A whole world of Horror

I’ve recently been forced (forced, I say) to watch some gameshows on tv. I find most gameshows fairly horrible, but there’s a certain type of gameshow which is worse than others.

See, there’s games like “Jeopardy” that are fine to me, mostly because I’m a geek and love trivia. And there are games like “Let’s Make a Deal” which I find annoying, but at least it fits a format and it doesn’t screw around.
But the worst gameshows, by far, are those that WASTE TIME. Shows like “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” and “Deal or No Deal” are the main culprits on that hell-on-earth station, GameShowNetwork.

The biggest problem these shows have is, obviously, they waste time. “Which is larger, a kitten or an island?” Seems like a simple question, but “Millionaire” will fuck around and waste a few minutes talking and yapping and getting a stupid story about how the contestant once ate a leaf in 4th grade. NOBODY CARES! Move on!
What they try to do is create tension. But the thing is, you can’t artificially create tension and drama (just watch how ineffectual the presenters of World Series broadcasts are in this regard). They use dramatic music and long annoying pauses to try to create some sort of nail-biting tension. Will the overly excited moron choose the money or the next suitcase? Will he take the money or try to guess which atomic element was discovered first? On the surface, not bad questions. Unfortunately, the shows drag out those decisions. They drag them out so long it becomes painfully obvious that the format is weak.

The format is so weak that they have to stretch things out and hem and haw and tell little stories and there is, in theory, a clock ticking for them to answer, but they take forever to decide things.

But, in the case of “Millionaire” it’s worse. Not only do they screw around and waste time and have an annoying host talk too much to waste time, they sometimes have the audacity to do a “Come back next week to see if Jimmy Jackass wins a million dollars!” What the hell???

Game shows should fit the format. You have a half hour? The show should fit in that half hour. No going over and no stretching.

So, in order to help the universe, here’s a list of things to make a better gameshow experience:
1.The game begins and ends only in the thirty minutes of the broadcast.
No going overtime.

2.Keep the chit chat to a minimum. We don’t care about contestant’s
hobbies or how they ran a bakery at 21. Answer the question and move on.

3.No inclusion of family members.“Deal or No Deal” is the worst.
What this shows is exactly how stupid the families of the morons
on these shows are. You know who they are? The ones texting while
driving, buying Cher CD’s, unable to make decisions while in front of
you in line and are people you wouldn’t want to spend 10 minutes with at
a party. So they shouldn’t be on the tv either.

4.Give the contestants a REAL time limit. You want tension? Try a
ticking clock that buzzes when time is up. Let’s see who can not
only answer a question, but do it quickly!

Ok, that’s it. I hate every one of you.
And for the record, it’s Sandy’s dream to be on one of these shows. Sad, so sad.

Randomness

Randomness

Sunday, June 12th marks my 25th anniversary working at Ralphs.
I’ve tried to figure out exactly what that means.
What I’ve learned is:
-I took my father’s work ethic. He worked for over 40 years with the same company.

-I have lots of ‘work friends’ who are much younger than I. One thing working at a grocery store does is keep many people thinking young. What I mean by that is that they act like they’re still 20, when they’re 40. Sounds like good, huh? But I mean it in the negative. Acting irresponsibly, drinking beer while driving home from work (yup, still happens), and a distinct lack of being an adult.

-My learning and education has enabled me to discuss just about anything with anyone. From the manager who thinks anyone who disagrees with FoxNews is a socialist, to the 18 year olds who have never heard of Elvis Costello. And many things in between. I was even asked if there was such a word as ‘lackadaisical’ and what it meant. And that was from the store director!

-I still hate change.

-Customers suck. Though some are fantastic and have big hearts. Too often, though, there is the customer who seems to think the world owes them something. These people need to die.

-There seems to be an unlimited capacity for those who don’t do the work, to underestimate what the work actually is. Referring to management, that is.

Along with my constant nagging belief that I should have already written a book by now, is the same notion that I should have done something else with my career. What? I don’t know. I know, since I pick things up pretty quickly, that I could work just about anywhere, but does that mean I WANT to do it? Teaching? Nahhh. I’m non-confrontational and having to deal with teenage kids who argue everything would make me a miserable person. Writer? Well, I can sorta do that. But it is much harder for me to write something presentable than it is some people I know. And making a living writing, well that’s a rare thing now that newspapers are dead.

As it is, I do a physical job and I have the pain to show for it. But being able to do this physical job is nice. Doing this type of tangible labor is good. Nothing wrong with it. Certainly not world changing, but good honorable hard work. I don’t begrudge those with higher status/higher pay jobs. Good for you.

I think my only little doubt is that I took the easy way out. This job rarely requires me to use my brain. And when I do, it’s on something trivial or mundane. Not having to think is, in a way, the easy way to avoid having to do something HARD.
I wonder now if I’m making any sense.

Anyway, tomorrow I work and it’ll be another day. Another set of small, annoying hurdles to jump. I’ll talk to friends, customers, perform astounding feats of slight strength and work from point A to point B.

The other thing I’ve learned, after all this time, is that the job does not define me. I’m not that job. It is not me. It pays my bills. It’s what I do when I’m not with the girl I love. And when I am, it makes the job all the more tolerable.



I’ve come to believe that most people are willfully stupid. I have realized that there are those people who are just dumb and no amount of schooling will change that. But for the rest, there is this willing idiocy that I find annoying.
I’m not talking about the Judge Judy and Jersey Shore watching morons. They can’t really be helped and I generally don’t have to deal with them, so I have little enmity for them. It’s the other group I can’t take.
And that group is the smart, but dumb ones. Confused? Ok, here goes. It’s the group of people who believe in conspiracies. Those who will find connections where there are none, and believe the most grandiose and foolish things. It’s less based on logic and evidence than on the desire, the hope, that these things are true. What right wing nutjob wouldn’t want the evidence to show that Obama is a socialist? Or what tree-hugger wouldn’t love to get their hands on some Chevron memo thanking President Bush for going into Iraq. It would make their lives so much easier. But, unfortunately for them, these things aren’t true. But the willingness to disregard evidence contrary to their beliefs makes them, to me, the stupidest of the stupid.
Other things I’ve actually heard otherwise intelligent people say:

Bush was responsible for 9/11. (One friend of mine actually said “when I heard it the first thing I thought of was that the republicans did it.” Holy Shit, said I.)

Obama is a Muslim.

Nostradamus predicted ______.

The democrats are trying to ruin America.

Republicans are fascists.

Kennedy was killed by the CIA/Mafia/Cubans/FBI

I suppose I could go on. But I won’t. I’m tired and sick and I need to take my Nyquil so that I can work tomorrow.
But, and this is important, if you believe any of those conspiracy theories you need help. Serious help. Perhaps you shouldn’t be allowed to drive or vote or own a pet fish.
At the very least, do some research.




I like to play a game with the news.
Everyday I check several different sites for news. CNN, BBC, Christian Science Monitor, FoxNews, and sometimes Der Spiegel.
The game I play is called “Pin it on Obama.”

Here’s how it’s played. You check all your news sites, except for FoxNews. You have to pick out what story you think FoxNews will blame on Obama, and how. It’s actually far more difficult than you might think.

For example, after the raid that killed Osama bin Laden, I wondered how FoxNews would find some way to be negative toward Obama. I never would have guessed it. The headline: “How the White House botched the story.” Damn. I didn’t even think of THAT. You crafty wily news writers.


---Update: A while ago I lost my notebook that contained all my notes and scenes for my embryonic play. I have not even attempted to start again.
I have, though, been writing. First was the “Juror Handbook”, which can be found in this here blog. And the second is one I’m working on called “Know Your Enemy.” I think it has enough yawks in it for the whole family.


---I’m not looking forward to Paul McCartney’s project of doing a bunch of standards. Following in the footsteps of Rod Stewart doesn’t seem like a good idea.

A Rant of Sorts

First off a memory . . .
Back in 1977, I was busy being 9, my sister was 11 and Debbie Boone had a HUGE hit called "You Light Up My Life." It was, in a word, horrible. My sister got the 45 and played it. Constantly.
That wouldn't be a problem if she didn't have the room directly next to me, a thin wall and a stereo that was placed next to that wall.

One time me and her got into one of those wonderful little arguments that siblings get into. As a result, we were sent to our rooms. That's when it got bad.

She put "You Light Up My Life" on her stereo. And she had HUGE speakers. She turned those speakers to my wall, and played the song, literally, for hours. It was such a stingingly strong memory that it is as fresh today as it ever was.
Years later, when I was 30 I brought this little episode up to my sister at one of our holiday get-togethers. And what did she do? DENIED SHE EVER DID IT! Not only that, she claimed she never even had the 45!!! I almost exploded in indignation!

Fast forward about 6 more years and I lightly bring up, along with all the other little childhood things we did, the You Light Up My Life episode. This time, my sister laughed and said she remembered playing the song continuously. But, and this is just divine, she DENIED THAT SHE DENIED IT TOOK PLACE!! Argh!

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Anyone else notice that State Farm commercials are going hard after the young/stoner market? Just recently they went with all these young hip and losery looking people who say "woah" alot and have that slacker Judd Apatow quality. Interesting to see where the companies are going. Smart I suppose.

I don't like the word "kiosk".

Why aren't violent criminals housed in prisons in Alaska? Build a huge ass one way out in the middle of nowhere and above the Arctic Circle. Go ahead, try to escape.

Southerners (and idiots on the far right wing) like to defend the South for seceding and gives them the moniker "Rebels". But, really, they're just traitors. Traitors to the Union. Traitors to freedom. Traitors to justice.

I know there's a reason for it but I cannot, without cringing, use these words in any of my writing:
dived
hanged
It just seems lazy. I know it's a sing-sang-sung situation. There's Dive-dove-dived. But that just looks wrong. Yes, it's something I tend to obsess about. But when I read a book and see that kind of thing, I squirm a little. I don't like it. Nope nope nope.

Not surprisingly, I watch alot of History Channel. One thing that irks me about their little documentaries is when some show is examining the Egyptians or Mayans or someone and the narrator will say "Even today with modern equipment, we can't do this." What? No. You're wrong. OF COURSE we could. There's NOTHING that the ancients could do that we can't. Nothing. We just don't HAVE to do it. When I see quotes like that it makes me think "ok, the person who is presenting this has no idea what the hell they're talking about." And, if they believe that, maybe they don't.

Smoking in the morning. Sometimes when I’m driving early in the morning, about 6am or so, I see other people driving and smoking in their cars. All I can think of is why? I mean, you wake up, brush teeth, shower, put on clean clothes and get into your car. Then you flush all that away by infusing your clothes and breath and hair with the smell of cigarette smoke. I know I’m more sensitive to that smell than others (the person smoking doesn’t smell it at all, I know), but why put in all that effort to just piss it away on the morning drive?

Which brings me to. . . talking on the phone early in the morning. Ok, I get that if you work a construction business or something that requires you to be on the phone for business at 6am that you might be making calls while driving (despite it being unsafe and illegal. We’ll leave that). But just normal everyday people going to their office job or wherever. I don’t get it. Is there a NEED to talk on the phone CONSTANTLY? I’m a person who doesn’t particularly enjoy talking on the phone, so maybe I’m biased, but it’s 6am. . .I think you can go the 15 minute drive to work without calling a friend or coworker just to blab. Use this time to listen to the radio, sing to yourself, or even think. Thinking is a lost art. Let’s give it a try people.

Here's how I get in trouble at work. See, my work is, everyday, swamped with extremely inefficient paperwork and minutiae. It ends up taking up so much time, there's scarcely any time for the REAL work to be done. Of course, the reason there's so many programs and sheets and clipboards filled with printouts is because people who sit in offices a)don't know what the stores are really like and b)have to justify their position. Thus, layer upon layer of flotsam.
It really is rife for mocking. So I spend a little while, write a few things, bring in a copy. . .and all hell breaks loose.
I wrote a slight exaggeration of the kind of crap we have to do and there were calls of "What's this new program?" "Where's the printout?" "When are we supposed to do this?"

California Juror Handbook

Well, it's about damn time I posted this. Brand spankin' new comedy/satire. Hope you enjoy.

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How to Pick up Girls, Volume II

Traveling through my past comedy 'hits.' Here's "How to pick up girls, Vol. II"



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This little ditty was a response/parody to an actual book that came out in the 70's sometime, "How to Pick Up Girls" by Eric Weber. It was outrageously offensive and treated women horrendously. It even, when Mr. Weber mentions a woman that is so beautiful, "you even, for an instant, consider rape." Yes. Yes, it was actually in there.
If you get a chance, you should take a look at it.
Some of the sections (The Loser, The Nuisance) are based on actual people I knew.

1996 comedy

Way back in 1996 I was writing. A LOT. I was churning out little comedy bits and pieces and parodies and whatever came into my mind. I spent a long time doing something called "The Dependant" which was a parody of local newspapers. I thought it was pretty good. But I still had some ideas and found a pamphlet called "Drive Safely." So I did "Drive Poorly." Here it is. Short and sweet.



















(By the way, NO, I don't know how to format the images to make them side by side. I think I might have to do it in another program. . .hmmm. . .guess I should have thought about that earlier. . .ignore this . . .unless you have a simpler suggestion that doesn't insult me.)

The Night I Almost Died

Years ago, eons it seems, I worked nights. And was happy about it. 3pm to midnight and so on. Sometimes after work, if the right people were working, we'd go out afterward to a bar or someplace to hang out and complain about customers because, frankly, you all suck.

So, one of these nights come up. I got off a little early (about 11:30pm) and went to a friends' house until midnight and then join the rest of the nocturnal crew at a bar/restaurant called Silky Sullivans. Just before I headed off to the store, I made a quick trip to the bank ATM to get some money. This is where things got interesting.

I pull up in the closest parking spot to the ATM and 4 or 5 spots away there's a little toyota truck. Nothing unusual, even at 1145pm. I walk up, insert my card in the ATM and hear, "Give me your money."

Normally a person hearing this would experience, probably in order of importance, the feelings of fear, fear, concern, fear and arousal (that might be about a 1% of the population.) My reaction was. . .confusion. It was all very. . . odd.

I turned on my heels, wallet in hand and looked at the figure approximately 10 feet from me. Khaki pants, a blue Hawaiian shirt, glasses, and, oh yeah, a smallish silver revolver. I say smallish, but I'm not sure any weapon pointed at you, and capable of killing, qualifies as small.

"I don't have any money." I retorted. Which was true about my wallet, which is how I took what he had to say. I, of course, somehow forgot that I was AT AN ATM!
"Give me what you've got."
His voice was strained and the gun moved slightly. Not with a tremble, but more of a slow, looping, tight motion that never let it's sight leave me.
"I don't have anything." I countered.

Fear was certainly rocketing up the charts on my emotions. It was about #2 on the hit parade, still languishing behind befuddlement.
Then something happened that pushed Fear into the fore.

Click Click Click.
Three pulls of the trigger. Three clicks. Not one bullet fired. No smell of gunpowder. No grocery clerk writhing on the ground in pain. No blood spilled. But Fear? Yes, Fear had come to town.

I was still rooted to my spot, unable and unwilling to move. Why, you might be able to guess. Then, in an instant, the man started to walk to the truck nearby, muttering to himself, "what a joke" in a tone of frustration that would be familiar to anyone who has had some sort of negative thing happen to them. Something like finding out the new part for your car is broken or doesn't fit. Frustration and disbelief. Only in this case, he was frustrated and disbelieving that he wasn't able to shoot me. I was far less frustrated and disbelieving.

I grabbed my ATM card and, quickly letting anger gain ground on fear, and yelled, "Nice fucking joke!" Not exactly a Shakespearean retort, but still. . .

I hopped back in my car, trying to control myself and my emotions and settle things out. Just then Anger took the lead and I remembered, "I have all this hockey equipment here (several sticks being the weapons of my choice.) I will grab a stick and beat the hell out of this clown." Yes, anger had taken hold.

But it wasn't to be just then. The toyota started to leave the bank parking lot, with an angry Mike, bent on destruction, in tow. My would-be killer then turned the wrong way on the divided street, a move I found myself unable to emulate.

I DID notice, in my rear-view mirror, that the toyota re-entered the strip mall parking lot. Letting my better judgement go it's own way, I decided to go through the parking lot, find the toyota, and do what I planned, poorly, to do.

I spun around the corner, flew into the parking lot and. . . . couldn't find the toyota. I didn't see ANY cars. I drove for what seemed like 20 minutes around that lot, but was probably just 4. Nothing.

As I was leaving the parking lot, again, I noticed the toyota parked where I had been parked previously. So, he was going to try it again on someone else. Hell no, thought I.
My embryonic plan was thus: Drive around the corner again, enter the bank lot, block the truck in and, finally, act like a fool. It was probably the opposite of fool-proof. I was full of anger and excitement and revenge and there was a sense of knowing that the endgame had started.

Just before I started my big around-the-corner drive, another car was entering the lot next to me. No no no, I thought. I can't let that a-hole point his shiny revolver at them. I rolled down my window and motioned them to do the same. I yelled/panted that there was a guy with a gun there, and they shouldn't go to the bank. And as happens in stories of this ilk, the people driving happened to be deaf. Yes, that's right. The people who I desperately needed to impart information to were, in the most crucial way, unable to receive this information. I then slipped into "idiot who tries to mime what he means" mode. It worked, and the car backed into the street and sped away.

Now it was my turn. The big moment. Swinging around the corner with tires squealing I slid into the parking lot to find. . .nothing. Empty. The toyota was gone. I was both a little upset with a huge helping of relief. I'm VERY non-confrontational, so actually planning to confront someone leaves me out of my element.

Dutifully I went with my friends to Silky Sullivans and the consensus was that the person who tried to shoot me was a postal employee who had flipped out a day or so earlier and had been shooting people. I hadn't thought of that because a)I don't watch local news and b) at this time it seemed that some postal guy was gunning down people every other week.

When we left the bar around 2am there were police and an ambulance across the street. At an ATM.

Turns out the guy had left my ATM, loaded his revolver, and gone to this other ATM and shot two people. I didn't know this until the next day when the Los Angeles Times had a picture of him being hauled into custody.

I had been lucky. Quite lucky. Very enormously achingly lucky.

My story eventually garnered me the front page of the Orange County Register as "The Victim That Got Away."

Well, gosh.

My Foray into comics. . .

MY FORAY INTO COMICS


There was a time, eons ago, where my 'skills', such as they are, floated freely from subject to subject. I could write, come up with ideas, complete grand concepts and even manage to illicit a few grins.

When a member of the Long Beach Union Newspaper I held the exalted (and reviled) position of Grunion Editor. The Grunion was the satire supplement of the aforementioned Union.
So, naturally, when me and a few other intrepid souls started our OWN newspaper (I was co-EDITOR IN CHIEF) it fell to me to create a humor page of some sort. I will, at some point post the results of other pages. But one that I was quite proud of was the comics page I did for the humor page.

I had an idea to do a bunch of parody comics. You know, make fun of Wizard of Id. That kind of thing. Only thing was, HOW? I couldn't, and can't, draw anything, so I needed help. Alot of help. A, I dare say, SHITLOAD of help.

Lucky for me that my good friend was (and is) Scott Rogers--artist extraordinaire and someone who can draw anything!
I broached the subject with him. I had a handful of ideas. He was lukewarm on the idea. I went home thinking "well, I'll put that on hold."
Next day I met up with Scott and both he and I had spent the previous night, separately, writing about 10 comics a piece. He was interested. . .in spades! We ran every one of our ideas around and around, keeping some, spitting out others.

Eventually, this is what we came up with. Hope you enjoy.
(the Lost Patrol one literally had me rolling on the floor laughing when we wrote it.)

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