Midwestern Power & Light

I Came Here to Quash Writs and Kick Ass, and I'm All Out of Writs

2005-12-15T15:22:00.000-08:00

The only thing more entertaining than listening to somebody lie in front of a judge is hearing them do an extremely poor job of it. I mean, this lady was really tanking. Was I the only one who realized this?

Sorry. That was but a taste, or a "teaser," as it is often referred to in the movie business. And before I give you enough time to ponder what I would write about if I didn't have a minor legal or automobile-related headache about once every other week, I will just say that we're talking sequel here, folks. Some of the same characters you've grown to love, but featured in new and exciting (although soothingly familiar!) circumstances, and with a little more money for the "Music From and Inspired By" soundtrack album. Settle in, the movie's about to begin.

Please turn off all cellphones and pagers. Oh, and if you still have a pager, let me know where you keep your time machine that only transports you back to 1992, because I have some stuff I'd like to take care of there.

The lights dim. The dancing popcorn takes a seat next to the disturbingly feminized Diet Pepsi cup, and here we go.

The Los Angeles Municipal Court System Presents

In Association with the Santa Monica Civil Courts Building - Section "R"

A Cruel Indignity Disguised As Justice Production

A Brad Stevens Joint

Small Claims Court 2: Appeals Boogaloo

When we last left our hero, he'd just lost a Small Claims court case. Innocence shattered, faith in fellow man irrevocably shredded, all sense of common decency shoved face down in a puddle next to a dumpster behind Captain D's. As he marched into a gauzy, rainbow sherbet-colored sunset, he was changed. Embittered? Nay. Pissed off? Just slightly. Indignant? Yes, please! I'll have some of that. And a dollop of well-deserved impudence towards The System, on the side.

The System is that thing you rail against when you're fifteen. Back then, you don't have much direct contact with The System itself, but you know that it's keeping you from seeing "Faces of Death" when it gets screened at Showcase Cross Pointe every Halloween.

Then you get older, and you actually develop a grudging respect for elements of The System. The System is counting on this, your essential human need to survive, to not be living in a constant state of stress and fear, and to basically not put up much of a fight. You'll have the basic awareness that some bad things are happening -- in, around, and because of, The System -- but as long as it's just outside your peripheral vision, like the old lady you don't want to talk to on the cross-country plane flight, you will be spared.

But every once in a while, usually just as you're about to plunk down eighty-five cents for that Entenmann's Glazed Honey Bun in the employee break room, you're knocked off your feet and onto the cold linoleum. Before you can catch your breath, a designer Italian jackboot presses firmly onto your windpipe. Tiny clawed hands pinch and pull at you, like a bunch of drunk raccoons. A gravelly voice reads off your social security number, birth date, and the location and manner in which you lost your virginity. And then you're dragged into the boiler room of some anonymous, gray office building to be worked over with a belt sander and a length of PVC pipe. Because The System is hungry, and it wants its midmorning snack to come from you.

Or maybe I'm being a tad too dramatic.

The System will come to you with a smile, and usually in a suit. The System will remember you from study hall, or from last year's Super Bowl party. The System will ask about your family, about your job, about whether you think Kanye's new "joint" is as "banging" as his previous one. You won't want to cause a scene, so you'll just nod.

There will be a lot of talk about things being done "in your interest." Much lip service will be given to "your defense," "your financial solvency," "your credit rating." The one helpful thing to remember, when The System or one of its appointed minions speaks to you, is to replace "your" with "our." And by "our," they mean, "that which is currently ours, which will stay ours, as well as that which is currently yours, which will soon become ours. And by 'ours' we are, in fact, excluding you. We hope that's been made clear."

Allow me to pull myself back from a full-on Marxist rant, and also to sound like less of a half-assed societal critic. I don't actually believe there's an all-powerful, evil web of demons and old men in suits which runs everything and controls our destinies. It's more of a quasi-organized, amoral mass of functionaries and old men in suits which causes most of the frustrations and/or injustices visited upon each of us. And the really fun idea is that since we're all actually a part of it, we will, from time to time, become one of the drunk raccoons.

But on this balmy Monday afternoon, I was most definitely a potential victim, and not a card-carrying member, of the drunk raccoons. I was surrounded by those little inebriated, rabies-infested bastards, and they had already caught a whiff of the unwrapped granola bars which were, on the questionable advice of my insurance company-appointed counsel, taped to my crotch and inner thighs.

You see, I accepted the initial Small Claims court decision, as this meant I no longer had to do things like (a) go to a depressing courthouse, (b) suffer through a long, boring process that ended in my own defeat, or (c) tuck in my shirt. But my insurance company -- and they are so adorable this way -- had other plans. They wanted to appeal.

Never mind the fact that they initially found me at fault in the accident. That sort of put me at a disadvantage in the whole "trying to save myself and my insurance company some money in Small Claims court" thing. When this woman, with whom I was involved in a minor car accident, claimed injuries, my company then asked me to appear in court to state "our" case. Then, when "I" lost "our" case, "I" assumed it was "over with." No such "luck."

And so it came to pass. Once more into the breach, dear friends, and don't forget your dress shoes. Hey, at least it was in a completely different courthouse, so the building had a totally new sense of dread and complacency permeating its paneled walls.

There was a sheriff's deputy acting as bailiff, and she looked eerily like Bonnie Franklin from "One Day at a Time." Baa da-da daaa.

While the judge cleared his throat and shuffled papers, Deputy Bonnie was carefully applying personalized return address labels to a small stack of white envelopes. It took me a few minutes to realize that she was doing her Christmas cards. These are the details you grab onto when a woman accusing you of causing her soft tissue neck injuries is just across the aisle.

I watched Deputy Bonnie carefully folding Aunt Sharon's Christmas card. She stopped just once -- to whisper something into the police C.B. strapped to her shoulder -- and then continued. There was something fascinating in this. I looked at her well-pressed work shirt. Her carefully holstered Beretta 9mm. A thin blue vein that wound along the back of her hand as she applied a 39-cent snowman stamp. I thought, This is what she does for a living.

Sitting inside an airplane that's waiting on the tarmac. You look outside and see a guy in a navy jumpsuit and industrial-strength earplugs -- they're bright orange, so it looks like he crammed two Chee-tos in his ear canals -- wheels a bunch of linked-together food service carts up to the plane's cargo hold. He's the conductor of the world's smallest train, with hundreds of tiny, foil-encased passengers. And thanks to a hand-written, leather-bound book he found in the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport lost-and-found, he knows more about the Teapot Dome Scandal than any other person on earth. And he wakes up three hours before his shift every day, so he can churn out another couple paragraphs in the already 957-page manuscript for his historical novel called, "Bursum's Lightning!" But this -- making sure the guy in 34B gets his soggy chicken marsala -- this is what he does for a living.

Sitting inside a Hooter's on a lunch break. Yeah, I know. The waitress, who is required to wear too much eye makeup because she initialed the lower right-hand corner of page four of the Official Employee Handbook, asks if you want another Sprite. She has no reason to be embarrassed by working at Hooter's, and not just because it's less culturally offensive than the German Biergarten at Epcot Center, and not just because embarrassment should be reserved for the guy who thought this would be a funny thing to do on his lunch break. Yeah, I know. You see, "Moses" (not her real name) will freely admit to working the second shift at Hooter's because it is merely a cover. This 31-year-old waitress is an agent of the Silence Do-Good Sector, a super-secret government agency, founded by Benjamin Franklin to halt the illegal importation of the saffron crocus plant. If "Moses" misses her rendezvous with fellow agent "Brandi," then the global economy will be shaken to its very core. But this -- making sure the guy at table 8 gets his mozzarella cheese sticks -- this is what she does for a living.

Sitting inside a municipal court building. Everyone bathed in fluorescence, which gives our faces the pallor and greasiness of a sweaty pear. We all look like we got two hours of sleep and are on the verge of vomiting. There's a woman in an ill-fitting gray suit who lets loose with a ostentatious laugh and kicks the floor with her Easy Spirit pumps. She's here just about every day, filing paperwork on behalf of a massive realty office. But the laugh, the power suit, the forced camaraderie with the bailiff, the court clerk, the judge, it's a mask. And not a particularly good one. Because Sandra Zimmerman -- friends can call her Zimmy, but no one can call her Sandy -- once had it all in the palm of her hand. Before she got the promotion -- well, begged and pleaded for it -- she oversaw a few of her company's smaller buildings. One tenant couldn't pay, but instead offered her 8% of the publishing rights to his band's new single. "Gonna be huge," he said. Well, Sandra didn't think so. Unfortunately for her, and for all of us, that tenant was the founding member of the Baha Men, that song was "Who Let the Dogs Out?", and now, whenever it starts playing at the Applebee's in West Covina, she feels the sudden need to step outside for a smoke. But this -- filing a triplicate form on a balloon mortgage -- this is what she does for a living.

Sandy -- sorry, Zimmy -- finished her business and departed the courtroom with a sad smile. I sensed a Dos Equis or three in her lunchtime future. So now it was just me, and my measly, unwanted appeal.

The ugliness began anew. Stepping in front of the judge. Starting to sweat. Describing the accident to the best of my ability. Using plenty of gesticulation, as is my way -- my right hand curled into the shape of a Honda Civic and brushing gently against the pinky finger bumper of a Nissan Sentra.

And of course, the best part -- if I was forced to pick an absolutely best part -- would have to be the woman and her husband (who was not present during the accident, mind you) saying that I was liar, saying that I slammed into her, saying that I did everything short of drop-kick a baby who was holding a puppy.

I spoke up when the judge wanted clarification. I was relatively calm. I let the insurance company's attorney do most of the heavy lifting. I figured, he's spent all that time in law school. Maybe he actually enjoys this stuff.

So, anyways, I lost again. You probably saw that coming. I remained relatively calm, thinking it best to not look at my accusers -- now four grand richer, of course -- and to just head outside.

Once there, I thought about that money. And I thought about what it took -- from that couple, from me, from my well-meaning insurance company-appointed counsel -- to wrest it from a faceless corporation. The System let loose a thunderous burp, satiated for a few minutes.

I thought about this meek suburban woman who had so deluded herself into thinking me a bloodthirsty automotive monster that she dragged her gruff husband along with her, ostensibly to make me feel like I might be beaten up if we crossed paths. And I thought about how when I told my side of the story in the courtroom, I could hear them mewling and snorting and murmuring to each other.

And then, I had what I can only describe as an Inner Viking Moment. A simple, easily dismissable injustice was visited on me -- and granted, this happens to people all the time, plus all sorts of horribly worse things -- and yet I could not sidestep it. Instead, it just made me angry. That sort of anger where you wish, for a horrible second, that The Rules Do Not Apply. The modern world clicks to the side on the big cosmic Viewmaster, and instead you see yourself, wearing animal skins and clutching a broadsword. You don't know how you got here, but man, there sure are a lot of severed heads laying around.

This primeval anger shot up my spine and into my fingertips, my toes, burned inside my eyeballs. The anger clamped onto my head like the back of a dentist's chair. It was a hot little wave. I felt my cheeks go crimson.

I briefly fantasized about violence. I'm not particularly proud of this, and I can see the negative implications of dwelling too much on inflicting pain on another person. And I don't think violent thoughts make a violent person. But at the same time, it's probably much better to merely think about grabbing the plaintiff's arrogant husband by his rust-colored combover and his burgundy-accented power tie, and driving that prominent forehead into the nearby water fountain, oh, about seven or eight times, than it is to actually do it. In the interest of not getting tasered in the lobby of a municipal court building, I thought I would refrain from actually attempting this.

Instead, I was left with a big handful of, "Hey, what are ya gonna do? At least it's over with."

Standing in the parking lot, the unseasonable mid-afternoon heat giving a big hand to the pit sweat that came by for a visit right around "I rule in favor of the plaintiff." Here's this unassuming guy in khakis, who took a day off from his current job of grafting snarky comments into the scripts of basic cable clip shows. But he has no reason to fret. In fact, although today was an unmitigated defeat, he will not despair.

Because underneath the thin veneer of respectability, of politeness, of near-apocalyptic levels of decency, he's a Viking. And I swear to you, Bonnie, the next middle-aged suburbanite who calls him a liar in a court of law is getting a goddamned battle axe where the sun don't shine.

This... this is what he does for a living.

Reputable Until Proven Slovenly (Or, The Burden of Goof)

2005-11-09T12:00:00.000-08:00

You file into a lobby with scuffed tile floors that could have been moved, as one uniform slab, from the D.M.V. of whatever state you got your driver's license from. Little flecks of black and green suspended in a beige that is the color of, I don't know, defeat? Resignation? It looks like they lacquered the floor with a few gallons of Breyers' Mint Chocolate Chip.

You cluster near the brushed metal doors of an elevator that's been creaking open and closed every day since the Eisenhower administration. There's every variety of person milling about. Every shade, shape, age, and hairstyle imaginable. It would be an almost encouraging collective of humanity, if they didn't all share the same look on their face -- mild confusion mixed with dread.

Ah, yes. The first day of jury duty. That weight pressing down on your chest is merely your civic duty. Empty your pockets and spread your cheeks -- the bureaucracy has you now.

Ding. The elevator door creaks open, and there's a faint whiff of stale tater tots and mimeograph ink. You (politely) shove and push your way into one of the cafeteria-scented elevator cars so you can, more expeditiously, get to the ninth floor. And you are (politely) shoved and pushed into a corner of the elevator, which is a much more efficient way of making sure your hands and genitals come into accidental contact with those of your new friends in the traveling United Colors of Benetton catalog.

Ding. Creak. Goin' up.

At this point, "Keep the Ball Rolling" by Jay and the Techniques pops into your head. I have no entertaining or intellectual excuse for this. It just happened. Maybe when a complex thought makes its own synaptic leap, it grabs a random bit of sense memory and brings it along for the ride.

And so there you are, in a cramped elevator somewhere downtown, catching a whiff of Texas Toast that you haven't smelled since fourth grade, humming "Keep the Ball Rolling", all the while trying to keep your own balls from rubbing against the purse of the nice Asian lady in front of you. Boy, kinda crowded in here.

Many times when this happens to me (the random song humming, not the ball rubbing,) I find that the song in question is from Aerosmith's "Pump" album. The only explanation for this is that I listened to said album on an infinite loop while mowing lawns in the summer of 1989. So it's seared into the outer, gooey covering of my brain, to the point where if I even hear the opening strains of "Love In an Elevator," I immediately launch into a hay fever sneezing fit.

Ding. Creak. The wash of fluorescence on the ninth floor coats everything in a sickly green. Now you're not a fellow traveler in a pan-ethnic tribe of legal crusaders. You're one of the pod people.

This particular floor, in this particular building, is but one of countless such places in this part of Los Angeles. Downtown L.A., for those unfamiliar, is filled with high rises and structures of varying shades of nondescript and difficult-to-distinguish. And none of them have anything at all to do with film production, music recording, or in shaping the careers of sixteen-year-old models. I think all of them are dedicated to court cases.

I received my summons not two days after a recent jaunt to Small Claims Court, in which I was the soon-to-be very pissed-off defendant. Actually, "jaunt" is not the correct word. It was more of a trudge, perhaps even a slog.

Even in the shadow of that ego-thrashing legal experience, I did something I cannot explain, and which I can only attribute to some deep-seated quest for self-punishment. I filled out the summons and called the 800-number to register for jury service.

To be fair, it's not just my apparently inexhaustible reserve of self-inflicted penance that made me do it. I have, since the dark days of Scantron tests, tornado drills, and color-coded S.R.A. books, been conditioned to follow directions, and to the letter.

The reptilian part of my brain, which in another era would be dedicated to the fight-or-flight instinct, has been reshaped by years of public schooling into the fill-out-or-perish impulse. It says it right there on the sheet, in red letters, no less: "You MUST fill out this form within five days of receipt." You MUST. See? I didn't even bother to ask, "Uh... or else what?" Nope. The threat of a smackdown from the giant iron glove of bureaucracy is enough to send me skittering about, searching for a No. 2 pencil. And so I sealed my own fate.

In those moments just before Big Brother -- actually, I think her name was Jeanette Cardenas -- muttered my name over the jury assembly room P.A. system, I cursed my stupid, nerdy, tight-ass adherence to responsibility and proper process.

I could have just tossed the summons in the trash. Huh? Summons? Wha... what summons?

I could have filled it out, called the number, gotten my instructions, and then -- gasp -- ignored them. Huh? Reporting location? Er... what reporting location? I got lost. Or something.

I could cut and run. Right then. Nothing was keeping me there, except the sign which indicated that the fifth-floor cafeteria offered fresh-baked Otis Spunkmeyer cookies. Yessiree...come on down, to the Clara Shortridge Foltz Criminal Justice Center. You can contribute to society, engage in the democratic process, and determine the fate of one of your fellow human beings. Oh, and there's cookies, jackass.

But no. I sat there, buttcheeks going numb on a plastic scoop chair, as the emotionless voice instructed me to get in the smelly elevator, press my unmentionables against those of a stranger, and shuffle off to be counted, processed, shaved, tagged, and forcibly handed my civic responsibility.

I was, of course, selected to be Juror Number Ten. Not one of the alternates, not one of the uncalled people, but right there, smack dab in the gunsights. We began the jury selection process -- everyone must pass around a microphone and give an overview of their own experiences, both in the realms of law enforcement and the legal profession, as well as any personal stories of crime victimization. Yeah, I know. What, no lectures on the specifics of tax law? No slide show of the judge's fishing trip to Bass Lake? C'mon!

But before that, the judge -- a very calm and reassuring guy -- told us that he realized that jury duty was rather inconvenient and not at all desirable. But it was also our solemn responsibility, and he felt certain that we'd discover it to be "one of the most rewarding experiences of your adult life." His exact words.

As if the entire affair hadn't already conjured enough childhood memories, I was suddenly stricken with the same panic that hit me before swim lessons at YMCA Day Camp when I was, I don't know, seven or something. I had to get out. They're gonna make me get in the deep end. I had to get away. I can't get on the high dive. Yes, I know I am, ostensibly, an adult. Doesn't matter.

To be a little more fair to myself, here's the deal -- my sister was due to give birth within days. I wanted to be around for this event. So, really, what was weighing on my mind, more than my own neurotic impulses, was that I would be suffocating in a small, wood-paneled box while my family welcomed its newest member. Which made my rolling of the jury duty dice all the more inadvisable. But I figured -- I'm unemployed, I got nothing to do during the day but write blog entries -- let's take a chance. Odds are, I won't even get picked to be in a jury pool.

Uh... yeah.

Now that I had valiantly stepped up, to accept my responsibility as an American, I next had to do the one thing we Americans are truly adept at: shirk it. Shirk that duty. Shirk it with all your might! Shirk, damn you!

My strategy for getting out of jury duty, like all my strategies in life, was only half-thought out, and involved not showering. I figured, if I can look as greasy, as unkempt, as thoroughly untrustworthy as possible, they'll give me the boot.

The automated voice response on the 800 call-in number requested that potential jurors please wear, and I quote, "business casual dress." Yeah, I got your business casual dress right here, Chachi. Faded blue curduroy pants. Scuffed sneakers. A droopy hooded sweatshirt, unzipped. And the capper -- a pit-stained white t-shirt. For added effect, I rubbed it against the window screen in my bathroom before donning. This gave my whole ensemble the "I just got dragged behind a Ford Festiva for three blocks by members of the Russian Mafia" look that I was going for.

So there I sat, scuzzy and unenthused and looking nothing like the type of guy you want in charge of any duty, unless it's replacing the air filters on your Saab. And even that would be a stretch.

Then, everything changed. The prospective jurors began describing themselves. Some with a steady voice and an ample amount of humor at their own stories as victims of attempted car theft, assault, what-have-you. And some other voices took on a weak, tremulous timbre, either merely nervous from public speaking, or, in some cases, from describing some horrible thing.

The reason for peeling back the protective layers on everyone's personal hell was that this was a murder trial. A diminutive Hispanic man -- younger than me -- sat at the defense table. There was a sad smile on his face. A weeping family occupied one row of seats -- either his relatives, or those of the deceased. And the jurors continued through the laundry list of Crap We Have Been Through, because the judge and attorneys need to know what fire has scorched Juror Number Six, just in case it will affect the outcome.

One young woman talked about how her friend's father, an off-duty cop, was shot before her eyes when she was only ten years old. "But he lived!" she immediately chirped, seemingly out of fear of bringing down the room.

"My brother is in jail for drug possession."

"My cousin is a gang member. I have seen drive-by shootings before."

"My husband was murdered."

This last one nearly made the clock in the courtroom stop ticking. What began as a get-us-all-out-of-here type of day was turning into something else.

We all experience pain. Fear. Loss. Sheer, inescapable terror. If there is one unifying human glue, it's that we all are well aware of how life can throw on the brakes, stop on a dime, and turn from passable to shitty, in two seconds flat. Hey, I was just laughing about something -- how'd I get in THIS neighborhood?

And that one perfectly human response, and one of the best things about us as a species, is that we can be faced with these terrible things, and push through. I don't mean to get all "Up With People" on ya. I mean, maybe you'll get smacked upside the head by personal tragedy, and understandably, you'll stay in bed for a couple days. But eventually, you'll throw off the covers and plant your feet on the carpet. Because, you got to keep going. You got to follow it through.

Hearing these truncated, shaky-voiced stories of people facing crime and death and pain was damn near overwhelming. And I felt like what I had tried so hard to look like -- a punk, a malcontent, a head-up-his-ass middle-class jerk.

There were people here that, when they gave their little summation of legal and criminal experience, you could sense their eagerness, their desire to be a part of it. Then it really sank in -- I have to get out. I have to get away. At least, for today. I'm thinking of arriving babies, and affordable flights, and seeing my family. I choose to look at it as a well-earned moment of weakness. I couldn't do it -- not that day, anyway. The Teamster, the retired aerospace engineer, the teacher, the nurse, the minister... they were there to pick up my ample civic slack. They had my back.

So, I was given a reprieve. Booted from the jury by the prosecuting attorney, and thanked for my time. Maybe it was the haze of discomfort that permeated my very being. I don't know. Maybe it was the hoodie.

But, next time the summons arrives, I will fill it out again. And I will call the 800-number. And I will go and pile into the elevator with everyone else, and read a book, and eat a candy bar, and wait for my name to be read.

And to those who hung behind on that gray Tuesday afternoon, for an indeterminate length of time, with nothing ahead of them but to gaze, unblinkingly, at all the horrible things that we do to each other, I humbly, and with no irony whatsoever, tip my hat.

And I offer this, with apologies to our friend Jay, and all his Techniques:

You got to follow it through.
Keep the ball rolling.

Who Wants To Depants A Gazillionaire?

2005-11-08T19:50:00.000-08:00

I must issue a warning. My polite Midwesterner's proclivity towards not upsetting the audience must say this: I am about to rock your friggin' world, Janice.

(Note: This is not the first time I have imparted this same vague, yet ominous, warning. But I can assure you that what follows is of an entirely different context than that instance, and will probably involve less weeping. For both of us.)

There may exist, one day on this planet, a trillionaire.

A trillionaire. For reals. Think about that.

Sure, the rise of inflation means that we workaday suckers are up to our affordable, unpretentious collars in millionaires. Every city has at least a dozen, and these days, some small towns are even getting one or two. However, in most small towns, a millionaire is still required, by law, to change their name to "Old Man [last name here]," and to be pushed around in a brass wheelchair with a quilt folded in their withered lap. They then must engage in behavior which only furthers their quest to hold the entire town in their iron grip. A cigarette holder and a monocle are also involved, to varying degrees. Sometimes an orphan or a single mother with Broadway aspirations will come along, to melt Old Man Hastings' heart, but don't count on it.

When I was a kid, just the word "millionaire" carried some kind of cosmic weight. Granted, when I was a kid, the word "Frisch's" carried cosmic weight. But this shouldn't take anything away from having a million-plus dollars to spread around. I'm just pointing out that the times, they do a-change.

So there could be a millionaire within spitting distance from you right now. If you should ever need to single one out, possibly for whiskey-fueled public ridicule, or perhaps shameless favor-mongering disguised as overweening praise, here's a handy checklist to identify them:

1. Go to a major league baseball game, and look up in the skybox area. That sunburnt guy in the pastel polo shirt, constantly high-fiving his slightly embarrassed-looking buddies? Millionaire.
2. Go to a sponsored artsy event, like a play or a performance art piece or an installation of genitalia-shaped sculptures made entirely of uncooked rigatoni noodles. Look for a list of names in the event's pamphlet. Those people under "Cherished Patrons"? Them's millionaires.
3. Go to your bathroom. Look in the mirror. That person? Not a millionaire.

So we've got tons more millionaires. Heck, with a government which has adorably abandoned all attempts at breaking up monopolies, there's a good number of billionaires, too.

Being a billionaire -- of course, very impressive. And when you're a kid, impossible to grasp. That's a thousand millions. It can't conceivably be measured in Super Ropes at the Kettering Public Pool, so to an eight-year-old, it might as well be Martian money. When you get older, this type of unattainable wealth is a little more graspable, if only through the entirety of its unattainability.

Acute awareness of this level of financial security may appear to you, unexpectedly, just as you flick off the TV and lay in bed in the semi-darkness. You just need a scant few hours of shut-eye to rest your weary, middle-class bones. Then suddenly, dancing across your frontal lobe are visions of people who aren't in, say, crippling credit card debt. Ah, to be a billionaire! Then, as an added bonus, you remember that you've gotta get up forty-five minutes earlier tomorrow morning, so you can pick up bagels for the entire office. And you also remember that Randy will complain about the garlic bagels being nestled next to the cinnamon raisin ones. Well, at least these thoughts beat the usual bedtime buzz killer of Sudden, Panic-Inducing Awareness of One's Own Mortality. A close second.

To spot your own friendly neighborhood multi-billionaire, use this helpful primer:

1. They have horrendous, ill-advised, often inexplicable, haircuts.
2. They appear to us mortals, when they do at all, in publicity photos, in which they are positioned on a dias, with their latest product, or operating system, amply projected behind them. Said product or operating system is, nonetheless, usually overshadowed by the presence, front and center, of the aforementioned haircut.
3. They are not you. Or anyone you know.

Which brings us to the elusive trillionaire. I'll save you some time. A quick internet search says that there are not currently any trillionaires in existence. But the jerkasses over at Wired Magazine have surmised that Bill Gates could, conceivably, become one before he dies.

Of course, this assumes several things. Firstly, that Microsoft stock will continue to increase in value. Secondly, that Bill Gates will have the life span of the average, garden-variety human. (Most people are unaware that Bill Gates has his internal organs replaced on a four-month rotating schedule, and that his brain and eyes will eventually be installed into a three-story-tall robot that will live in an underwater cave beneath Seattle's Lake Washington. Said Gates-bot will be known, for reasons as yet unknown, as Gary, and will subsist entirely on the laughter of small children. So, clearly, Gates is angling for quadrillionaire status.) Thirdly, this statement also assumes that everyone working at Wired Magazine is a jerkass. I don't mean to offend. All I know is they get paid to write articles about virtual reality headsets, and probably get lots of free stuff at corporate-sponsored parties. Hence, their jerkassitude.

What will it mean to the world to have its first, honest-to-goodness trillionaire? Call me ignorant, but like, is there, you know, even that much money in the world? If there's a trillionaire, won't that mean a little less for everybody else? Isn't this the sort of thing that would make Karl Marx yell out, "Told ya so!" just as Thomas Jefferson shakes his head, pulls closed the drapes, and mutters, "Well, ain't that a kick in the dick"?

This stratospheric level of wealth raises all kinds of red flags. Granted, most of these red flags are planted firmly in the soft turf that is my general lack of knowledge about grown-up things -- international monetary balance, the gold standard, what to say when a three-year-old asks you about heaven. But I will wave these flags with much abandon.

I mean, 'cuz, uh... it's not like the earth just poops out money, right? It all, like, comes from somewhere, yes?

Example!

You work the third shift at Costco, restocking giant jars of kosher dill pickles, so you can get your paycheck, and be able to afford a pitcher of Red Dog at MacGuffey's. MacGuffey's pays their rent and orders more Red Dog, and that way, the good people at Red Dog continue producing fairly awful beer and, in turn, paying their employees. These are the same Red Dog employees who are working the graveyard shift loading up the truck so they can afford that giant jar of kosher dill pickles at Costco. This is America -- we all signed up for this. It's in the fine print at the bottom of the Constitution.

Doesn't a freshly minted trillionaire sorta disrupt all that? Isn't there some kind of time-space-money continuum in operation? And even if I am, personally, nestled squarely in one of the murkier corners of it, shouldn't we be worried about messing up this equilibrium? Call me fretful, call me a pinko -- but last time I checked, we specifically had equilibriums so as not to screw 'em up.

So, true believers, fear the trillionaires. Because once they have that much scratch, there will be nothing they cannot pay for, or do to you, or pay for someone to do to you (probably with implements of some kind.)

A trillionaire would have, by definition, a bo-friggin'-zillion dollars. And that means they could peer into a telescope, pick out a solar system, clap a scientist on the shoulder and say, "I like the green one. It matches my sweater."

A trillionaire could have an entire country. Scratch that, because I'm sure there's already a billionaire who has one. In fact, I can think of a half-assed millionaire who's got his own right now. And he could barely run a baseball team.

A trillionaire's got so much money, the land mass purchase could even be an impulse buy. "Wait... what? So, Greenland's the cold one, and Iceland is actually quite temperate and pleasant at most times of the year? Oh, well. I'll give it to the wife, she'll be tickled. She can keep her shoes on it or some shit."

We've all seen the movies where the billionaire has a private island, and hunts homeless people on it. Well, the trillionaire-to-be will have so much money to throw around, she or he will redefine the very limits of human decency and restraint. Think about it. A trillionaire could pay your parents enough money to hunt YOU on that island.

"Mom? MOM?!"
"Oh, simmer down. I just winged you, Jeremy. Now, Daddy and I will give you a running start. One... two..."

Virtually every newspaper, movie, TV show, or affordably priced chocolate candy will be owned by the trillionaire. And you best believe there will be statues. Big, gold statues on every airport tarmac on the planet. Virgin sacrifices on the hour, with a reunited Beatles -- don't ask me how, you really do not want to know -- playing live at each one. And, for the trillionaire's personal amusement, a Ryan's Steakhouse all-you-can-eat buffet that's open to the general public, only costs $7.95, and is positioned on a balsa wood bridge spanning an active volcano.

What to do, in a world where one day, you and everyone you love will actually, realistically, physically, be bought and sold? Where the worth of the minerals and trace amounts of gold and aluminum in your bodily fluids will be itemized and reported to you every Christmas morning? I guess you just can't dwell on it.

Besides, you better get to bed, champ. You've got work in the morning.

Macaroni Salad 2: Through the Portal of Time

2005-11-04T11:12:00.000-08:00

Hey, there he is! Beastmaster, over here! Put 'er there...

Oh... Beastmaster, this is my wife Sharon. Honey, this is Beastmaster. Just transferred from the home office. Works in accounts payable. Great guy -- wicked back swing. At least, from what I've heard! Ha!

Can we get you a refill there, Beastmaster? This? Oh, yeah, it's half lemonade and half iced tea. Folks call it an "Arnold Palmer." What do you mean, "What is this... lemonade... you speak of?" It's, uh... like... the juice of lemons, with water. And... uh, sugar. Here, just try it --

Whoa! That's a live ferret you got there! He just kinda hangs out in that leather satchel all day? Honey, did you get a look at this? Guy's got a ferret in some kind of bindle around his waist -- whup! There's two! Wild. Just... just wild.

Okay, hon... catch up with you later. She's probably chasing after our youngest, Thad. Gets into all kinds of trouble. You have kids of your own? No? Well, consider yourself lucky, my friend! A man with no family is a man with no worries. Heh.

I'm sorry? No, I don't think that's a dishonorable thing to say. C'mon. Just joshing.

So, anyways... I appreciate you coming out, Beastmaster. Trust me, I been through that whole rigamarole before -- new town, new office, new co-workers. But same old company picnics! Ha! Wife says I've gotta stop welcoming new hires this way, 'cause it's murder on the ol' midsection! "Mitch, I think you just look for excuses to let yourself go." Hey-oh! She's got my number, that's for sure!

We're in therapy. Together. Well, I went for me... and the doctor said she should come for a few, uh... sessions. I think we're making progress.

Whew.

Yeah. So...

Weather's a bit nicer than we thought -- Mark! Mark! C'mere, man. Meet Beastmaster. Just transferred from, uh, I'm sorry -- where was that? Arrok? Yeah, I think that's near Middleview, Mark.

So, anyways... Beastmaster, this is Mark Rutledge. Works over in payroll. So... you might wanna pucker up and start kissing his butt right now! Ha ha!

No, I didn't mean to insinuate anything, Beastmaster. It was just an expression. Mark, you takin' off? Save me a brew-dog!

Hmm. Alright.

You know, we're not technically allowed to have alcohol at company functions, but if Old Man McClendon ain't around, what's the harm, right? It's like I always say: when the cat's away, the mice will -- what's that? No, not an actual cat. Like if McClendon was a cat, and we were the -- forget about it. Not important. Point is, we like to have a little fun. Keeps things light --

Janice! Janice! Hey! Come and press the flesh with our new man in accounts paya -- alright, we'll catch up with you later, then. Great gal.

She's had a lot of personal problems this past year. But you'll get that, from time to time. I mentioned family before, and that was all in jest, but one thing I like people to feel is that their co-workers can function as an extended family of sorts. Really.

You know, if you're ever having a tough time, the door's always open. And trust me -- I've heard it all before.

I used to be the head-down, no-looking-back guy in the office. Mr. Focus. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. But, yes... me.

Then I had a, well, the doc called it a "minor cardiac episode." Didn't feel so minor when I was on my hands and knees in the kitchen, gasping for air! You know? Yeah, we all have close calls. And we all pull ourselves out, one way or the --

Yes, that is a very impressive blade. You had much use for that, uh, thing? Really?

So, I was saying that we all get into scrapes in this life, and as long as you've -- hmm? Sorry? No, never. Yeah, I've never fallen in a pit of quicksand. Heh. Yeah, I guess that is sort of... amusing.

Anyways, I got out of the hospital and one of the first things McClendon does is send me on one of these corporate retreats. I don't gotta tell you how dull them damned things are -- you know.

Hmm?

No, this was actually just outside Myrtle Beach. Yeah, the uh, the Courtyard by Marriott they got down there. At, uh, Barefoot Landing, I think? Does that sound right? I'm gettin' off-topic here.

But what they tell us at the retreat is this, pure and simple: a happy employee is a productive employee. I mean, we've always thought that. I don't need a guy in laminated nametag to tell me that!

Huh? Yeah, laminated. Like, clear plastic... you know. Uh, yeah, and a small piece of paper with your name on it, and title, office location. Uh...

But yeah, like a family. Family is important.

What's that? Really? I... no, I was not aware of your family's history. Jeez. Slaughtered by a wizard? Are you... are you sure? Wow. Umm --

Wait a minute. Born from a cow? You actually grew inside the womb... of a cow. No, I... I believe you, Beastmaster. Sure.

Yeah, I imagine that would instill in you some sort of mystical bond with the animal world. Some kind of telepathic connection, enabling you to, uh, well... I guess, commune with creatures of every sort -- hey! Have you tried this potato salad? Maureen hits us with this every picnic, and I think it just gets better every darn time. Not too much mustard. And yes, that is dill you taste. Yeah... you talk about a mystical connection! Ha!

I apologize. No, I was not making light of your story, Beastmaster. I would never dream of doing such a thing -- there he is! Thaddie, c'mere! Ha! C'mere! C'mere.

Just come here.

Because I want you to meet someone. Two seconds, Thaddie, that's all it takes. Christ, I'm not asking for the world here.

Thad, this is Beastmaster. Yes, we all know he's not wearing a shirt, Thaddie. Don't be rude.

That's not a diaper, son. They call it a loincloth. Alright, go play. Hmm? No, I... I don't know why Mommy needs the keys to the Astro van. Well, Daddy has them right now. Okay? Thaddie, you see Mommy, you tell her that Daddy will hold on to the keys until he's good and ready to -- alright, bye bye.

Kids. Heh.

Sorry 'bout that... you know, they're just curious. Uh... yeah, I suppose. Inquisitive like the first newt of spring. I guess you could say that.

It's a good community, around here. Cranmar is a good place to raise 'em. I mean, should you ever travel down that dark path! Ha.

Nope. Not an actual dark path. Just a... just a turn of phrase. Huh? Eye of Braxus, you say. Yeah, that sounds... just, uh... wild. I'm sure that was a handful.

Yes, I'm sure you could handle it all very well. Yeah, yeah. The, uh... the prophesy. Sometimes I wonder if there's a kind of, as you say, prophesy... for, for each of us. Really? No, I never thought of it that way. You're an interesting guy, Beastmaster. I think you're gonna fit in just fine.

Yo, Friedman! Friedman, over here!

Yeah, check out my new racquetball partner, buddy! Uh huh, that's right! Yep, you and Loomis are goin' down!

Holy Overwhelming Sense of Powerlessness!

2005-10-29T16:01:00.000-07:00

Quite recently, my car was broken into.

In this instance where the realms of automotive well-being and universally accepted bad luck have collided, it is not the specific event that has left me seething with a targetless anger, but the way in which it was carried out. This attempted crime -- be it non-creative vandalism, ill-advised stereo thievery, or just plain old, full-bore car theft -- is offensive in its very half-assedness.

I don't care how quickly, quietly, or expertly these crooks operated -- although they fall nowhere within the dominion of those three adverbs -- whatever they did, they did with a partial ass. Clearly, they were not raised under the auspices of "Hey, when you're out there in the world, don't rob people." But they also were not reared in an environment where their parental figure, or parental figure-like crime boss, would bother to say, "Hey, if you are actually out there robbing people, try and do a decent job of it."

Nope, not these guys.

I'm betting they were just jazzed by completing the first successful step of their grand criminal scheme. Local police like to call this step, Step One: Locating A Honda Civic Parked In A Dark Corner At 3:29 A.M. This, they got right.

So excited were they by the accomplishment of Step One, that they lunged, hearts brimming with pride, right into Step Two: Smashing In The Passenger Side Window With A Brick.

Yeah, these dudes were skillful. They really broke that window all to hell. So much so that when I vacuumed out my car, I found tiny, little, adorable pieces of glass everywhere.

It was not unlike taking a romantic jaunt to the beach with a nice young lady. In that instance, you skip back to the car, the sun shining down on a world where no one ever would think of breaking your windows, and you jump into the bucket seats, laughing about the sand getting everywhere. And for at least a month or two afterwards, every time you grab the stick shift, or reach for a piece of conveniently located dashboard console chewing gum, or just move a little in your seat, you feel a tiny, gritty reminder of that one time when you were so effusive, you actually didn't worry about personal cleanliness for five minutes.

Only now, as I spent a good forty-five minutes suctioning safety glass from my upholstery, I was aware of the flip-side of this phenomenon. Now, for as long as I own this specific car, I will continue to find tiny, blue-rimmed niblets of automotive glass.

November 8, 2005: Hey, there's a little glass shard in my laminated road map. Ah, delightful.

February 12, 2006: Well, there appears to be a gobbet of safety glass lodged in the bridge of my sunglasses. So I've been wearing these for a couple months without noticing that? Good times, good times.

December 23, 2007: Hello! That's a chunk of glass attempting to snuggle inside my rectum, just as I try to merge onto the freeway. Thanks, life.

And no, I'm not going to point out, erroneously and only for the sake of cheap comedy, that safety glass "is neither safe, nor glass." I understand the concept.

In the old days, auto glass was made of big, unwieldy, thoroughly dangerous slabs. Massive glass pieces that were only helpful in that they were semi-transparent. Aside from that, they were altogether deadly. All it took was a tiny tap to the bumper in front of you, and your family wouldn't need to worry about whether to bury you wearing your favorite fedora.

The fantastic thing about safety glass is that while it does not shear off into Trapper Keeper-sized shards at the slightest nudge and then decapitate you, it does shatter into miniscule pieces. And while these are not dagger-like in sharpness, they are still tiny pieces of jagged glass. And tiny pieces of jagged glass, no matter how perfectly square-shaped and cute, are still shitty to have around in large quantities.

So, not counting the damage to your car that is not in excess of your deductible, now you're down about five bucks, because that's how many quarters you'll have to pump into the Suck-It-Up-Yourself auto-vac at the Wash-Your-Own-Goddamned-Car-For-A-Change-You-Elitist-Prick Car Wash on Venice and Redondo.

And really, that's where I take issue with my would-be thieves. Because, as you will see, that's all they amount to, in the end: would-be thieves. Actually, I would almost relegate them to could-be thieves.

After smashing the window, Buck and Donsky (not their real names) went right to work on Step Three: Taking Part In History's Lousiest Attempt At Removing A Car Stereo. Seriously, what were you using, Buck? A butter knife? And what was your back-up tool, Donsky? The blunt end of a hockey stick? Maybe you guys could have slathered the console in caramel, and let a burro lick at it for an hour or two. After what must have been a hilarious six minutes, they never completely removed my factory-installed CD player.

When I discovered it, the CD player face plate dangled pathetically, half out of the dashboard console. If stereos could whimper, this one would've been mewling like a kitten caught in a rainstorm. Ah, could-be thieves. I'm guessing you're not known as the "finesse guys" when you meet with your thief buddies at your local thief watering hole, The Rusty Crowbar. (Try the Breaking-and-Entering B.L.T. Platter -- you'll thank me later!) So there my CD player wavered, a baby tooth that you didn't want to wrench out in the middle of a second-grade math class.

Having successfully completed Step Three, B 'n D leapt face first into Step Four: Searching In Vain For Valuable Items Inside The Vehicle Of A Man Who Has Been Unemployed For The Better Part Of A Calendar Year.

And here's where the crime gets curious, true believers. They stole CDs. Compact discs. But they only stole four of them. I had five in the car at the time. In the interest of full disclosure, the thieves made off with:
- Hello Nasty, by Beastie Boys.
- The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust, by David Bowie.
- Saturation, by Urge Overkill.
- Another Round, by Dakota. (Linked on the top right of this page. They're really good.)

The CD they deemed not to take? Pinkerton, by Weezer. One of the finest albums of the '90s. And if you disagree with me, please remember that I have just been victimized and I have rage to spare.

The exclusion of that specific album is indeed vexing. This means I have either been robbed by (a) someone who knows of this album, understands its deep sociological importance to those who graduated high school roughly between the years 1991 and 2002, and took pity on me, or (b) a sick, twisted person who delights in the psychological torment of others. (Linked on the top right of this page. He's really good.)

Then, Buck and Donsky stumbled across Step Five: Insulting The Very Existence Of Your Victim By Stealing His Change. For real. They did this.

So now, every time I roll up to the Del Taco drive-thru at 2:14 a.m., or scrounge for quarters to wash one of my five t-shirts, I will vividly remember that, yes, my car was broken into. "You are never safe, Brad Stevens. Not in this life, nor the next. Because when you are reincarnated as a garden slug or a Colobus monkey, you'll still own a Honda Civic, and it'll still be the fourth most vandalized/stolen car on the market. Nice choice, by the way."

I discovered my abused car the following evening. I got angry. I felt helpless, victimized, a target of crooked bastards. And yes, I realize it could have been much worse. The car itself could've been stolen. Or the car could have been stolen, urinated inside of, and set on fire. Or I could have chanced upon the could-be thieves while they were in the process of breaking into the car. Boy, that would've been... awkward. "Uh... hey, guys. Yeah. That's... that's my car. Not done yet? I could... you know what? I'll just come back later. Okay, cool."

I simmered in a delicious anger broth. But who to blame? Buck and Donsky are nowhere to be found. If they do exist, and are the criminal masterminds they have demonstrated themselves to be, then surely they're partying it up at a Chili's in Torrance by now. No, no, Buck... go ahead and spring for the half-fries, half-onion rings basket. You've earned it.

I can't blame the local police. Judging by the mix of exhaustion and boredom that greeted my late-night appearance at the local precinct, this kind of thing wasn't exactly bringing out their inner, justice-obsessed, cop on the edge.

And I certainly am not going to blame myself. I think, as I have saddled myself with responsibility over personal relationships, general health, mental well-being, and working the word "obsequious" into everyday conversation, that I can cut myself a break in the area of obsessively guarding my car.

Really, there's only one guy to blame. Someone who should have my back. Someone whose very existence is meant to halt the Bucks and the Donskys of this chaotic world.

I blame Batman.

That's right. I blame Batman. Where was this so-called "Caped Crusader," huh? Where was your precious "Dark Avenger of the Night"? When the chips were down, where was ol' "Gray Sweatpants and Blue Cape Guy"? He wasn't watching over my Honda Civic, dear friends.

And don't give me that "his jurisdiction is only Gotham City" crap. The dude's got wings, a car, and a helicopter, last time I checked. He's probably even got some gay-ass rocket sled thing. The point is, crime knows no boundaries, and that winged S.O.B. can get around.

Also, don't even suggest that the crime which befell me is not serious enough to warrant Batman's assistance. Are we going to split hairs here?

"Oh, Batman knows a thing or two about actual serious, life-threatening crimes. After all, his parents were gunned down in cold blood by a common street thug." Yeah, I heard about that. And you know what I say? Boo-friggin'-hoo.

You wanna wage a war on crime, jackass? Start at the bottom and work your way up. Sure, Buck and Donsky don't spray acid at people, or have a weather-controlling machine, or hold the entire city at ransom with an army of genetically enhanced caribou. But their brazen window-smashing and CD-pilfering will quickly escalate into large-scale villainy. Why not nip it in the bud?

Where I come from, when you make a solemn oath to battle criminality in all its heinous forms, you do just that. Wherever the place, whatever the transgression. Get on it, Batman. I don't care if it's just some guy tossing a burrito wrapper on the ground -- I want something done about it, preferably involving a grappling hook and some smoke bombs.

So, maybe Batman's true colors are showing through. He doesn't really care about us. He's too busy making sure "Laguna Beach" is at the top of his TiVo Wish List. He's playing "Halo 2" in the Batcave and sending Alfred out for wasabi-flavored Funyuns. No, no... put up your feet, Batman. We'll just be out here, in the dark and the cold, getting victimized and stuff. See ya around, maybe.

And don't say to me, "Why not be angry at Superman, while you're at it? According to your reasoning, he'd be just as responsible." Because, smart guy, everyone knows that Superman doesn't exist. Don't be a child.

So, Batman, you're on the list. Stay out of my neighborhood. After all, you wouldn't want all the change stolen from your precious Batmobile.

You jerk.

A Pillow Case Full of Emotional Maturity, and Some Bit-O-Honeys

2005-10-27T16:03:00.000-07:00

I really don't want to upset you, but politicians are just a bunch of fakes. Dubious, opportunistic, dishonest flim-flammers. There, I said it.

The same lessons that my parents gleaned from, say, Watergate and Vietnam, were thrust upon me on a chilly October night. The mayor lived down the street from me when I was a kid, and I witnessed his Boss Tweed-esque power grabs and shameless vote-mongering firsthand. And I think he tossed some gerrymandering in there, to boot.

Now, I don't intend to slander the man. I'm just angling for some moderate smearing here. Look, being the mayor of a mid-sized suburban city has gotta be a little trying. I'm sure he had his hands full, what with the intricacies of public park lawn mowing schedules, worrying if the height of the new Perkins sign jibed with zoning laws, and trying to stop kids from climbing the water tower near the middle school. So, I would allow a little duplicity on his part. But he distinctly targeted the youth of my town to sway our parents' votes. Bear witness, and prepare to have your faith in human decency shaken to its very foundation.

While he was in office, and especially in a year where he was running for re-election, he gave every trick-or-treater a Baby Ruth bar. I want to be absolutely clear on this issue: we are not talking about the "Fun-Size" Baby Ruth here. Nay. He would dispense full-sized Baby Ruth bars.

For added clarification, I'm not referring to the "King-Sized" ones, because they didn't have those when I was younger. And for the record, may I also take issue with the term "Fun-Size"? Is it "fun" to be given exactly .59 ounces of candy, and no more? Really, the current "King-Sized" candy bars should be called "Fun-Sized," and then "King-Sized" can be preserved for the day they make a Zagnut the size of the Moai heads on Easter Island. Then just call the tiny Baby Ruth bars "Thoroughly Insulting-Sized," and be done with it.

These distinctions are important, because a few years back, America's fine candymakers went crazy with the endless candy iterations. You had Kit Kats' "Big Kats," that were so ridiculously huge, they were often, tragically, mistaken for railroad ties. The problem in blowing up a Kit Kat to DeLuisian proportions is that it throws off the delicate balance of chocolate and sweetened fiberglass insulation strips that makes the candy so beloved in the first place.

Reese's Cups tried the same thing, with their "Big Cup," which, aside from sounding mildly inappropriate, also saddled you with way too much peanut butter. By around bite number three -- or, as it is known in candy circles, bite "tha-three" -- the filling took on the consistency of tub grout. Then you had a life-threatening peanut butter wad in your throat. I can't help but think that H. B. Reese's original mission statement for his company did not involve smothering the loyal consumer with four pounds of peanut butter.

But these Wonka-bees couldn't be stopped, not when there were scads of ways to mutate candy. They unleashed the "reverse" Reese's Cup, which was peanut butter on the outside, and chocolate creme on the inside. Patently unnecessary. Maybe someone will make grillable dough patties, and you can slap them in between two refrigerated slices of burger. Then, put your pants on backwards, dress your children as animals, and hot-glue your television to the ceiling, just to complete the illusion. This is candy, folks, not some bizarre sensory-depravation experiment.

Then there's the white chocolate Reese's Cup, which I guess was made specifically for a high-society dinner party, since the pre-existing Reese's Cups clashed with Lady Dorrington's Persian throw pillows. Really, why stop there, Reese's mad scientists? Why not paint tiny goatees on a Reese's Cup and call them Rafael Cups: Reese's Cups' Long Lost, Presumed Dead Evil Twin Brother? Or introduce Reese's Bleeding Cups, and pump a couple ounces of stage blood in there, so America's children can pretend they're a cast member from "Red Dawn," and eating a fistful of fresh deer meat?

It has to stop somewhere, yes? The laundromat near my apartment, while lacking the one cosmically unifying laundromat device -- a Ms. Pac-Man machine -- does have a vending machine with, honestly, six different varieties of Skittles. Tropical Punch. Sour. Original Gangsta Skittles. Cran-Banana-Berry-tastic. Gravy-Dipped. Heroes of the French-Indian War Flavored Skittles.

The endless tampering with time-tested foodstuffs calls to mind the Cap'n Crunch offshoot called, "Oops! All Berries!" It's really encouraging that Quaker Oats responded to the overwhelming demand for a berry-centric breakfast cereal, but why do they feel the need to have an actual explanation for the product's existence? And why must said explanation involve some sort of factory mishap? Especially one that appears to be a major processing snafu at the Crunch Berries sorting facility in White Plains, New York.

"Yipes! Shift supervisor Randy McClellan forgot to properly lubricate the Hydraulic Berry Dispenser! We could start over, but our CEO is a diminutive sea captain, and his mind has been warped by scurvy! So now our egregious error is a cereal!"

"Uh-oh! Our vice-president Trent Connersly just found out that his wife is leaving him for a younger man! And that means he's on the booze again! Cap'n would fire Trent, but he saved the then-Petty Offic'r Crunch's life during the war! Nonetheless, that doesn't mean you can't enjoy the by-product of Connersly's precipitous slide into self-destruction!"

"Yowza! We have absolutely no idea how to safely package food! We're just making this up as we go along, people! Your very purchase is a gamble with mortality! Therefore, enjoy our new Cap'n Crunch's 'Oops! All Glass Shards!' Cereal!"

So, yeah... the town's mayor lived just down the street, and every year he'd give us the large Baby Ruth bars. It wouldn't have seemed odd, save for the first Halloween following his defeat in the mayoral election. That year, due to either campaign overspending, or, more likely, sheer spite towards the good people of warm and cheerful Centerville, he handed out tiny boxes of Boston Baked Beans.

Boston Baked Beans are not actual beans, nor are they baked. They're candy-coated peanuts. And they are made by a candy company based out of Chicago. So I guess Half-Assed, No-Chocolate-Having M&M's From Northern Illinois wouldn't fit on the box.

There I stood, my homemade mummy costume -- a couple rolls of Charmin single-ply -- blowing in tatters down the street, my feet cold from traipsing through dewy lawns. From now on, things would be different. Confusing, frustrating, and far too big for me to comprehend.

The harvest moon hung bloated and orange in the night sky. Somewhere, a dog barked. And the American two-party political system creaked forward, unbeknownst to the nameless, faceless horde.

And elsewhere, in a darkened office, an old man dreamt of a Junior Mint the size of a hubcap. And he laughed, long and hard.

These Claims Of Yours, They Are Not Small

2005-09-28T12:23:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, the legal system is broken. There is no joy in Lawville. Matlock has left the building.

Take your pick.

I recently took a head-spinning trip through the twisting, turning, rabid squirrel-infested Enchanted Forest of Small Claims Court. I won't bore you with the details of what got me there, other than to say it involved myself, a slightly older lady, the most minor of car accidents, and one of us -- bonus points for guessing correctly -- claiming injuries several months after the fact.

I will not recount the accident itself, because (a) it has no real bearing on anything, (b) it has little intrinsic comedic value, but mostly because (c) retelling a Car Accident Story falls somewhere between the retelling of a Dumped By a Girl in the Parking Lot of a Dokken Concert Story and the retelling of a Trying to Pee in a Big Gulp Cup on a Long Road Trip Story. It's right around there in terms of unsavory details.

Needless to say, I don't get sued all that much. In fact, aside from the time I stole a piece of Root Beer Barrel hard candy from a Brach's Pic-N-Mix display at the age of 6, I have never run afoul of the law. (And for the record, yes, I burst into tears upon leaving the establishment, and wailed to my unsuspecting Mom about how I had committed a serious offense. I was ordered to march back into the store and replace the candy. I consider myself very lucky. If we were in Thailand at the time, I would now be nicknamed "Lefty." Or perhaps even "Lefty One-Eye McLimps-A-Lot.")

So, this world of legal entanglements was just all so freaking new to me. But let me tell you... there is no rush quite like the first time you are served with papers. Man, it's great. Okay, maybe by "great," I mean "embarrassing." And maybe by "embarrassing," I actually mean, "wholly and thoroughly emasculating." But let's not split hairs.

It was a lovely August morning. As I am unemployed, this means I was stumbling around the apartment in my underwear. Important decisions lie ahead of me on this day. Should I take a shower now, or later in the day? What? No shower at all? That's so crazy it just might work. So... how much celery in tuna salad, really, is "too much celery"? Yep, still unemployed. Are dark forces gathering strength, conspiring against me, gradually gearing up for a swift, undeserved karmic kick to the ballsack? Naw, can't be. Then, a knock at the door. Why, this could mean almost anything!

"Mr. Stevens?" chirped the non-threatening male voice behind the door.
"Uh... yes?"
"I have a package for you, sir!"

A package! For me? For me, "Mr. Stevens"? Golly! Whatever could it be?

I open the door, still in boxer shorts, mind you, and a clutch of paperwork is thrust inside. If you are not used to this, here's what will happen: your hand, under its own power, rises up to grab the thing being shoved at you. At 8:12 a.m., the brain -- not that it's any more dependable at, say, 3:47 p.m. -- will not be able to process things fast enough. So your hand shoots up and helpfully takes hold of the Legally Binding Issuance of Court Documents. Hey, thanks a lot, hand. Good job.

At this point, brain woke up, and as the owner of the non-threatening male voice turned and walked away, all I could do was let out a small, wounded sound, like a hamster having a nightmare. "Hernh--!"

Then came the rage. Yea! Don't need any coffee this morning! My old college buddy Rage has swung by for a surprise visit, at 8:13 a.m.! And as I watched the non-threatening process server skipping down my steps, I barked at him:

"A PACKAGE?!"

See, what made me even more angry than the sudden realization that I was being sued was that I was led to believed there was some kind of parcel involved. Process server turned, gave me a little smile, and said, "Yes, just papers... for small claims court." So... no gift, Barry? Barry, I expected more from you.

And then Barry skipped off, to ruin somebody else's Friday morning. I'm not a horrible person, and I realize that Barry was just doing his job. But when human civilization is finally, at long last, conquered by super-intelligent apes, I really hope Barry gets saddled with a job as Assistant Gorilla Ass-Wiper. And every time I pass him on the way to my new job as Human Writer/Producer on the The Late Ape Show with Chimp Chimperson, I will laugh like a four-year-old in the ball pit at Showbiz Pizza.

I spin off into a month-long period of anxiously awaiting the big day in court. I have numerous conversations with my Helpful Yet Affordably Priced Insurance Company. They're nice people. They try to help, really. Did I mention that they are affordably priced?

My insurance company calls me at least twice a week. They never really say anything I actually want to hear.

"Hi, Mr. Stevens. This is Janice over at A.I.S. I don't know how I found out before you, but you just won the 250 million-dollar Powerball jackpot!"

"Hi, Mr. Stevens. Janice at A.I.S. again. It appears that the plaintiff in your small claims case has been repeatedly struck by lightning. And her husband tried to follow through with the lawsuit, until he was crushed by a boulder. Weird, huh?"

"Hi, Mr. Stevens. Janice. Yeah, from A.I.S. For some reason, I've gotten numerous messages from your ex-girlfriends. They just wanted you to know that the guy they left you for is nowhere near as funny as you."

None of that. They just keep reminding me that (a) I am named in a lawsuit and (b) it's usually good if you show up on time to those things, and at the right location. And since I am (a) acutely aware of the impending lawsuit and (b) not a newborn baby, these calls are sort of unnecessary.

While I am a bit of a pessimist, I am not given to all-out despair. So, my interior monologue went into overdrive, trying to preserve my very tender ego. "Hey, nothing you can do about this, Champ. Just weather the storm. Look, Chief... these things happen. You are not being punished. See here, Chester... you will be exonerated. Is that even the right word? And really, was that 'too much celery'? I mean, come on."

Pathetically, my biggest concern the night before the court date was whether or not I should shave. Scoff all you want. When you're unemployed, you turn everything into a Potential But Not Very Lucrative Job. So at this stage, my latest job was growing a sweet mustache. And I gotta tell ya, it had just reached the sweet stage. It looked like I'd been cast in the lead role in "The Rollie Fingers Story."

I had already decided that business casual dress was the way to go. A full suit could come off as a hip, quasi-ironic, smart-ass statement to the judge. And my standard attire of cargo shorts and a mildly pit-stained t-shirt was unadvisable, as well. So, I had a dress shirt, khakis -- even a tie! -- all set aside. Because, hell, I gotta look respectable if I'm gonna try and call a middle-aged woman a liar in a court of law.

Thinking this much about what to wear to small claims court sort of reveals how obsessed I was with the whole situation. "Surely, the judge will see my blue tie and throw out the case!" And putting this much stock into outside appearances is a bit like assuming that the keyboard player from Prince & the Revolution could perform cranial surgery because he wore scrubs and a stethoscope.

Fearing severe judicial punishment, I sent my beloved mustache, screaming and crying, to the bottom of the sink. Sometimes, when pondering, I reach up to see what mustache thinks... and... and... he's not there. The wounds are still fresh, you see.

So, bitterly clean-shaven and mildly respectable-looking, I go to small claims court. There it sat before me, Los Angeles Municipal Court Small Claims Division. What, no "Hall of Justice"? C'mon, at least make it sort of fun. Put some guys in suits of armor outside. Maybe a three-headed dog at the door. Something. Jeez.

In I go. If you need to see more wood paneling than existed in all of 1973, I have an address for you. Small claims court is designed to suck the fight out of you. Abandon free will, all who enter here. What's that? You have faith in the inherent decency of your fellow man? Well, just leave that in this plastic receptacle. You won't be needing it in here.

There's little to report about the actual case. I was sort of nervous. Public speaking, in an officious, accurate manner, is not my strong suit. I thought, nerves aside, that the blue tie would have my back. Blue tie let me down.

I lost the case. But I found out the next day, via mail, because they didn't want me to fly into a blind rage and tear up small claims court, I guess. "What do you want?! You want my blood?! TAKE IT!" I honestly harbored a fantasy of recreating the opening scene of "Superman: the Movie." (And, for that matter, the recap at the beginning of "Superman II.")

"You will bow down before me, Los Angeles Municipal Court Small Claims Division! You will bow down before me, Judge Pro Tem Monica Feingold! No matter that it takes an eternity! You will bow down before me! Both you, and then one day, your heirs!"

Nope. No big dramatic pronouncements for me. No justice on that day.

But I remain unbroken, true believers. And should the shadow of frivolous injury claims ever darken your door, you look that lying middle-aged woman in the Toyota Camry straight in the eye, and you tell her -- you tell 'em all...

You tell 'em Mustache is coming back to town, and Goatee's coming with him! Yaaaarrr!

From the Land of Sky Blue Waters and Blackened Liver Tissue

2005-09-13T16:28:00.000-07:00

I recently had the supreme honor of visiting the Miller Brewery in Milwaukee. I was in town for just a few days, so I assume they bumped a few visiting dignitaries from the tour waiting list to accommodate me. "I'm sorry, Prime Minister Berlusconi, you'll have to wait. And French Culture Minister Renaud Donnedieu de Vabre? Yes, please just take a seat. We have a young man here in a slightly stained t-shirt and flip-flops who absolutely must be given admittance. You too, Mr. Zmed. We'll be with you shortly."

The appeal of the Miller Brewery tour -- and pretty much any brewery tour, I assume -- is not the in-depth description of the brewing process (I don't want to ruin it for you, but it involves hops, boiling, and something that looks like a shuffleboard cue), the detailed history of the company from its humble beginnings (in a small cottage in either Germany, Austria, or Kenosha), or even the historical bottles and cans on display in the brewery lobby. (Get the camera! They've got pull-tops! Remember those?) Yes. Remember when it was slightly less easy to open a can of beer? Those were indeed the Dark Ages.

"Are you tellin' me we can land a sonofabitch in a foil diaper on the time-ravaged surface of our Moon, but I gotta strain to open this 12 ounces of Hamm's? Women can exercise their right to vote, but I work nine hours a day building brake parts only to come home to a beverage container which mocks my very masculinity? We can engineer complex band saws to help the production designer of TV's "Laugh-In" more fully realize his artistic vision, but I almost risk slicing open my forefinger on this Hudepohl? This country's going to hell!"

No, the appeal of the legendary Miller Brewery tour is not the salty nuggets of alcohol-related wisdom but, naturally, the promise of alcohol itself. They give you free beer at the summation of the journey. In the case of Miller, they provide you with three (3) individual samples of fresh brew, of approximately eight (8) ounces each.

Just how "fresh" this beer actually is could be a point of contention, if you're the type to argue with Mr. Free Beer. But I wouldn't really get Mr. Free Beer wound up. He's been known to be polite and talkative for a while, then he'll clam up for an hour or so if his team isn't doing so hot. If you complain to Mr. Free Beer at this point, you're liable to get a billiard rack right in the ol' eye socket.

My friends and I had many theories regarding the origin of the free beer samples, in the period of excitement just before said samples were issued.

1.) It comes straight out of the Giant Beer Holding Tanks! Yes, it's like Willy Wonka! You can rest your distended belly against the cool brass exterior of the Wondrous Suds Tanks and suckle directly from the teat of Mother Beer! This will be the best beer we've ever had!

2.) Buxom blondes in leiderhosen will actually feed us the beer! It will be poured into a series of ever-more-impressive containers! Lyndon B. Johnson's personal beer stein, on loan from his Presidential Library! The actual prop goblet used by Rutger Hauer in "Ladyhawke!" Maybe even the Holy Grail itself! Beer will never be this blasphemously delicious again!

3.) We're not sure, but for some reason, Dabney Coleman and a perfectly cooked prime rib will somehow be involved! Oh, the stories he'll have! Yes, pour another Leinenkugel's and tell us more stories from the set of "Buffalo Bill!" Oh, ecstasy!

4.) They will check our IDs, give us paper wristbands, and then hand us three plastic cups of beer that will come out of kegs. Yes, the same kegs like Dave had at his 22nd birthday. Yeah, the one when Tricia fell down the stairs.

Theory number 4 is the one that proved true, aside from the Dave and Tricia details. Again, I am not one to look askance at Mr. Free Beer, so it was all the same to me. The thing you have to appreciate, fear, or merely shake your head in disgust at, is that the very concept of free beer samples at a brewery encourages drinking and driving.

Sure, you'd have to be a bit of a lightweight to be impaired after drinking 24 ounces of beer. But still, it's not as if any of the people in attendance chanced upon the Miller Brewery while out for a leisurely stroll. "Me and Sherrie and the kids, we was just walking around this lovely forest, looking for a spot to enjoy a picnic lunch, when suddenly, the Flying Miller Monkeys descended upon us. Luckily, I was able to reason with the alpha flying monkey, and he led us back to this fantastical place, from whence Little Baby Beer is born!"

This was two in the afternoon on a Saturday. These are people willing to sit through a 90-minute walking tour for two free beers. And I, heart swelling with pride, was among them. I am, after all, not one of your garden-variety dirty Commies.

But yeah, you drink this beer and then are basically set loose. Out of all the SUVs and family cars in the Miller Brewery Tour Parking Lot, I observed that not a single one, on close inspection, was made of marshmallow or styrofoam packing peanuts. So the idea of all these pink-cheeked beer lovers set loose on the highways of Wisconsin with boiled hop nectar in their stomachs was a bit unsettling. For some of them, it was sure to be known as The Day Daddy Yelled Very Loud About the Triple-A Map Directions and Then Left Us in the Parking Lot of Arby's.

The road from the Free Beer Pavilion winds around the Beer-Making Building and the Older, Historic Beer-Making Building, and even passes by the Really Old Beer Storage Caves. (Just so you know -- underground caverns aren't just for Batman anymore. You can also stuff them with ice and store beer for months at a time! Months, I tell ya! At least, that's what our 17-year-old tour guide told us.) Then, you head back from where you came, and arrive at... the Beer Gift Shop.

Then, it all becomes clear. The beer was merely a lubricant for the inevitable impulse buy. Because the fine people at Miller, like all purveyors of alcohol, know one thing: beer makes you do stuff.

- Beer #1: This is just the Social Beer. You don't want to be an old lady, after all. But this is it. Just a taste and it's back home -- you've got work in the morning, after all. Don't you?

- Beer #2: This is the twin brother of Social Beer. Since he is a twin, he arrives minutes later, and will grow up to be much more annoying than his brother.

- Beer #3: Now you are swearing off all previous anti-drinking statements. The time you met that really nice girl at that party, but you had one too many Bud Ices and the last time she saw you, your head was hanging out of a car going 70 miles per hour, a rivulet of vomit clinging stubbornly to your chin? Then you swore on a King James version of the Bible to "never again" allow that to happen? Oh, you just forgot all about that.

- Beer #4: Now the hardhat goes on. The timecard is punched. The canary goes in the cage.

- Beer #5: Hey, come on! It's Friday! It's not? Tuesday? Really?

- Beer #6: With no awareness of the actual volume of your voice, you tell the story of how you shit your pants on the school bus in fourth grade. A girl seated to your left slowly slides away. You don't notice.

- Beer #7: "Oh, I'll tell you the problem with a two-party political system, my friend. Wait. How can they not have 'China Grove' on this jukebox? This is a bar!"

- Beer #8: Hey, come on! It's Saturday! It's not? Tuesday? Are you sure?

- Beer #9: If you have friends and a cellphone, then the phone will be taken away from you. If you succeed in getting it back, the battery will be removed and given to the bartender. You will be distracted about the missing battery by either the Photo Hunt game, or, depending on the type of beer you're drinking, the lights of Golden Tee 2003.

- Beer #10: "You guys remember that movie that was sponsored by Glad Bags? 'Million Dollar Giveaway,' or something? 'Million Dollar Mystery!' Yeah, that's the one! Wait, I lost my train of thought."

- Beer #11: Your brain leans in close to you and whispers: "Yes, I do think that guy just gave you the finger. You should go talk to him about that. See what he's got to say for himself."

- Beer #12: You relieve yourself for the eighth time tonight. Out of either absent-mindedness or extreme laziness, you don't bother to zip up your fly afterward. This way, it'll just be easier next time, right?

- Beer #13: My God, she's the most amazing thing you've ever seen in your life. Look. Look! She's cleaning up after that guy! She doesn't have to do that -- how nice! Oh, she's the waitress.

So, when you're buzzing off three quick beer samples, and you find yourself in an overly lit gift shop, there's only one thing to do, my friend.

Buy a t-shirt, take the ride.

Good Luck With All the Henching, Man

2005-09-09T12:00:00.000-07:00

Hey, congratulations. You've finally completed your Learning Annex course on How to Be a Nameless Lackey/Goon. Here's your complimentary denim vest and Cobray MAC-10 submachine gun. Use both with pride, Terry. But before you go, a few questions, if I may.

Do you know the man you're working for? Really well? Is he an Eastern European drug dealer? An acid-scarred shipping magnate? What's that? He's a microwaveable breakfast treats tycoon-turned-religious zealot?

What about your specific job? What do they demand of you? Will it be primarily to shoot at the hero as he approaches, or are they expecting some mild torture as well? If the hero is being held at gunpoint, and your employer taunts him, will you be required to laugh, possibly while chewing on a toothpick or match?

Hold on there, Doug. Have you even picked a job skill yet? An area of specialization? You gotta take this seriously, man. There's dozens of possible assignments out there in the Henchman/Flunky/Underling/ Stooge/Minion department. If you don't pick the right one, you're gonna find yourself, at the very least, getting kicked in the nuts by Marc Singer. And I think we'd both like to avoid that.

Guy Driving the Limo:
Opt out of this job, if you can. Because there will likely be an incident in the back seat, involving a fight over a gun, and then... you guessed it. You're gonna get shot in the back of the head. So much for that pension plan.

Guy Standing In Front of Several Metal Barrels:
Skip this assignment, too. You will be susceptible to an explosion from behind, which will hurtle you, end over end, probably right toward some other barrels. No, I don't know what those barrels are doing there, either.

Guy with Switchblade:
Man, you went right for that switchblade, didn't ya, Mark? No element of surprise for you; not even an attempt at, "Well, guess what? I've got a... switchblade!" You pulled that thing out of your boot at the BEGINNING of the fight. Well, now you're gonna have your elbow broken back the wrong way, you'll wail like a little girl, and then get thrown into a jukebox. It may even start playing a humorous song at this point. Oh, Switchblade Mark. You've become a joke, even in death.

Guy Firing Gun from Great Height:
What were you even doing all the way up there, Chester? Trying to find the best possible way to get impaled? Well, guess what -- you win! Hopefully you're not near a highly disorganized construction site, an abandoned church, or a tetherball court. But with your luck, you are.

Guy Who Takes on Hero After Hero Has Just Beaten Up Eight Other Guys:
Decided to hang back and see how the fight progressed, huh? Smooth move. See, since the hero has just brutally killed eight other people, your death will be especially gruesome. It's the natural law of things, Paul. So, expect to have your elbow broken the wrong way (yes, again), your nose shoved into your brain, or in some instances, your arm broken off completely and then shoved into your nasal cavity. Where do we send the flowers?

Guy Who Is the Only Female Member of Evil Gang:
At first, this probably seemed like a great idea. You get all the benefits and kickbacks of being a member of the villain's gang, but you're also a woman, and you expect to be spared any harm. Well, you probably didn't notice that the hero has a love interest. If you still haven't picked her out yet, she'll be the person repeatedly kicking you in the face in about forty minutes.

Guy Who Is the Token Gigantic Guy:
Another area of physical specialization, and one which you were pretty confident about selecting. But here's the snag, Hossberry: because of your exaggerated size and the threat you pose, you will die in the most humorous and/or embarrassing way possible. Here's how to know that your death is imminent:
(1) You are large.
(2) The hero made some crack when you walked into the warehouse, something like, "Here we go again," "This is gonna hurt," or simply, "Well, shit."
(3) You have kicked the hero in the stomach two or three times.
Even though it appears that you have the upper hand -- whoops. You've just been strangled by a dog's choke chain. Or maybe crushed by a fifteen-ton storage bin. And in some cases, been dumped into a vat of molten lead. Giant guy played by Tiny "Zeus" Lister, we hardly knew ye.

Guy Who Is the Torturer's Assistant:
You're just doing your job, by handing the guy with the weird accent a series of ice picks, electroshock nodules, and, in a few cases, methed-up garden snakes, for his use against the hero. But your lack of knowledge regarding the affects of sodium pentathol will leave you at quite a disadvantage, Craig. You'll be quickly dispatched, probably by a snapped neck, so that the torturer's tools, in a clever twist, can then be used against him.

Guy Standing Near Spinning Helicopter Blades:
Self-explanatory.

Guy Who Takes a Swing at McCloud:
A classic rookie henchman mistake. McCloud, while a soft-spoken and relatively genial fellow, don't take too kindly to cityfolk getting rowdy and causing a ruckus. You will be punched squarely on the jaw and taken downtown.

Guy Who Gloats to Hero in the Form of Obvious Questions:
What? You're talking? That's not in the job description, Riley. Sure, when you had the hero chained up by his ankles, and you and Byron took turns gut-punching him, all seemed well. Then you had to go and open your mouth: "Who's tough now, huh? HUH?!" You just set yourself up for the quick death/easy one-liner combo. Who's tough now? Not you, kid.

Guy Who Happens to be Asian:
Since you just happen to be Asian, you also just happen to be highly skilled in at least twenty-six forms of martial art. Nunchuka? Gotcha. Kendo sticks? Check. Repeatedly kicking dudes? Yep. You've got all the bases covered. Unfortunately, the guy you're going up against is an alcoholic ex-cop. His piece and shield have been relinquished to the chief. That little kid you've got tied up? That's his only son. And while you will give the ex-cop a run for his money, you're really no match, Kevin. That oughta teach you, for trying to utilize the rich combative history of your ancestors.

Guy with Fancy Weapon:
Boy, I bet you were really happy the day you went down to Costco and picked up that new flamethrower, huh? Or that nifty machine gun/grenade launcher combo. Or even that semi-automatic crossbow. But guess what, Clive? Now it's gonna be used against you, and it's not even completely paid for yet.

Guy Wearing Bolo Tie:
You will have your throat ripped out by Patrick Swayze, or possibly Michael Dudikoff. Actually, that warning was right there, printed clearly on the side of your new bolo tie's packaging.

Guy Who Steals Getaway Vehicle from Nice Old Lady:
Well, you've made several blunders here. For one, you've shown how much of a total jerk you really are, by stealing a car from a nice old lady after committing a crime. And, since you've stolen a car from a nice old lady, it's a Ford LTD. The hero will make you pay for your insolence, probably by throwing a spear-like object (crowbar, javelin, or over-sized novelty toothbrush) through your windshield. This will impale you in the head, and naturally cause the Ford LTD to explode.

Guy Near Construction Crane:
I'm still not sure about this one, but for some reason, you will burst into flame and dive into several carefully arranged cardboard boxes.

So there we go. Just a few pointers for you -- what's that? You don't need to take advice from some old creep with an eyepatch?

Huh? What? You don't even wonder how I got this eyepatch?

Alright, fine. Well, good luck shaking down the residents of that small desert town and seizing control of the old junkyard. I'm sure that'll all work out perfectly for you.

Damned kids.

For Those About to Rock, We Salute Your Choice of Punctuation

2005-09-06T12:11:00.000-07:00

If you're in the band .38 Special, then life's gotta be pretty sweet. Hey, I don't need to point that out to you -- you're in .38 Special, so you totally know where I'm coming from.

If you're not in the band .38 Special, then you're just stumbling through life, which for you is a series of non-.38 Special events, relationships, and crises unfolding in a somewhat predictable cycle. You await the day when you finally shuffle off this mortal coil, in a decidedly non-.38 Special way, and are laid to rest in your non-.38 Special casket in the boring, non-rock band section of the cemetery.

But, let's say, for the sake of argument, that you are in fact a member of .38 Special. Well, then, kudos to you, sir. Because through a bizarre confluence of technology and punctuation, .38 Special have emerged as the absolute center of what people who write for USA Today like to call "The Digital Music Revolution."

Granted, this generalization only works if (a) you own an iPod, and (b) you have any songs by .38 Special. The iPod, despite an unfortunate ad campaign that features everyone's favorite thing, horrifically flailing silhouettes, is quite popular. And there's little wonder why.

The iPod has a stunning array of wonderful features, such as Apple's patented Super-Scratchable Not-At-All-Protective Screen. Which wouldn't be a problem, if you could keep your iPod in an ionized, Lexan-coated chamber, instead of using it as a portable music-playing device. Alas, we have the iPod so we can move freely about the globe with the whole of C+C Music Factory at our disposal, and with this traveling comes the scratching. One time, I casually exhaled in the direction of my iPod and it was instantly scuffed.

And if that aspect doesn't sell you, there's always the iPod's revolutionary Randomly Selected Battery Capacity. Because nobody wants to spend a couple hundred dollars on a device that stores your entire CD collection AND is also dependable. You want something that will either play for nine hours straight, or otherwise will sit charging for a day and then conk out eleven minutes into a transcontinental plane flight. No, that's cool... I'll just read the in-flight magazine.

(In-flight magazines, without fail, always feature two things: a profile of that specific airline's CEO, and then, right after it, several close-up photos of a glistening porterhouse steak from a place called Ricki's in Gallup, New Mexico.)

But the most stunning feature of the iPod is the Super-Sensitive Buttons Intended Only For the Fingers of Kittens. These buttons ensure that your iPod, for security purposes, can only be operated by Billy Barty. And, at least on the model I have, they're not actually buttons, but touch-sensitive circles. So you can't ever be sure if you've pressed the button, or grazed the button, or allowed a hummingbird feather to fall somewhere near the button.

So, you will likely hit the Play button once too often, and then, magically... here comes .38 Special. Without fail, every single time.

The iPod organizes songs alphabetically by artist. And so, since their band name begins not only with a number, but a highly ranked number, and is also preceded by punctuation, .38 Special wins the Galactic Band Name Lottery.

They really stuck it to those smartasses in 4 Non Blondes, huh? And I bet if there's a band called .44 Calibre, or .5 Pounds of German Potato Salad, then they're pretty pissed off, too. Yet not as pissed as the unfortunate members of .39 Special. Sorry about your luck, guys.

Actually, the only real band brazen enough to even threaten .38 Special's random iPod dominance is the now-defunct 'Til Tuesday. Sure, they could've gone with the alternate spelling, with "Till," but they had the presence of mind to fling a change-up at the world of rock, in the form of our friend, the apostrophe.

So you see, the only way you can top .38 Special is by beating them at their own game. And don't say to me, "Well, .38 Special has been churning out a solid form of charming Southern rock for nearly three decades. There's no way they could have foreseen the advent of the iPod. Your theory is flawed, Kevin."

Well, that seems to discount .38 Special's obvious brilliance, both at predicting the rise of a popular digital music player, and at possessing intimate knowledge of its exact method of content indexing. And also, my name is not Kevin.

These guys knew what they were doing. They were setting the stage for the world's slowest cultural revolution. They've been waiting, patiently, in the safety of their converted diamond mine on .38 Special Island, since 1987, just for this plot to unfold.

So that, every time you try in vain to pause, then play, a song... you inevitably screw up, and the iPod defaults to playing the first song by the first artist, alphabetically, and you are suddenly ensnared by the opening notes of "Hold On Loosely."

But they can't stay at the top forever, folks. In fact, it's as if .38 Special have reached out to young bands and said, "Here is the way."

If you have just started a band, congratulations. This means you have also just turned fourteen. And here comes the best part of starting a band -- coming up with a name. My advice, in this iPod-worshipping world? Why, of course -- just go nuts with the punctuation and numbers.

The period appears to be the punctuation king, so start off with one or more of those. Get tricky and toss in a semicolon if you're feeling brazen. Maybe a dash, while we're at it? Good thinking. Then come the numbers. Naturally, you'll wanna start with 1. From there, use your imagination. Have fun with it, gang! You're in a band! Naming yourself will be the last fun thing you do! Trust me, it's all downhill from here, what with the Grammys and the heroin and the eventual plane crash in Nebraska.

And so, to the future members of ...1 & 1/2 Arbor Days, I bid you good luck. I'll catch up with you at next year's Bonnaroo Festival. I'll be there with my speed metal quartet, .......+,##[\[\\{;'"1111111A. See you at the party after the show.

Going to Las Vegas Is Like Being Sewn Inside a Circus Clown's Ass

2005-09-02T00:03:00.000-07:00

No, oddly enough, I do not write for Fodor's.

I don't hate Las Vegas, by any means. Please understand me. It's a big, loud mess, and it's all about drinking, and conducting oneself in an ill-advised manner with very few repercussions, and then watching other people do dumb stuff, as well. I'm not a snob. I enjoy all the aforementioned activities. It's just that when somebody decided to roll every vice and sin into a single point on the map, maybe they could've warned us first.

This was actually the second choice by the Las Vegas Touristry Board: "Come Stare Into the Great Gaping Vortex Of That Which Should Not Be!" So they went with that "What Happens In Vegas, Stays In Vegas" tagline instead.

So I don't hate Vegas. It's just too much. Too much. And yes, I also understand that this is the point of Vegas: to have too much of everything. Actually, the point of Vegas is to rob you. And the secondary aim of Vegas is also to rob you. So the third, possibly fourth, goal of Las Vegas, Nevada is to be the receptacle of all that is big and loud and overpowering.

I sacrificed myself to this city-sized Furnace of Hopes and Dreams a few weekends back. If you drive into Vegas, once you hit the Nevada border, you will already hear the city itself start to scream at you, from over the hills. For some reason, it sounds like a poker buddy of your dad's who always spoke a little too loud, made the dog piss the carpet, and just generally frightened you when you were seven years old.

"Come to Las Vegas! This steak is the size of a small child! Forty-seven pounds of Grade-A beef that should not be consumed by a single person! And it's a dollar! A DOLLAR!"

"This casino has gold fixtures in the shitter! Gold! In the shitter! You barely even deserve this, you damned animal! And it's A DOLLAR!"

"This cocktail waitress is 116 years old! And made of actual beef jerky! She's had all vital fluids syphoned from her body and given to Steve Wynn! And she'll bring ya a vodka-cranberry that's only ONE DOLLAR!"

So you arrive in Las Vegas and the madness intensifies -- it's hotter and brighter than the Crab Nebula, and there's more color than there should ever be in a single place. There are colors that, if stared at directly, will cause you to wet your pants. Your rods and cones begin to bleed.

There are casinos that look like palaces, casinos that look like miniaturized cities, and casinos that look like entire ancient civilizations. Look over there! It's the Jamestown Colony Hotel & Casino! The valets are all dressed like rampaging Algonquins! Woo-hoo, watch out! Wait a minute, what's that over there? "The Pianist" Lounge & Casino? They can't do that, can they? Honey, look! Adrien Brody, live on stage every night! And they've got Keno!

So you're there, you're in friggin' Las Vegas. And dammit, you gotta do it right, right? You gotta cut loose, yeah? Sure, you're unemployed and just got served with papers to appear in Small Claims Court (just as an example) -- but c'mon, bro! Don't you deserve this? Just then, Vegas transforms from your dad's poker buddy into a tiny, gossamer-winged trickster. You're Fred Flintstone, and the entire city is the Great Gazoo.

You find yourself doing things you normally would not do. You blame the TV commercials. But... but... they told me it would all stay here.

Three Jack and Cokes in thirty minutes? Of course. Uh, see... the alcohol evaporates in the desert heat. Plus, I wanna get "warmed up." And also... don't look at me like that, you traitor! You're trying to steal my soul!

A hundred dollars on a game I don't know how to play? Yes, sir. Now, should I give you the entire contents of my wallet now, or should we parcel it out? What's that? You're gonna take my fingers? What does that mean, sir?

"The World's Greatest Celebrity Impersonator?" Say, those words don't even make sense, grouped together like that! Vegas, are you sure about that?

And you wake up the next morning, your pants are undone, there's a wad of spearmint gum in your hair, a sweatsock (not yours) stuffed in your mouth, and somehow you've got a partially melted nickel embedded in your forehead.

For real, the day I left Las Vegas, the backs of my hands started to sweat. My body knew that something was wrong. Either that, or the only pure water left in my body was making a break for it.

And to make matters worse, the city yells at you as you leave. Hot breath on your neck, spittle collecting in the cracks of its giant mouth -- "Where ya goin', pussy? Headed home, huh? HUH?! Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Yes, Vegas. I'm headed home. See you next year.

Sure, the Chicken's Tasty, But Where's This Fellatio I Was Promised?

2005-08-31T15:31:00.000-07:00

Everyone's heard of Chicken Fries, right? Right, kids?

Yes, Burger King recently unveiled an atrocity upon all humankind known as Chicken Fries. See, they're these chicken strips that are... wait for it... more slender than you have any reason to expect chicken strips to be! They are... yes, yes... almost French Fry in shape! Yet they are not comprised of starchy tuber strips, but... chicken! They are French Fries-shaped chicken!

They are Chicken Fries!

I can't be sure, but I think that legendary screenwriter Paddy Chayevsky predicted Chicken Fries in a scene that was removed from the final cut of "Network." Faye Dunaway kept sneering at the Chicken Fries, and there was a long Ned Beatty monologue about the Chicken Fries, and it was all very unpleasant.

I remember riding around with my Granpa Stevens one time, and he said something like, "I wonder what George Washington would think if he traveled to our time period, and took a look around. What would he think about all the cars? And how many houses there are? And... power lines, and airplanes. What would he have to say about those?"

So now, I drive past a Burger King and I see the banners advertising the Chicken Fries, and to paraphrase Granpa, I wonder what the hell George Washington would say. Or William Henry Harrison. Or even Millard Fillmore.

(I like that Granpa's theory of presidential observation revolved around time travel. I think in that scenario, the ability to hurtle across time and space would probably trump all other human accomplishments. "Yes, Mr. President, you've traveled to the future, by means too complicated to explain. We understand it's all very exciting. But behold, a flying steel bird that we call The Great Aeroplane!")

So here comes poor Rutherford B. Hayes, dazed and naked and stumbling out of a cloud of smoke and blue lightning, into 2005:

"Where... where am I?"
"Mr. President, welcome to your beloved United States of America, in the year 2005. I realize you are probably still reeling from your trip through the space-time continuum."
"My trousers, and my waistcoat... where are... they?..."
"Ah, yes. The nudity. Well, we've found that metal objects can interfere with the time travel process. Plus, this way you can pretend you're in 'The Terminator.'"
"'The... Terma...? What are you saying, kind sir?"
"It's a popular photoplay -- oh, there's so much to get you caught up on!"
"So, this is the future..."
"Indeed. Mr. President, today you will be witness to the amazing accomplishments and heady advancements of human beings. Truly, this is an age of wonder. There is no mystery that lies unsolved, no skill that is unmastered, no feat that cannot be achieved. Hey, how's about some Chicken Fries?"
"Why, this foodstuff is shaped like the fried potatoes I sampled on a recent trip to Paris -- and yet it is comprised entirely of the flesh of the common chicken! Future, I LOVE YOU!"

Oh, and that fellatio thing? Well, Burger King decided to market these Chicken Fries with a fake metal band named... here it comes... Coq Roq. Because if anything will make you want to buy and consume Chicken Fries, it's a fake metal band that speaks only on behalf of large fast-food chains.

Then, Burger King got into some trouble with parent groups. It seems their website for the fake band featured fake Polaroids of fake "Coq Roq groupies" -- these were actual attractive young women seen devouring Chicken Fries -- accompanied by captions like "Girls Love Coq." Yeah. Good stuff. Also, as a bonus, they referred to the gals as "Chicken Heads." Some magazine told me that this is a hip-hop term denoting a young lady with a inclination towards performing oral sex on the fellas.

So, just in case you're not already revolted by the very existence of Chicken Fries, there's a casual sexual suggestion and some objectification of women thrown in there, just to seal the deal. Way to go, Burger King. Here's your medal. Now can I get a strawberry milkshake for my man James K. Polk here? And how's about some pants for the guy, if you got 'em?