: That’s a negative. We have some MBAs and Profs milling around the coffee spigot.
Sharona: Hmm. Roger that, Collins Sector. The master room schedule has their departure over. Could you push for emergency exit?
Kelly: Ah, negative Tribe Leader. We have several Big Wigs collecting damaged goods for return to home base in Sector C dash 4 Sixteen.
Sharona: Roger that Kelly. On my count, send work study cub, Sam, for some scouting and clean up duty; that should get the ball rolling and bagels bagged. I’m hungry!
Kelly: Roger that Team leader. Cub Sam on his way for reconnaissance and push with show of force. ETA of goods at 0811, Over and out.
Friday, May 1, 2009
When I met the Galaga God...
Yes, it happened this week at SEAS Café in the Math Sciences building at UCLA. I bought my Diet Dr. Pepper—which tastes like shit—when I heard that warm, familiar sound of Galaga. He was sitting on one of those inconspicuous metal stools with the cheesy plastic seat covering, killing the bees and wasps of Galaga. I watched his hands deftly move the lever, left to right, right to left, avoiding the barrage of bullets from the enemy. For past eight months that I’ve consistently played Galaga, my highest score has been 97,000. Even when Kelly and I play Galaga on occasion and pour quarters down it's thirsty throat, our total scores don't match the prowess of Galaga God. I watched Galaga God rack up half of his 167,000-- all on one quarter!“It’s very relaxing to me,” he said to me in his clipped Asian accent afterward, as his last ship died it's ugly pixel death. His UCLA tee-shirt was a little wrinkled. You could imagine him working in one of those student-run engineering labs tucked away in one of those remote corners of the Math Science building.
“It’s a very simple game, really.” He continued.
“Who scored 292,000?” I asked.
“Oh, last week I beat that…” he replied, humbly motioning to the video machine.
“Wow! You got 296,000?”
“Yes, now I will go for 300,000.” With that he walked away. And with that the humble Galaga God, in his monk-like way, has instilled in me hope for breaking 100,000 points, on a quarter!
Monday, April 20, 2009
A Friend of the Poo--guest blog blurb
I just added a new feature to a View from the Poo, called, A friend of the Poo. We will feature guest readers' blurbs on a weekly basis. So, if you're interested, and have written some good stuff, please submit a piece of your poo or commentary to me.
Now, sit back, read, enjoy, rejoice and empathize from a fellow blog reader...
We went to the Landmark and saw "State of Play" and I swear, I could write a guest post on your blog about the experience. The man sitting next to me actually burped out loud at least 5 if not more times, in addition to sucking popcorn out of his teeth, clearing his throat, moving around in his seat and hitting my leg with his foot. (Those very comfortable and roomy seats were not enough for this man, he needed to invade my space as well.) Oddly enough, I believe he was at the movie with a woman (he spoke during the movie several times to her) and I think they were married. I thought that the Landmark would be too high-end for this kind of riffraff, but I guess not. I have very acute hearing so all of the noise that this man made during the movie was very frustrating, to say the least. I wanted to say something to him, but what do you say to a middle-aged man who has no manners? I didn't want to cause a commotion in the theater or get Kenny involved, either. SIGH. I was really waiting for him to lift his leg and let out a really loud, smelly fart!!!!
Now, sit back, read, enjoy, rejoice and empathize from a fellow blog reader...
We went to the Landmark and saw "State of Play" and I swear, I could write a guest post on your blog about the experience. The man sitting next to me actually burped out loud at least 5 if not more times, in addition to sucking popcorn out of his teeth, clearing his throat, moving around in his seat and hitting my leg with his foot. (Those very comfortable and roomy seats were not enough for this man, he needed to invade my space as well.) Oddly enough, I believe he was at the movie with a woman (he spoke during the movie several times to her) and I think they were married. I thought that the Landmark would be too high-end for this kind of riffraff, but I guess not. I have very acute hearing so all of the noise that this man made during the movie was very frustrating, to say the least. I wanted to say something to him, but what do you say to a middle-aged man who has no manners? I didn't want to cause a commotion in the theater or get Kenny involved, either. SIGH. I was really waiting for him to lift his leg and let out a really loud, smelly fart!!!!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Snot Shields
I remember my grandfather sitting on the black, vinyl recliner in my dining room, reading his Newsday newspaper, the TV on, spewing the news for many hot New York Sunday afternoons. I think all of us have those grandfatherely memories like some sort of sick Matrix memory installed from the evil bots. My grandfather is not alive these days because of the Matrix.
He was old then, his hair grey and his ears, large and bent. Why is it that old white men get huge ears when they grow older? Our noses too! During those hot summer afternoons when he sat and read for hours, he would pick his nose. Maybe he thought I couldn't see him behind the newspaper? Now, as a 40 year man, I too pick my nose. I do this in private. We all do, right? But what is it about getting older that we pick our noses more and more? For me, it's an inverse relationship between that and farting. I actually fart less but I have no one to vouch for that except me and would you trust a nice nose picker like me? If you fart a lot, then, the law states, you don't pick you nose that often. Please observe your farting and nose picking habits, kind reader and you'll see why this is a law!
In New York, when the summer is hot and you feel like you're in a pizza oven, you breathe in lots of dirty, humid air. As a result, you get these enormous Snot Shields. They must be one inch in diameter!! You could defend your family with these green sticky shields. En garde you evil bots!
In Los Angeles, it's rare to have such girth and weight to your snot but on occasion, you can pull one out, full of nose hair like one of those rubber cement balls you made as a kid--and dropped on the floor--picking up dust and dirt.
These days my hair line is receding making my face look long and oval like a horse. As the law of inverse relationship states, when your hair recedes your nose hair grows...my nose hairs are getting longer! Sometimes those Snot Shields grab nose hairs! They're like sharp swords! En garde you evil bots.
I really wished that my grandfather shared with me the secrets of snot. All those Sundays he sat and read, picking away at his bulbous nose, when he could have been instructing me on Snot Shields.
Summer is approaching fast and that means snot. So, when you're reading the Sunday paper on a hot, summer afternoon, and you're lazily digging for gold, pick up the phone and call your grandfather and ask him. Be sure to tell him that you love him and ask him about his fights against the evil bots.
He was old then, his hair grey and his ears, large and bent. Why is it that old white men get huge ears when they grow older? Our noses too! During those hot summer afternoons when he sat and read for hours, he would pick his nose. Maybe he thought I couldn't see him behind the newspaper? Now, as a 40 year man, I too pick my nose. I do this in private. We all do, right? But what is it about getting older that we pick our noses more and more? For me, it's an inverse relationship between that and farting. I actually fart less but I have no one to vouch for that except me and would you trust a nice nose picker like me? If you fart a lot, then, the law states, you don't pick you nose that often. Please observe your farting and nose picking habits, kind reader and you'll see why this is a law!
In New York, when the summer is hot and you feel like you're in a pizza oven, you breathe in lots of dirty, humid air. As a result, you get these enormous Snot Shields. They must be one inch in diameter!! You could defend your family with these green sticky shields. En garde you evil bots!
In Los Angeles, it's rare to have such girth and weight to your snot but on occasion, you can pull one out, full of nose hair like one of those rubber cement balls you made as a kid--and dropped on the floor--picking up dust and dirt.
These days my hair line is receding making my face look long and oval like a horse. As the law of inverse relationship states, when your hair recedes your nose hair grows...my nose hairs are getting longer! Sometimes those Snot Shields grab nose hairs! They're like sharp swords! En garde you evil bots.
I really wished that my grandfather shared with me the secrets of snot. All those Sundays he sat and read, picking away at his bulbous nose, when he could have been instructing me on Snot Shields.
Summer is approaching fast and that means snot. So, when you're reading the Sunday paper on a hot, summer afternoon, and you're lazily digging for gold, pick up the phone and call your grandfather and ask him. Be sure to tell him that you love him and ask him about his fights against the evil bots.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Korean Waffles--total munchie food
Over the past weekend I made Suwon style Korean Waffles. These were as good, if not, better than the waffles you get at the food court next to the Coffee Bean in HomePlus. Not that those are bad. Suwon sells these waffles in every large department store, with some exceptions. I know this because I've spent days riding my bicycle, drinking coffee and eating 500 waffles in six months.Korean waffles are: large, round and hot, spread with some whipped cream on one side, while the other, clover honey is drizzled down from some middle aged ajuma (older lady) wearing a chef's white uniform. After the condiments are added, the waffle is served, folded in half. All for a buck ($1). Cheap and good. This is total munchie food. Can you imagine? Yum!
On Saturday I bought some fresh heavy cream, whipped it up, added some sugar, vanilla and a teaspoon of dark rum, bought some Trader Joe's wheat-free waffles, and for Palmer style variation, added some maple syrup. Instead of serving the waffles folded, I cut them into quarters. You can use honey or maple syrup; it's up to you. Delicious.
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