Things to Look Out For

We have two seasons where I live: mud slide and grass fire. Grass fire season has been upon us since early May. For other parts of the country, the advent of summer is heralded by the issuance of a partial list of things allegedly caused by global warming.

I say 'partial' because it misses a few major quality-of-life issues. 'Excessive sweating' failed to make the list, as did thirst, funky smells, steering-wheel burns, popsicle cravings and leather upholstery adhesion. Also missing: Air Conditioning envy, Dog Wilting Syndrome and information overload from hearing all your neighbors' business due to open windows. I know; I was surprised they missed those, too, especially the sticking to your seat thing. I suppose that's what comes from allowing journalists to play with science. Important, life-altering details are overlooked. For instance, it was 104 degrees in my apartment yesterday and I couldn't get up to get another popsicle until after sundown.

Now I can die...

....because I have officially seen everything now:

George Carlin's Solution to Save Gasoline:

Bush wants us to cut the amount of gas we use.....

The best way to stop using so much gas is to deport 11 million illegal
immigrants!

That would be 11 million less people illegally using our gas. The
price of gas would come down...

Bring our troops home from Iraq to guard the Borders...

When they catch an illegal immigrant crossing the border, hand him a
canteen, rifle and some ammo and ship him to Iraq!

Tell him if he wants to come to America then he must serve a tour in
the U.S. military...

Give him a soldier's pay while he's there and tax him on it...

After his tour, he will be allowed to become a citizen since he
defended this country...

He will also be registered to be taxed and be a legal patriot...

This option will probably deter illegal immigration and provide a
solution for the troops in Iraq and the illegal aliens trying to make
a better life for themselves...

If they refuse to serve, ship them to Iraq anyway, without the
canteen, rifle or ammo...

Problem solved!

If you think this is a good solution to both the problems, forward it
to your friends.

That's right. George Freaking Carlin, hero of my teenage years. From "AM and FM." The Class Clown, for crying out loud. Wow. The older you get the more likely you are to embrace a more conservative worldview. In his case, it took , like, 78 years. I may actually be able to listen to him again without feeling like a shmuck. Thanks for snapping out of it, George. Although 11 million is a lowball figure. There may be 11 mil in California alone. Still, his heart's in the right place.

Scary, and Cute.

Everyone who has a cell phone has done this at least once. You accidentally hit redial while the phone is in your pocket or wherever and the party on the other end is treated to a little slice of your life. It happened to Army MP Stephen Phillips while he was engaged in a firefight in Afghanistan. The last number he'd dialed was his parents. They returned home to find three minutes of terror on the family voicemail.

"They were pinned down and apparently his barrel was overheating," said Jeff Petee. "It's something a parent really doesn't want to hear. It's a heck of a message to get from your son in Afghanistan."

Indeed.

"You could hear him saying stuff like, he needs more ammo, or he needs another barrel," said John Petee, Phillips' brother. "At the end, you could hear a guy saying 'Incoming! RPG!' And then it cut off."

Of course, his folks were frantic. Of course, it took ages to get in touch with Phillips (The news story doesn't disclose his rank, probably because it's Oregon.) but eventually they were sucessful. Phillips was embarrassed; he asked his parents not to play the voicemail for his grandmother, maybe because of the swearing. Awww.

What a man.

Just Plain Sad

Judging by this list of 2007's top 10 most controversial ad campaigns in England, we won't have to worry about them resurrecting the Empire anytime soon. They're much too busy complaining about TV commercials that "might discourage mothers from breastfeeding" or contain "a depiction of a threat of violence and was therefore irresponsible and condoning bullying." That's not the same ad, by the way.

Also, there's an ad for the Sun newspaper that drew complaints for being too racy. No, really? A British tabloid with a picture of a mostly naked woman? Whatever group that offended must have moved to England recently...

Comedy

Part of a conversation I and my son had over breakfast. He was describing an article he read by Dave Barry about a ride he took in a fighter jet:

Me: Yeah, I heard that the ride makes you pretty sick if you haven't trained for it. That's why the pilots like to take journalists along, to make them scream and puke. Fighter pilots think that's funny.

Then follows details from the article outlining bodily-fluid related fighter pilot humor. There's a lot of bodily-fluid related humor in any conversation with a 15-year-old boy.

Me: In fact, they actually prefer to take the ladies along because there's more screaming.

He: Really?

Me: Of course. I bet money changes hands over screaming vs. puking, how much, when...

He: Nuh uh!!

Me: I bet. That's got to be part of it. Ladies are much more likely to scream than men, so that has to be part of why so many ladies get invited to go. But a soft guy will do just as well. So if you're ever a journalist and you get invited to fly along it might be because they think you're a sissy. Go anyway, of course...

He: Have you ever gone on a fighter jet?

Me: Umm, no.

He: (delivered in perfect deadpan) Too manly?

Me: (Pause) No one in a position to invite me knows who I am.

He: If you went, would you scream?

Me: I would scream, puke, and wet myself. The inside of that plane would look like a rented limo on prom night.

He: You're just saying that to get a ride in a jet.

The child is a smart aleck. I don't know where he gets it.

A Portal Into Another Dimension

Join me now as we travel to the Huffington Post. Scroll down past the teaser for Absinthe and the one with the headline about having a three-way with God (not making it up). See this week's "little kid steals grandma's truck and wrecks it" story? Watch the video if you like; I didn't. Check out the comments. They're like flipping over a rock. Every aspect of the child's life is dissected, from his given name to his weight to his home situation to wild speculation about the ages of his parents and grandparents.

Great. No conscience, no sense of right and wrong, ignoramus grammar, and
fat as a pig. They ought to just preregister him at the county jail because
that's where he'll end up. Grandmother has custody. That means mama is mostly
likely a druggie. Where's dad? And grandmama drives a big ole gaz-guzzling SUV.
I don't feel sorry for the family; they raised him that way. Videogames, lack of
supervision, bad diet. So many things wrong with this picture I can't even stand
it. They ought to start saving up for attorney's fees.

Oh, and they're real worked up about that SUV.

Part of the reason I didn't look at the vid was I wanted to see if I could figure out what demographic the kid was part of just based upon the comments. We are a post-racial society, after all. Mr. Obama says so, and then Mrs. Obama smacks him in the head. How's she been, anyway? Haven't seen her in a while. At any rate, sixteen comments down the page and TA DA!!

This kid's got some of the qualities and tendencies of Your Typical
ReThugLieCon. Now if only he was white (or Clarence Thomas), he'd be afforded
the opportunities to hone his craft.

OOooo. Twofer. But he's not bigoted. At all. And that's not even the first post to blame 'society.' My favorite, and not just because he accidentally points out what might be a root cause of the little boy's resentment by misspelling his name:

So Latarina was out for a joy ride .... even though he is not of age
for a Driver's License, nor of age to get Car Insurance, nor is he of age to own
a car. But I bet anyone his driving abilities performed alot more better than of
those who are adults that goes out drinking and then drives. Sure, it shows he's
not growing up in a great environment that teaches him to be more disciplined
within his natural surroundings, a kid with no father figure perhaps, nor a
mother who teaches him right from wrong. This just clearly shows that, this is
the direction to where a country is going because the politicians are more
worried about corporate interests and their bank accounts, even at a time of
war. They could of done better things with their war money, such as give a kid
like Latarian a better living environment, not nooooooooooo .... that didn't
happen.Remember now, oppression is a dysfunctional disease brought to you, by
the country's political infrastructure.

I'm sorry; your what hurts? Shouldn't you be lecturing at a community college somewhere right now? Sociology, perhaps, or maybe pre-law? These are the people we share the roads with, the people blocking the aisle at the grocery store who give you that look when you try to go around them. The people who won't take their clothes out at the laundrymat when the machine is done running, like they're renting real estate. These people vote. They think they're right. About everything, all the time. Good thing that's funny.

Politics Made Simple

One one side we have a Harvard-educated lawyer married to a harpy that's also a lawyer, running against a Yale-educated harpy lawyer married to a lawyer. Whoever wins will be running against a guy married to a good-looking blonde who owns a beer distributorship. I can't believe we even have to have an election.

Too bad he's got all those cats

I am just crazy about this guy.

Sauce for the Gander

The following is from a work of popular fiction. I've played with the wording a tiny bit to illustrate my point. It's a popular enough work that you might recognize it in spite of that.

This little vignette plays itself out in offices everywhere, I expect:

She: I'm hoping we can work together on this project in the spirit of cooperation. I'll have some ideas, and you'll have some ideas, and together we can pick the best ones.

He: Sure, that's one approach. But I prefer to exhale deeply and roll my eyes while you prattle. Then I will verbally demolish your ludicrous ideas, and dismantle your mistaken self-image as a competent woman.The carnage will create a striking contrast for the warm, clear glow of my brilliant ideas. Later, I will round out the package by spreading amusing stories about how ignorant you are.

She: Is there any chance of doing it my way?

He: Now watch my eyes.

I've been talked to like that, and I'm sure I could round up a few other women across a -- pardon me -- broad spectrum of ages who could say the same thing. It's infuriating. It makes you want to cry. If this were to happen in a real life company what would happen to 'he'? Summary dismissal? Nasty lawsuit? A trip to Glorious People's Sensitivity Camp? I bet it does happen in real life. I bet it'll happen today and nobody will even notice. Because it'll be a woman saying that to a man. The above is from a Dilbert cartoon and I switched the speakers' genders. So it's funny now.

I'm sure some hairy, wizened old "feminist" will set me straight but I never saw the point in being equal to men. Not equally awful, anyhow. I appreciate men. I admire their dynamism, their ambition, even their occasional lapses in judgment. Most major advancements in civilization just had to be the result of a bet or a dare. Space travel, for instance. Women would never think to say, "Go big or go home"; we're more like, "What's everybody there going to be wearing? And did you look at a map?" Worthy questions, but hardly inspiring. I like how helpful men are, how the nicest ones make it possible for me to dress pretty and smell good, secure in the knowledge that gas will be pumped and jars will be opened; I have but to ask. Hard to square with being a welder? I only did it to make a good life for my kid. My male kid. My feminist relatives hate when I say that. I've always been their little mascot.

So how do you deal with the dismissive attitude? You remember that it's not unique to either gender and you quietly thank them for being such a dunce they'll never expect it when you outflank them. Take the lead in broadcasting that they were the brains behind the operation. If it was a good idea you seem supportive. If it was a crappy idea, well... Also remember they carry a grudge and they have lots of time to obsess over things because they're usually single. Plausible deniability. That's all I'm gonna say.

There. Now that I've alienated most of the women and they've stomped off in disgust we can swap dirty jokes. I used to work construction; I know some funny ones.

Zelly Zelly Bo-belly

It is a ridiculously beautiful day, even by local standards, and I have the afternoon off work. There's about eight thousand more interesting things I could be writing about, but lucky you, you get to hear about my dog, Miss Zelda Clifton. She gets mail. From Hillary and Obama. She thinks it's delicious.

I've never had a dog before and I didn't know anything about them. Yes, I've seen dogs before; I've just never lived with one. I thought I'd get something tiny. Smaller puddles. Zelda was listed for free on Craigslist. There was nothing going on with her family, they just really wanted to get rid of her. I did manage to get this bit of information out of their five-year-old daughter: Lexy (her name then) had killed two of the neighbor's cats. Oh. Good to know. I suppose if I'd had a cat mom and dad wouldn't have told me that. Come along, doggie; these aren't your kind of people anyway.

I took Zel (named after Ms. Fitzgerald and not the video game, thanks) to the vet and discovered she'd been chipped. I had it read and discovered Zel was thirteen months old, a purebred show-quality rat terrier and had had four different addresses. I made home number five. I wondered why so many people had given her up until I took her home.

I think she's grand. She does all the doggie stuff you see in cartoons: chases cats, digs holes, turns around three times before she lays down, barks at imaginary crap, all of it. As a special treat sometimes we'll watch Animal Planet. She goes nuts barking at the TV. Whenever the GEICO ad with the squirrels comes on she just hurls herself at the set. It's a crackup. I hope she gets them someday.

So I was thinking about how people say dogs get to be like their owners, or maybe it's vice versa. Let's see. She's got terrible manners. OK. Likes beer, liverwurst and onion sandwiches and steak tartare. Sometimes at the same meal. Check. Hobbies include annoying people and risking her life teasing larger animals. Whoa. Freaky. She's incredibly butch, yet dainty. She was run over by a pickup truck -- complete with tread marks -- and only sustained a broken pelvis and dislocated hip. And she lost a tooth. In the back, though; you can't see it when she smiles. She's very good with nonverbal expression. For instance, she never has an "accident" on the rug. That's all on purpose, my friend. And she's punctual. Every morning at 0551 she stands on you, checking to see if you're awake yet, because someone needs to go for a walk or else the rug gets it, see.

My best guess is that Zel had too much personality to suit her other families. I can relate. All in all, she makes a good alter ego. Plus, the camera loves her. She's much more photogenic than me.

How old I am

Ordinarily I don't give a rat's what those darned foreigners think of our politics, but this is funny. I live for the day when Hill makes reference to her wife....eh... Morgan Fairchild...

Obligatory St. Patrick's Day Joke

This alleged holiday is the Irish Cinco de Mayo.

That wasn't the joke. Nothing funny about 'drink 'till you're smart' day. Anyhow:

Q. What did St. Patrick say as he was driving the snakes out of Ireland?
A. "you guys comfortable back there? would you like me to roll down the window?"

That is a genuine Irish joke, told to me by an Irish ironworker named John. There was a whole pack of them on that one job, and they all thought my name was Colleen. I came this close to starting an international incident when John told me that's what they called all the girls. Oh. OK. So I can call you all "Paddy," then?

We came up with new names for each other. They called me "Kitten." I didn't mind.

Reasons to Wake

OK, I do know it's not St. Patrick's Day yet, so I'll save my lame St. Paddy's joke for then. This is good, though. Every so often, maybe no more than once or twice in a person's entire life, perfect serendipity occurs, a moment of such flawless absurdity it remains recorded in the memory forever like Youtube. I had such a moment on St. Patrick's Day of 2000.

Once upon a time I belonged to the Piledrivers Union. Local 34, Oakland, Ca. I was a welder. No, not like the girl in Flashdance; she was an actress. It was hard damn work, and to paraphrase Steve Buscemi from "Armageddon," it paid well, the scenery changed and sometimes you got to blow stuff up. And I met some awesome men, as well as one or two of the biggest crapweasels ever to walk on their back legs.

The morning of 3/17/2000 I was working on a building foundation job in San Francisco's Financial District. My little corner of the world was right next to the fence separating the jobsite from Howard Street. So I'm all duded up in my protective gear, looking like the lesbian dream date, welding away. I finish the piece I'm working on, put up my mask, and there is a beautiful young man in a kilt, riding his bicycle up the street towards me. A healthy specimen, he was. We made eye contact and he registered surprise. I'm unmistakably female; I look like R. Crumb drew me. I don't often express these sentiments out loud to strangers, but I was moved to call out. I mean, the guy is riding a bicycle in a kilt. In America. That's one confident dude. And yes, his skirt was blowing up. Without thinking I said the first thing that popped into my head. "Baby." The rest of the sentence, "Let's get married for the weekend," was implied. And then he was gone from my life like the fading light of dusk, like the last sip of wine, like a loosely-held sucker from a baby's hand. Or something.

A male pedestrian gets hey-babied by a female construction worker. Welcome to California. Enjoy your stay in Bizarro World. And if you're that guy, I'm sure you remember me. The offer still stands.

Practical advice

Do you have to ride the bus, as part of a commute or for travel? Uncomfortable with the level of intimacy bus travel affords? Here's how to get a seat by yourself, as in, here's how to get someone to move out of the seat next to you and discourage people from taking it:

1) Acquire target seat.
2)Take no more than sixty seconds to pretend like you're falling asleep.
3) Relax your upper body and allow yourself to slump forward until you are bent double. Your arms should hang loosely so that your hands brush the floor and your chin should rest on your knees. Allowing your head to occasionally strike the seat in front of you adds a touch of authenticity. Try not to bite your tongue; that really hurts.

Just for the entertainment value, try this in an aisle seat. People will climb over the back of the seat to get out without touching you.

Worried about maintaining your dignity? Get off the bus. No, actually, there is another method that is somewhat more interactive and requires a prop. Carry your jacket, backpack, attache or soiled rag in a bundle as if it were a baby. Speak to it occasionally. Not loudly, though; you want people to lean in slightly to hear what you're saying. Make a point of noticing them and twist your body away while glaring at them in a hostile manner. With a little effort you'll have your entire half of the bus to yourself, leaving you free to meditate or whatever. You're welcome.