While you guys were working on a Wednesday afternoon a couple of weeks ago, I was, well, not working, so I went to see the “Jeopardy” king Ken Jennings at the Altadena Library. It was kind of cool. There were 79 other non-working lowlifes like myself. Some lower than others. But all of us were pretty damn low.
Yes, 80 of us were at an event that was held at one in the afternoon on a Wednesday. That’s pretty remarkable. It’s hard to get 80 people to show up on a Wednesday for gold ingot giveaways. I know, because usually it’s me and seven other losers attending an astronomy seminar or something. Hey, Uranus is fascinating, dammit.
I guess I went to see what Ken Jennings was really like and to see if he was going to dish some dirt on old Alex Trebek, the “Jeopardy” host. (By the way, I know that the title of the show “Jeopardy” has an exclamation point after it, but my spelling and grammar checker was getting so pissy on me that I’m leaving it out. I just wanted you to know that I am not so much of a Wednesday-event-attending loser that I didn’t know that there was an exclamation point there. I feel better now!!!!!!)
But Ken was disappointingly normal. He seemed to be a pretty good guy to me. He’s married and has a kid, and he bought a house with a part of his $2.5 million “Jeopardy” winnings. He was clean-cut and casually dressed and seemed pretty relaxed and regular to me. $2.5 million has a way of doing that I guess.
I had heard that he had dissed Alex on his Web site. He informed us that all of that him-not-liking-Alex hype was blown out of proportion because of a misunderstanding of something he posted on the site. He says Alex is a good guy … for a Canadian — much looser and funnier when not on the air. Says he’s a friendly, hard-working professional.
That was not what I was hoping to hear. I was hoping to hear that Alex was wearing that hand cast because he had backhanded his wife and when she cried, Alex backhanded his dog and when his dog yelped he backhanded his accountant, who was there to help him cheat on his taxes. But no. Ken likes Alex. He had nothing bad to say about him. I was shaken.
So I went to get a bottle of water at the back table and, as long as I was there, I picked up my second chocolate chip cookie. All Wednesday afternoon events have cookies — it’s the law. Then I went back to my seat. And the woman next to me saw my chocolate chip cookie and held up two fingers and shook her head in quiet disapproval. Bitch. That’s another word that could use an exclamation point!
I’m sorry. She was probably a nice lady. I was just feeling guilty for having the second cookie and even feeling guilty for even being there at all on a Wednesday while all of you were working and I was not working and enjoying life — and it was very stressful, if you like to be lied to.
Not much else went on. Ken gave us all a trivia quiz and then showed us his brand new book about trivia. (What a coincidence.) There were 25 questions. The three winners got 18 or 19 right. I got 12 right. I asked the nice lady next to me how many she got right. She showed me a finger that was not her thumb, forefinger, ring finger, or pinkie. “Only one right, huh?” I said.
Then they had a little “Jeopardy”-like game show and the winner got a copy of the book. And then Ken opened it up for questions. All the usual questions. What was Alex like? How did it feel to win so much money? I raised my hand, but Ken never called on me. I was going to ask, “Ken, since you won $2.5 million on ‘Jeopardy,’ why do you have to sell books that tell us that you won $2.5 million on ‘Jeopardy?’ Isn’t the $2.5 million enough, Ken? Ken, how about giving the book money to the starving children or cancer research or donating money to the Dodgers so we can get a decent third baseman?” Or I was thinking about asking him what the most materialistic thing was that he had bought with the money. A Corvette? A Fat Burger franchise? Elliot Spitzer’s Emperor’s Club Membership? But he never called on me. Maybe it was because my raised hand had a half-eaten cookie in it. I don’t know.
By the way, Ken’s answers were not in the form of a question — probably because the questions were in the form of a question, and that took the edge off things. As I was saying, after the questioning ended, Ken graciously sat up in the front of the room and graciously signed copies of his two books selling for a gracious total of $36. (Yes, I bought both of them.) Every time he would sign a book, he would graciously enter a number on his little calculator. If all 80 of us bought both books, he made $2,880 bucks. In one afternoon, for one hour on a Wednesday. Sheesh, that’s $2,880 an hour. Pretty good pay.
Alex: “Loser mid-week suckers.”
Ken: “Who buys two books about something they’ve already seen on Jeopardy!?”
So as I was walking out to my car, carrying both my books, and, because I am a what, I am a journalist, and I must tell the truth, except if it will help a Republican, I have to tell you that, yes, I was eating my third cookie. I know, I know. There were 80 of us there. I’m guessing they had four-dozen cookies laid out. That’s 48 cookies. And I ate three. That’s almost 4 percent of the cookies. Eaten by one person — me. That lady next to me was right. And not only was she right. She was right there, walking to her car with me.
I gave her a little toast-like gesture with my cookie. Just raised it up a little in good-natured pissiness, like a glass of wine. “Have a nice day,” I said. She gave me a second one-gun salute.
See what you’re missing on a Wednesday afternoon.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
The Good Old Days (Cigar Smoke 3-27-08)
I bet you were really hoping that I would write something nostalgic about my past. Hey, your hopes are my marching orders. “I don’t know, but I been told, Laris is still writing, cause he ain’t cold.” Yet.
Now that gas prices are nearing $4 a gallon, I was remembering when I was a 16-year-old kid and I would get gas for 17 cents a gallon. Yes, 17 cents. I would fill up my 15-gallon tank for $2.55. Yes, $2.55. Ah, the good old days.
I would drive my old 1949 Ford with a dropped-in but not-bolted-down Merc engine and no carpeting or floor linings. Just a metal floor where you could see the road through the holes. And the fumes would waft up into the car and we would breathe in those wafty fumes and we liked it like that.
But then, just when we were enjoying our wafting fumes, gas prices shot up to 19 cents a gallon. We couldn’t believe it. We were outraged. We were shocked. We were Ray Stevens-incensed. I’m not kidding. We were really ticked off. I remember hunting for another station that sold it for 17 cents. But alas, there were none. It was 19 cents or stop driving. I paid the price.
And right around that time I was in the habit of eating hamburgers at a place fittingly called Hamburger Handout. They were great little burgers all greased up and ready to go. And they cost 19 cents each. We’d buy a few of those suckers and some fries and Cokes and get change back from our $2 and we’d take those handed-out burgers back to the car to flavor them with some wafted gas fumes, and life was good.
But as I would soon learn, life would not stay good. Another restaurant opened up nearby. Maybe you’ve heard of it. McDonald’s. Yes, McDonald’s opened up one of their first restaurants in Westchester on La Tijera, just up the hill from the Hamburger Handout.
Well, some buddies of mine talked me into going over there and trying out one of these new hamburgers. And I had them help me jump-start my Ford and we all went to McDonald’s. For the first time.
And you know what? Here’s what. Their hamburger cost 21 cents! We were outraged. We were shocked. Ray Stevens would have thrown up. But we were there and we were hearing all these great things about this new kind of hamburger place and so we bought one hamburger to check it out. We didn’t buy any fries or drinks. Nothing else. Just one damn burger.
And you know what? My friends actually liked it. They turned over the top bun and saw that pickle lying in that splotch of ketchup and they liked it. I kind of liked it too, but I said I would never go back because I could get a Hamburger Handout hamburger for two cents less and it had onions and lettuce and some other goop on it.
And then I made a pronouncement. I remember saying that McDonald’s would never make it. It was just a matter of time before they would go under. Nobody would pay two cents more for a hamburger. Nobody.
And you know what happened? Hamburger Handout went out of business within three months. McDonald’s hadn’t even sold its one-millionth hamburger yet. Yep, I still can’t figure it out. Fifty years later and I still can’t figure it out. If I would have put my money in McDonald’s I would now have $6 billion and could get a car with carpeting.
Ah, but we liked being poor back then. We liked figuring out how to save two cents on gas and burgers. We were so poor that they hadn’t invented dirt yet. So at least we weren’t dirt poor. All they had back then was bedrock, so we had to take little pick- axes and break up the bedrock so we could play in the dirt. But we liked it like that.
And not only gas and hamburgers were cheap. I remember driving up Highway 101 to go to Humboldt State College in 1960 and I stopped at a Motel 6. And yes, Virginia, at that time you could stay at a Motel 6 for, you guessed it, $6. You’d give the clerk a 10, and he’d give you four bucks back. Enough for dinner and a tank of gas and a dirty magazine.
But then another motel chain opened up another motel and it was called, I think, Motel 8. Now, you could get a better room (I guess they washed the roaches) for two bucks more. I don’t know. It makes me nervous just remembering it. I’m not proud of this, but I once stayed in a hotel in Hawaii a few years ago for $365. (The roaches were spotless.) Yes —do the math — I could have stayed at a Motel 6 for 60 days.
But back then we were so poor we didn’t even have water. No, I don’t mean we didn’t have access to water. They had not invented water yet. We had H and O. Yes, all we got was some sticky, globby stuff. But then finally some smart guy gave us two Hs and the rest was history. H-2-0. Oh, how we loved water. It’s probably my favorite invention. Not counting TiVo.
One last nostalgic memory (what other kind are there?) and then you can get back to your crying about $4 gas prices. I remember my mom dropping my sister and me off at the show in 1947. Yes, 1947. I was 6. Most of you were 0.
She dropped us off at a theater in Lomita. And she gave us each a quarter. The movies cost nine cents to get in. And then we had 16 cents for candy. And we stayed there all day. Eight hours. And we saw “Clutching Hand” serials and “MovieTone News” and “Flash Gordon” and 100 cartoons. And we would count down the 100 cartoons. 100, 99, 98, etc. And if they didn’t show us all 100, we would be Ray Stevens incensed even before Ray Stevens was born. And we would clap and stomp and roar and spit JuJuBees at girls and ushers.
And we liked it like that.
Jim Laris is the former owner/publisher of the Pasadena Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Now that gas prices are nearing $4 a gallon, I was remembering when I was a 16-year-old kid and I would get gas for 17 cents a gallon. Yes, 17 cents. I would fill up my 15-gallon tank for $2.55. Yes, $2.55. Ah, the good old days.
I would drive my old 1949 Ford with a dropped-in but not-bolted-down Merc engine and no carpeting or floor linings. Just a metal floor where you could see the road through the holes. And the fumes would waft up into the car and we would breathe in those wafty fumes and we liked it like that.
But then, just when we were enjoying our wafting fumes, gas prices shot up to 19 cents a gallon. We couldn’t believe it. We were outraged. We were shocked. We were Ray Stevens-incensed. I’m not kidding. We were really ticked off. I remember hunting for another station that sold it for 17 cents. But alas, there were none. It was 19 cents or stop driving. I paid the price.
And right around that time I was in the habit of eating hamburgers at a place fittingly called Hamburger Handout. They were great little burgers all greased up and ready to go. And they cost 19 cents each. We’d buy a few of those suckers and some fries and Cokes and get change back from our $2 and we’d take those handed-out burgers back to the car to flavor them with some wafted gas fumes, and life was good.
But as I would soon learn, life would not stay good. Another restaurant opened up nearby. Maybe you’ve heard of it. McDonald’s. Yes, McDonald’s opened up one of their first restaurants in Westchester on La Tijera, just up the hill from the Hamburger Handout.
Well, some buddies of mine talked me into going over there and trying out one of these new hamburgers. And I had them help me jump-start my Ford and we all went to McDonald’s. For the first time.
And you know what? Here’s what. Their hamburger cost 21 cents! We were outraged. We were shocked. Ray Stevens would have thrown up. But we were there and we were hearing all these great things about this new kind of hamburger place and so we bought one hamburger to check it out. We didn’t buy any fries or drinks. Nothing else. Just one damn burger.
And you know what? My friends actually liked it. They turned over the top bun and saw that pickle lying in that splotch of ketchup and they liked it. I kind of liked it too, but I said I would never go back because I could get a Hamburger Handout hamburger for two cents less and it had onions and lettuce and some other goop on it.
And then I made a pronouncement. I remember saying that McDonald’s would never make it. It was just a matter of time before they would go under. Nobody would pay two cents more for a hamburger. Nobody.
And you know what happened? Hamburger Handout went out of business within three months. McDonald’s hadn’t even sold its one-millionth hamburger yet. Yep, I still can’t figure it out. Fifty years later and I still can’t figure it out. If I would have put my money in McDonald’s I would now have $6 billion and could get a car with carpeting.
Ah, but we liked being poor back then. We liked figuring out how to save two cents on gas and burgers. We were so poor that they hadn’t invented dirt yet. So at least we weren’t dirt poor. All they had back then was bedrock, so we had to take little pick- axes and break up the bedrock so we could play in the dirt. But we liked it like that.
And not only gas and hamburgers were cheap. I remember driving up Highway 101 to go to Humboldt State College in 1960 and I stopped at a Motel 6. And yes, Virginia, at that time you could stay at a Motel 6 for, you guessed it, $6. You’d give the clerk a 10, and he’d give you four bucks back. Enough for dinner and a tank of gas and a dirty magazine.
But then another motel chain opened up another motel and it was called, I think, Motel 8. Now, you could get a better room (I guess they washed the roaches) for two bucks more. I don’t know. It makes me nervous just remembering it. I’m not proud of this, but I once stayed in a hotel in Hawaii a few years ago for $365. (The roaches were spotless.) Yes —do the math — I could have stayed at a Motel 6 for 60 days.
But back then we were so poor we didn’t even have water. No, I don’t mean we didn’t have access to water. They had not invented water yet. We had H and O. Yes, all we got was some sticky, globby stuff. But then finally some smart guy gave us two Hs and the rest was history. H-2-0. Oh, how we loved water. It’s probably my favorite invention. Not counting TiVo.
One last nostalgic memory (what other kind are there?) and then you can get back to your crying about $4 gas prices. I remember my mom dropping my sister and me off at the show in 1947. Yes, 1947. I was 6. Most of you were 0.
She dropped us off at a theater in Lomita. And she gave us each a quarter. The movies cost nine cents to get in. And then we had 16 cents for candy. And we stayed there all day. Eight hours. And we saw “Clutching Hand” serials and “MovieTone News” and “Flash Gordon” and 100 cartoons. And we would count down the 100 cartoons. 100, 99, 98, etc. And if they didn’t show us all 100, we would be Ray Stevens incensed even before Ray Stevens was born. And we would clap and stomp and roar and spit JuJuBees at girls and ushers.
And we liked it like that.
Jim Laris is the former owner/publisher of the Pasadena Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Friday, March 14, 2008
The Thinker (Cigar Smoke 3-13-08)
I was watching television the other night, and it was getting pretty late, and I was skipping through the commercials on Letterman, and then I heard this noise behind the TV set. At first I wasn't too concerned. I hear noises now and then. Some of them aren't even voices in my head. But then I heard it again. It was a little louder. And then the TV picture was gone. No picture at all. But there were those little codes in the upper left hand corner of the screen. This will become important later.
Anyway, because I had heard actual noises, I thought maybe a rat had got in there and eaten the wires. That's not too far-fetched, because earlier in the year a rat did indeed eat through our telephone wires outside. I thought maybe he was cold and wanted a midnight stack indoors. I don't know.
So I looked behind the TV set, cautiously, so as not to be rat attacked. There was not a rat. Not even a rat pellet. Just a few candy bar wrappers and some Jimmy Hoffa stuff. That was it.
So, being the thinker that I am, I said to myself, "Hey, Thinker Face, why is my TV dead?" And I answered myself, "I don't know and I don't care. I'm tired and I'm going to bed." And I did. Slept like a lanky baby.
Then, in the morning, I went back out to the family room, hoping the TV set had fixed itself. I turned it on. Same problem. The power actually went on, but there wasn't a picture. And there was this little error message from Charter that said Weak or No Signal. I've seen that before, and I have been able to figure it out. But this time, my fixes didn't work.
So then I started to feel sorry for myself and whine and curse out Charter and Samsung and TiVo and their horses. I've always found that if I don't feel sorry for myself and whine and curse, I can't fix any problem. That's always my first step. This time though, the cursing and whining didn't do diddly, except scare the doo-doo out of my dog dog. That's another story.
Then I made the rational decision to be mature. (This occurs, on average, twice a decade for me.) I was going to be mature and just think the problem through and solve it. So I said to myself, "Mature Face, think about this and try to figure out what exactly is the problem?" So I started thinking.
I thought like a pro, baby. And whenever I try to actually think, I call upon my three role models. (No, not Curly, Larry, and Moe.) I look deep deep into my brain, close to where fire and the wheel were conceived, and I try to visualize Richard Feynman (Caltech whiz) Scott Peck ("The Road Less Traveled" whiz), and Robert Persig ("Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" whiz.) If these guys can't solve a problem, well, I guess I'll just have to take a whiz.
So we all meet in my brain. Yes, it's a bit crowded, but comfortable. We throw back a few beers. Richard tells us about some babe, and Scott is still counting his money - out loud, and Robert says, "Damn, I wish I could write a frigging second book!"
And then they ask me what I've been up to. I say, "Scrabble."
OK, yes, I had to help them up. Those laughing bastards. Spilled beer all over my frontal cortex.
So, I'm sitting on the couch with these three turkeys in my head, and I look at the TV area. And I say to myself, "Just think. Just think it through." So I start thinking so hard my nose hairs are burning. And I just look at the whole, excuse the expression, picture, which, by the way, isn't there.
And then I notice something. Although the power to the TV is on, there is no power on any of the other electronic bullshit goodies I have stacked next to it. The TiVo controller is dead. The VCR player is dead. The DVD player is dead. The Bose Sound System is dead. (I wish I were dead.) No lights on at all. The lights on all four of the other systems are not on. It's darker than death in a black hole with dead batteries. That's pretty dark.
So I think. Why is the power on only the TV and not the other crud? I ask Dick and Scott and Bob what they think. They suggest, "Since you're so mature, you figure it out. Brain-ass." So I was on my own.
I got up off the couch. Went behind the TV again and looked at how the power was hooked up. And sure enough, the TV was plugged into the wall. But the other four electronic gizmos were plugged into a power strip. Not the same source of power.
I was so excited I wept quietly to myself. (I'm generally not a quiet weeper.) Then I wiped the tears away and unplugged all the stuff from the power strip and re-plugged them all into this surge protector multiple-outlet thing that came with the TV.
If my thinking had been right, I would have solved this problem. I went back out in front of the TV and I looked over at the stack of controllers and players and damned if all the little red lights weren't all on. It was beautiful. I upped the volume of my weeping.
Then I turned the TV back on. And I saw the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It was a naked woman reading the Hockey News. (No, no, that was Feynman.) What I saw was that little dancing TiVo logo bouncing on the screen. And it reset the whole deal and the THX sound came booming on and life was good.
Yes, yes, my TV was working again. And more importantly, I had fixed it. Yes, me. I had fixed it. Just by thinking. I had figured it out. I was a thinker! Maybe there is a statue in my future of my still quite youthful nude thinking body with my elbow on my knee and my face resting thoughtfully in my hand.
Who would've thunk it?
Jim Laris is the former owner/publisher of the Pasadena Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Anyway, because I had heard actual noises, I thought maybe a rat had got in there and eaten the wires. That's not too far-fetched, because earlier in the year a rat did indeed eat through our telephone wires outside. I thought maybe he was cold and wanted a midnight stack indoors. I don't know.
So I looked behind the TV set, cautiously, so as not to be rat attacked. There was not a rat. Not even a rat pellet. Just a few candy bar wrappers and some Jimmy Hoffa stuff. That was it.
So, being the thinker that I am, I said to myself, "Hey, Thinker Face, why is my TV dead?" And I answered myself, "I don't know and I don't care. I'm tired and I'm going to bed." And I did. Slept like a lanky baby.
Then, in the morning, I went back out to the family room, hoping the TV set had fixed itself. I turned it on. Same problem. The power actually went on, but there wasn't a picture. And there was this little error message from Charter that said Weak or No Signal. I've seen that before, and I have been able to figure it out. But this time, my fixes didn't work.
So then I started to feel sorry for myself and whine and curse out Charter and Samsung and TiVo and their horses. I've always found that if I don't feel sorry for myself and whine and curse, I can't fix any problem. That's always my first step. This time though, the cursing and whining didn't do diddly, except scare the doo-doo out of my dog dog. That's another story.
Then I made the rational decision to be mature. (This occurs, on average, twice a decade for me.) I was going to be mature and just think the problem through and solve it. So I said to myself, "Mature Face, think about this and try to figure out what exactly is the problem?" So I started thinking.
I thought like a pro, baby. And whenever I try to actually think, I call upon my three role models. (No, not Curly, Larry, and Moe.) I look deep deep into my brain, close to where fire and the wheel were conceived, and I try to visualize Richard Feynman (Caltech whiz) Scott Peck ("The Road Less Traveled" whiz), and Robert Persig ("Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" whiz.) If these guys can't solve a problem, well, I guess I'll just have to take a whiz.
So we all meet in my brain. Yes, it's a bit crowded, but comfortable. We throw back a few beers. Richard tells us about some babe, and Scott is still counting his money - out loud, and Robert says, "Damn, I wish I could write a frigging second book!"
And then they ask me what I've been up to. I say, "Scrabble."
OK, yes, I had to help them up. Those laughing bastards. Spilled beer all over my frontal cortex.
So, I'm sitting on the couch with these three turkeys in my head, and I look at the TV area. And I say to myself, "Just think. Just think it through." So I start thinking so hard my nose hairs are burning. And I just look at the whole, excuse the expression, picture, which, by the way, isn't there.
And then I notice something. Although the power to the TV is on, there is no power on any of the other electronic bullshit goodies I have stacked next to it. The TiVo controller is dead. The VCR player is dead. The DVD player is dead. The Bose Sound System is dead. (I wish I were dead.) No lights on at all. The lights on all four of the other systems are not on. It's darker than death in a black hole with dead batteries. That's pretty dark.
So I think. Why is the power on only the TV and not the other crud? I ask Dick and Scott and Bob what they think. They suggest, "Since you're so mature, you figure it out. Brain-ass." So I was on my own.
I got up off the couch. Went behind the TV again and looked at how the power was hooked up. And sure enough, the TV was plugged into the wall. But the other four electronic gizmos were plugged into a power strip. Not the same source of power.
I was so excited I wept quietly to myself. (I'm generally not a quiet weeper.) Then I wiped the tears away and unplugged all the stuff from the power strip and re-plugged them all into this surge protector multiple-outlet thing that came with the TV.
If my thinking had been right, I would have solved this problem. I went back out in front of the TV and I looked over at the stack of controllers and players and damned if all the little red lights weren't all on. It was beautiful. I upped the volume of my weeping.
Then I turned the TV back on. And I saw the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. It was a naked woman reading the Hockey News. (No, no, that was Feynman.) What I saw was that little dancing TiVo logo bouncing on the screen. And it reset the whole deal and the THX sound came booming on and life was good.
Yes, yes, my TV was working again. And more importantly, I had fixed it. Yes, me. I had fixed it. Just by thinking. I had figured it out. I was a thinker! Maybe there is a statue in my future of my still quite youthful nude thinking body with my elbow on my knee and my face resting thoughtfully in my hand.
Who would've thunk it?
Jim Laris is the former owner/publisher of the Pasadena Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Turning Pro -- Rocking the Scrabble World (Cigar Smoke 3-6-08)
Remember last week I told you that I wouldn't write about my knee operation. Well, I'm going to keep that promise but I don't want you to get lazy and complacent and overly expectant about your expectations of me. So I'm going to write yet another column about Scrabble.
For those of you who are still reading this and, by the way, I never really liked those other so-called readers all that much anyway, I have to tell you about my becoming a professional Scrabble player. Yes, professional. I am now actually making money at this game.
I've been playing Scrabble for about two years now, I guess. I play in weekly club games and a monthly club where you can win real money, and I go to tournaments where the first-place check is, maybe, $1,200. Hey, that's not bad. You can buy a lot of M&Ms and corn nuts for that, baby. But I had never won a damn thing. Nothing. Nada.
Until ... until a few weeks ago, when things started to change. I was playing down in Orange County and I came up with the word "meataxe" and I scored 116 points on that one play. (I'll pause for the cheering to wind down.) At the awards presentation at the end of the tourney, I received a check for $10 for the highest scoring play. It's a good thing I was sitting down or I would have fallen over.
Ten bucks! Dammit, I had actually won real money. I was now a professional Scrabble player. A pro. A moneymaking damn pro. And I felt good about myself. Real good. Randy Newman good. And even though the word "meataxe" was a phony, I didn't care. It was my moneymaking phony word and I loved it. I would have kissed myself if I could.
So with this new confidence, I went to my Saturday Scrabble club out in West LA and damned if I didn't win all four games that day. I only tell you this because if you win all your games, you get your $4 entry fee back. So I got four actual dollars back.
And I'm counting that as winnings, now that I'm a professional Scrabble player. (Have you noticed how I love to italicize professional?) It just makes me feel so cool. Now I know how Tiger feels.
Now my winnings had shot up to $14. I was on a roll. So on Wednesday night I went to my other Scrabble club out in West Hollywood. And yes, you guessed it, I increased my winnings again. I got the highest opening play, a bingo for the word "weekend" that gave me 84 points. Because of that stellar achievement, I won a $1 Lotto scratcher ticket. My winnings pot had semi-skyrocketed up to $15.
And that was not the end of it. When I scratched that scratcher I won another $3. Holy professional moly, I had now won a grand total of $18. In only two weeks. I was a comer, a phenom. I was ready to rock the Scrabble circuit. So I entered a tournament that I had come across out in Westchester. For those of you who don't know, I grew up in Westchester. I went to Westchester High School, I played baseball there, and I was in the Boy Scouts there. I worked on Christmas tree lots there, I read all the adventure books in the library there, and I was a Comet, baby. A Westchester Comet.
So I went to the tournament. It was on a Friday night; just a small tournament, maybe about 30 people. And most of them were what we professional Scrabble players refer to as recreational players. These people, although nice people, good people, fine people, do not know their Qis from their Zas. That's a professional Scrabble joke for Scrabble snobs. Oh, how we laugh.
There were maybe eight other pretty good players there. So we played the tournament, three games of incredible tension and word-wielding expertise. I'm not going to tell you all the details except I did play this really nice young high school girl, and I mentioned that I had gone to Westchester High 50 years ago. (Yes, 50. I graduated in 1958 - a proud Vanguard, dammit.) When I said that to the girl, she looked at me like "Thanks for the info, Grampa, you want me to send out for some Metamucil?"
Anyway, I won the tournament - the first Scrabble tournament I have ever won. And I was feeling proud. I really was. I was standing up there ready to receive my winnings when the director gave me a bag of stuff. There was a coffee cup, a T-shirt in there and something I think Homeland Security should look into. I asked, "Where's the check?" He laughed his director laugh, and said "There's no check. You get to have your name inscribed on a trophy." I said, "Has the Scrabble investigatory commission heard about this?"
He ignored me and he held out the trophy in front of us so they could take a picture. And then he said - and I am not making this up, Dave Barry will even tell you it's true - he said "We had a little accident and the ‘L' and the ‘E' fell off the trophy." So I was standing up on this stage holding a trophy that said Westchester First Annual YMCA SCRABB Champion.
Yes, I was the Scrabb champion. And I was proud to be the Scrabb champion. I would have been a little prouder if the trophy came with all the letters attached and came with a check. Yes, that would have been better, and a nice shot in the arm to my ever-growing winnings pot, but I'm still pretty happy.
Yes, I am now a professional, and I am looking forward to a lucrative career. And yes, my Scrabble tiles now have to be registered as lethal weapons, but that's OK with me. Because when you are a professional Scrabb player such as myself, a professional Scrabb champion actually, you have to be able to have the "ell" knocked out of you once in a while. And sometimes even the "eee."
For those of you who are still reading this and, by the way, I never really liked those other so-called readers all that much anyway, I have to tell you about my becoming a professional Scrabble player. Yes, professional. I am now actually making money at this game.
I've been playing Scrabble for about two years now, I guess. I play in weekly club games and a monthly club where you can win real money, and I go to tournaments where the first-place check is, maybe, $1,200. Hey, that's not bad. You can buy a lot of M&Ms and corn nuts for that, baby. But I had never won a damn thing. Nothing. Nada.
Until ... until a few weeks ago, when things started to change. I was playing down in Orange County and I came up with the word "meataxe" and I scored 116 points on that one play. (I'll pause for the cheering to wind down.) At the awards presentation at the end of the tourney, I received a check for $10 for the highest scoring play. It's a good thing I was sitting down or I would have fallen over.
Ten bucks! Dammit, I had actually won real money. I was now a professional Scrabble player. A pro. A moneymaking damn pro. And I felt good about myself. Real good. Randy Newman good. And even though the word "meataxe" was a phony, I didn't care. It was my moneymaking phony word and I loved it. I would have kissed myself if I could.
So with this new confidence, I went to my Saturday Scrabble club out in West LA and damned if I didn't win all four games that day. I only tell you this because if you win all your games, you get your $4 entry fee back. So I got four actual dollars back.
And I'm counting that as winnings, now that I'm a professional Scrabble player. (Have you noticed how I love to italicize professional?) It just makes me feel so cool. Now I know how Tiger feels.
Now my winnings had shot up to $14. I was on a roll. So on Wednesday night I went to my other Scrabble club out in West Hollywood. And yes, you guessed it, I increased my winnings again. I got the highest opening play, a bingo for the word "weekend" that gave me 84 points. Because of that stellar achievement, I won a $1 Lotto scratcher ticket. My winnings pot had semi-skyrocketed up to $15.
And that was not the end of it. When I scratched that scratcher I won another $3. Holy professional moly, I had now won a grand total of $18. In only two weeks. I was a comer, a phenom. I was ready to rock the Scrabble circuit. So I entered a tournament that I had come across out in Westchester. For those of you who don't know, I grew up in Westchester. I went to Westchester High School, I played baseball there, and I was in the Boy Scouts there. I worked on Christmas tree lots there, I read all the adventure books in the library there, and I was a Comet, baby. A Westchester Comet.
So I went to the tournament. It was on a Friday night; just a small tournament, maybe about 30 people. And most of them were what we professional Scrabble players refer to as recreational players. These people, although nice people, good people, fine people, do not know their Qis from their Zas. That's a professional Scrabble joke for Scrabble snobs. Oh, how we laugh.
There were maybe eight other pretty good players there. So we played the tournament, three games of incredible tension and word-wielding expertise. I'm not going to tell you all the details except I did play this really nice young high school girl, and I mentioned that I had gone to Westchester High 50 years ago. (Yes, 50. I graduated in 1958 - a proud Vanguard, dammit.) When I said that to the girl, she looked at me like "Thanks for the info, Grampa, you want me to send out for some Metamucil?"
Anyway, I won the tournament - the first Scrabble tournament I have ever won. And I was feeling proud. I really was. I was standing up there ready to receive my winnings when the director gave me a bag of stuff. There was a coffee cup, a T-shirt in there and something I think Homeland Security should look into. I asked, "Where's the check?" He laughed his director laugh, and said "There's no check. You get to have your name inscribed on a trophy." I said, "Has the Scrabble investigatory commission heard about this?"
He ignored me and he held out the trophy in front of us so they could take a picture. And then he said - and I am not making this up, Dave Barry will even tell you it's true - he said "We had a little accident and the ‘L' and the ‘E' fell off the trophy." So I was standing up on this stage holding a trophy that said Westchester First Annual YMCA SCRABB Champion.
Yes, I was the Scrabb champion. And I was proud to be the Scrabb champion. I would have been a little prouder if the trophy came with all the letters attached and came with a check. Yes, that would have been better, and a nice shot in the arm to my ever-growing winnings pot, but I'm still pretty happy.
Yes, I am now a professional, and I am looking forward to a lucrative career. And yes, my Scrabble tiles now have to be registered as lethal weapons, but that's OK with me. Because when you are a professional Scrabb player such as myself, a professional Scrabb champion actually, you have to be able to have the "ell" knocked out of you once in a while. And sometimes even the "eee."
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Mental Disinfectant (Cigar Smoke 2-28-08)
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Saturday, February 23, 2008
The Joy of Labor (Cigar Smoke 2-21-08)
You know, I was driving along Orange Grove the other day and I saw these Mexican guys along the street looking for work. I see them all the time. Either by Throop Lumber or over by that paint store on East Colorado or in Home Depot parking lots. All over the place.
And, all of a sudden, it hit me. The only guys looking for work are Mexicans!
Now, as you may know, I am definitely against illegal immigration, and I want that damn fence built as soon as possible. I think it's nuts to keep letting in millions of people who flout our laws. I think plans to give illegal aliens drivers' licenses is almost as crazy as the churches giving them safe havens. I think the churches should be held accountable for helping people commit criminal acts. I don't think our schools should accept illegal aliens. I don't think illegal aliens should be entitled to welfare.
However, after saying all that, it does strike me as quite telling that the only people looking for work on the streets are Mexicans. You never see any black guys out there looking for work. With the constant political mantra of poverty in our inner cities and all that, you would think that black guys would be out looking for work. You would be wrong. They aren't.
You never see groups of black guys waiting for contractors so they can get some day labor work. At least, I never see them. You never see black guys rushing some guy's van asking for work. You never see black guys dressed in work clothes ready to work. Hoping to work. You just don't see it. It doesn't happen.
Now, if you think I'm making a racist statement here, saying that black guys aren't looking for work and Mexican guys are, I don't think that's true. And you know why? I'll tell you why. I don't see white guys looking for work either. There are never groups of white guys on corners asking you if you need help. Nope. No white guys. And no black guys. And, by the way, no black or white women, either. The only people who are looking for work on the streets are Mexican guys.
As much as I am against having illegal aliens in the country, I think it's admirable how eager the Mexican people are about trying to find jobs. They really want to work. It seems to me that they don't want handouts. It seems to me that they genuinely want to work and make money and buy stuff they don't really need like the rest of us. They're not asking for welfare. And they aren't afraid to start at the lowest levels. I admire that. I damn well admire that.
I was just thinking. In the past 10 years, say, I don't think I've seen even one worker - who came to my house to work on the lawn or in construction or some blue-collar trade kind of task - who was not Mexican. I mean it. No black guys. No white guys. No Asian guys. Sure, some of the head honchos were white. And black. And Asian. But the helpers were ALL Mexicans. I know this is not a scientific study, but hey, if there is a wall, and there is handwriting on the wall, I read it.
It seems like a lot of our homegrown young people, black and white, could learn a lesson from these Mexican dudes. These guys are not afraid to get their hands dirty. They are not afraid to work in the fields. They are not afraid to work in gardens and or on lawns. They are not afraid to clean things. They are not afraid to paint. They are not afraid of a little grease. They are not afraid to sweat. They don't think it's beneath them to have to change their clothes after work.
Seems to me that they truly embrace work. They believe in the work ethic. They believe that if they work hard, they will be better off. And damn it, they're right! A lot of our kids don't seem to want to work hard any more. They see no value in working some supposedly meaningless or trivial job. Hey, I had a lot of grunt jobs growing up. But not a one of them was meaningless or trivial. I got a lot out of all of them. Yes, I used to date Polly Anna.
I'm serious. I mowed lawns. I washed dishes. I was a waiter. I worked in a can factory. I drove trucks. I swept floors. I cleaned drug bottles in a pharmacy. I hauled shit. I hauled it back. I worked on the green chain in a lumber mill. I was a Gandy Dancer for the railroad. I hoed weeds. I worked at the Post Office. I made window screens. I worked at a machine shop. I was an usher. I was a clerk. I sold stuff. I cleaned fish. Yes, I was pretty much wonderful. Polly and I made a nice couple.
I got so much out of all those crazy jobs - just being around all the different kinds of people. And learning what businesses were all about. And getting paid real money for something. And just the damn pleasure of working hard to finish a job, and then admiring your work as the sweat ran down your forehead and into your eyes. I loved it.
I wouldn't trade it for a million bucks. A million five, maybe.
Oh hell, I'll get down off my soapbox. Heights kind of scare me anyway. I guess I just wish kids who are American citizens would realize how much they can get out of trivial jobs. You can learn a lot by working your butt off. You can learn a lot by getting dirty. You can learn a lot by starting at the bottom.
You can learn a lot by doing what these Mexican guys are doing.
And, all of a sudden, it hit me. The only guys looking for work are Mexicans!
Now, as you may know, I am definitely against illegal immigration, and I want that damn fence built as soon as possible. I think it's nuts to keep letting in millions of people who flout our laws. I think plans to give illegal aliens drivers' licenses is almost as crazy as the churches giving them safe havens. I think the churches should be held accountable for helping people commit criminal acts. I don't think our schools should accept illegal aliens. I don't think illegal aliens should be entitled to welfare.
However, after saying all that, it does strike me as quite telling that the only people looking for work on the streets are Mexicans. You never see any black guys out there looking for work. With the constant political mantra of poverty in our inner cities and all that, you would think that black guys would be out looking for work. You would be wrong. They aren't.
You never see groups of black guys waiting for contractors so they can get some day labor work. At least, I never see them. You never see black guys rushing some guy's van asking for work. You never see black guys dressed in work clothes ready to work. Hoping to work. You just don't see it. It doesn't happen.
Now, if you think I'm making a racist statement here, saying that black guys aren't looking for work and Mexican guys are, I don't think that's true. And you know why? I'll tell you why. I don't see white guys looking for work either. There are never groups of white guys on corners asking you if you need help. Nope. No white guys. And no black guys. And, by the way, no black or white women, either. The only people who are looking for work on the streets are Mexican guys.
As much as I am against having illegal aliens in the country, I think it's admirable how eager the Mexican people are about trying to find jobs. They really want to work. It seems to me that they don't want handouts. It seems to me that they genuinely want to work and make money and buy stuff they don't really need like the rest of us. They're not asking for welfare. And they aren't afraid to start at the lowest levels. I admire that. I damn well admire that.
I was just thinking. In the past 10 years, say, I don't think I've seen even one worker - who came to my house to work on the lawn or in construction or some blue-collar trade kind of task - who was not Mexican. I mean it. No black guys. No white guys. No Asian guys. Sure, some of the head honchos were white. And black. And Asian. But the helpers were ALL Mexicans. I know this is not a scientific study, but hey, if there is a wall, and there is handwriting on the wall, I read it.
It seems like a lot of our homegrown young people, black and white, could learn a lesson from these Mexican dudes. These guys are not afraid to get their hands dirty. They are not afraid to work in the fields. They are not afraid to work in gardens and or on lawns. They are not afraid to clean things. They are not afraid to paint. They are not afraid of a little grease. They are not afraid to sweat. They don't think it's beneath them to have to change their clothes after work.
Seems to me that they truly embrace work. They believe in the work ethic. They believe that if they work hard, they will be better off. And damn it, they're right! A lot of our kids don't seem to want to work hard any more. They see no value in working some supposedly meaningless or trivial job. Hey, I had a lot of grunt jobs growing up. But not a one of them was meaningless or trivial. I got a lot out of all of them. Yes, I used to date Polly Anna.
I'm serious. I mowed lawns. I washed dishes. I was a waiter. I worked in a can factory. I drove trucks. I swept floors. I cleaned drug bottles in a pharmacy. I hauled shit. I hauled it back. I worked on the green chain in a lumber mill. I was a Gandy Dancer for the railroad. I hoed weeds. I worked at the Post Office. I made window screens. I worked at a machine shop. I was an usher. I was a clerk. I sold stuff. I cleaned fish. Yes, I was pretty much wonderful. Polly and I made a nice couple.
I got so much out of all those crazy jobs - just being around all the different kinds of people. And learning what businesses were all about. And getting paid real money for something. And just the damn pleasure of working hard to finish a job, and then admiring your work as the sweat ran down your forehead and into your eyes. I loved it.
I wouldn't trade it for a million bucks. A million five, maybe.
Oh hell, I'll get down off my soapbox. Heights kind of scare me anyway. I guess I just wish kids who are American citizens would realize how much they can get out of trivial jobs. You can learn a lot by working your butt off. You can learn a lot by getting dirty. You can learn a lot by starting at the bottom.
You can learn a lot by doing what these Mexican guys are doing.
Friday, February 15, 2008
In the Lap of Happiness (Cigar Smoke 2-14-08)
Well, I hope you guys had a nice Groundhog Day. I bagged me a couple of the critters and had a nice barbecue. They grill up pretty nice. However, do NOT eat the fur. I spent two hours and 126 toothpicks getting that stuff out of my teeth. My teeth aren't brown and oily anymore, but I do smell like Bill Murray.
As many of you know, a few months ago I had my Mac laptop stolen from me on a United Airlines flight. It was very painful, and many of you commiserated with me, and I deeply appreciate that. Outside of shooting your dog, I can't think of anything that would hurt more.
Because a lot of you have not been able to go on with your lives, I thought I should give you an update. When I presented my case to State Farm, my insurance company, they kind of jerked me around a little bit. They said, even though the computer cost $2,300, it was now worth only $1,700. And because, in my Mr. Laris wisdom, I had a $1,000 deductible policy, all they could give me was $700. So I swore, cried, threw something, and then I took the money.
I tried to find another computer on E-bay but it just didn't work out. Some guy named FLOATERBUTT from Georgia sniped me and won the bid. And I tried a couple other bids but, like my love life as a younger man, it just didn't work out. So I decided to be something I never have been: smart.
I waited until after Christmas to get some great deal from Apple on a new laptop. Me — Mr. Expediency, Mr. Have-it-Now or Pee-in-My-Pants — actually waited until after the holidays to buy something. And you know what? It didn't do jack for me. So I say screw maturity. The double-hey-hey-hell with maturity. I didn't feel that good even faking being mature. It made my underwear tight.
But eventually Steve Jobs figured out how to get into my wallet … again. They just came out with a new laptop called Mac Air. It's that slim-ass computer that fits in a legal envelope. I think it's only a half-inch thick. Kind of like Jimmy Carter and Al Gore's brains fused together. Anyway, it cost $1,799. So I scraped together the extra $1,100 by postponing Marge's heart transplant surgery and not donating to charity this year.
Well, it arrived the other day. This nice young Fed Ex guy delivered it, and he said, “Aren't you that old fart who writes that Cigar Smoke column?” I said, “Well, yes, I am the old fart to which you refer.” And he said, “Well, I will think of you every time I fart in the future.” Jeez. You think that is in the Fed Ex public relations handbook?
So I rush inside the house, put the package on the table, take out my itty-bitty pocketknife with the broken blade and slit open the box. What can I tell you? The Mac Air is beautiful. It's silver and shiny and smooth and sexy and slimmer than things that are thicker than a half-inch. I love it. It's perfect. So I made it even more mine by renaming it. Mac Air doesn't do diddly for me. I call mine Mac Lanky. Yes, I am whimpering.
So now I am back in laptop land. I am like all the rest of you laptop lovers. I can whip out Mac Lanky at any time and compute your ass off, buddy. I no longer have to be content with a desktop computer inconveniently located all the way back in the back of my house where Marge lets me have a room of my own that I call a home office and deduct an eighth of the square footage of the house and pretend for the IRS that I do business things back there.
I feel so much more secure now. I turn on the television and put my new laptop in my lap. There's just something sensual about putting something in your lap. Yes, it would probably be better if it was breathing, but we do what we have to do. So now I can watch “Lost” and know exactly why Sawyer is shooting some guy I don't know and Jack is kissing some woman I can't remember and the sexy babe, I think her name is Kate, is looking back over her shoulder wondering why in the hell Jack is kissing that woman instead of her. And right before Hurley drives that van into the enemies' den of badness and saves that Arab dude and the Japanese guy before the psycho leader of the others can order Charlie to be drowned in that secret offshore submarine tank complex, I can check my email. Is life good or what?!
Or say they go into some back-story where Jack is looking at coffins, or Locke is jumping off a 10-story building, and some Australian woman is being aghast because she hears her long lost lover in the emergency call — I can play Scrabble on Mr. Mac Lanky. I love this country.
So now I am back. I have my laptop. I already have a password on it so if some bastard steals it (I still think it was Steve Bass), he won't be able to use it. I'm going to get laptop insurance too. Not for my computer. For my lap. Somebody steals my lap, I am in big trouble. OK, I'm also getting that LoJack Laptop deal.
If someone lifts Mac Lanky, Lojack will tell me his address, and I am going over there and I'm going to take out that lowlife. How am I going to take him out? I'm glad you asked. First I will tell him about the plot lines of “Lost.” That should stun him for a while.
While thief-face is stunned, I will throw my iPod at his face. Then I will throw my iPhone and hit him in his mouth and then I will throw my Kindle right at his nose and then I will throw my Palm Pilot right into his neck. Then I'm going to sling my SlingBox right into his weak forehead. Then, while the blood is trickling down his head, I'm going to call that Fed Ex guy and have him get my desktop computer from my home office and bring it to me right away so I can drop it on his nuts.
That's what I'm going to do.
As many of you know, a few months ago I had my Mac laptop stolen from me on a United Airlines flight. It was very painful, and many of you commiserated with me, and I deeply appreciate that. Outside of shooting your dog, I can't think of anything that would hurt more.
Because a lot of you have not been able to go on with your lives, I thought I should give you an update. When I presented my case to State Farm, my insurance company, they kind of jerked me around a little bit. They said, even though the computer cost $2,300, it was now worth only $1,700. And because, in my Mr. Laris wisdom, I had a $1,000 deductible policy, all they could give me was $700. So I swore, cried, threw something, and then I took the money.
I tried to find another computer on E-bay but it just didn't work out. Some guy named FLOATERBUTT from Georgia sniped me and won the bid. And I tried a couple other bids but, like my love life as a younger man, it just didn't work out. So I decided to be something I never have been: smart.
I waited until after Christmas to get some great deal from Apple on a new laptop. Me — Mr. Expediency, Mr. Have-it-Now or Pee-in-My-Pants — actually waited until after the holidays to buy something. And you know what? It didn't do jack for me. So I say screw maturity. The double-hey-hey-hell with maturity. I didn't feel that good even faking being mature. It made my underwear tight.
But eventually Steve Jobs figured out how to get into my wallet … again. They just came out with a new laptop called Mac Air. It's that slim-ass computer that fits in a legal envelope. I think it's only a half-inch thick. Kind of like Jimmy Carter and Al Gore's brains fused together. Anyway, it cost $1,799. So I scraped together the extra $1,100 by postponing Marge's heart transplant surgery and not donating to charity this year.
Well, it arrived the other day. This nice young Fed Ex guy delivered it, and he said, “Aren't you that old fart who writes that Cigar Smoke column?” I said, “Well, yes, I am the old fart to which you refer.” And he said, “Well, I will think of you every time I fart in the future.” Jeez. You think that is in the Fed Ex public relations handbook?
So I rush inside the house, put the package on the table, take out my itty-bitty pocketknife with the broken blade and slit open the box. What can I tell you? The Mac Air is beautiful. It's silver and shiny and smooth and sexy and slimmer than things that are thicker than a half-inch. I love it. It's perfect. So I made it even more mine by renaming it. Mac Air doesn't do diddly for me. I call mine Mac Lanky. Yes, I am whimpering.
So now I am back in laptop land. I am like all the rest of you laptop lovers. I can whip out Mac Lanky at any time and compute your ass off, buddy. I no longer have to be content with a desktop computer inconveniently located all the way back in the back of my house where Marge lets me have a room of my own that I call a home office and deduct an eighth of the square footage of the house and pretend for the IRS that I do business things back there.
I feel so much more secure now. I turn on the television and put my new laptop in my lap. There's just something sensual about putting something in your lap. Yes, it would probably be better if it was breathing, but we do what we have to do. So now I can watch “Lost” and know exactly why Sawyer is shooting some guy I don't know and Jack is kissing some woman I can't remember and the sexy babe, I think her name is Kate, is looking back over her shoulder wondering why in the hell Jack is kissing that woman instead of her. And right before Hurley drives that van into the enemies' den of badness and saves that Arab dude and the Japanese guy before the psycho leader of the others can order Charlie to be drowned in that secret offshore submarine tank complex, I can check my email. Is life good or what?!
Or say they go into some back-story where Jack is looking at coffins, or Locke is jumping off a 10-story building, and some Australian woman is being aghast because she hears her long lost lover in the emergency call — I can play Scrabble on Mr. Mac Lanky. I love this country.
So now I am back. I have my laptop. I already have a password on it so if some bastard steals it (I still think it was Steve Bass), he won't be able to use it. I'm going to get laptop insurance too. Not for my computer. For my lap. Somebody steals my lap, I am in big trouble. OK, I'm also getting that LoJack Laptop deal.
If someone lifts Mac Lanky, Lojack will tell me his address, and I am going over there and I'm going to take out that lowlife. How am I going to take him out? I'm glad you asked. First I will tell him about the plot lines of “Lost.” That should stun him for a while.
While thief-face is stunned, I will throw my iPod at his face. Then I will throw my iPhone and hit him in his mouth and then I will throw my Kindle right at his nose and then I will throw my Palm Pilot right into his neck. Then I'm going to sling my SlingBox right into his weak forehead. Then, while the blood is trickling down his head, I'm going to call that Fed Ex guy and have him get my desktop computer from my home office and bring it to me right away so I can drop it on his nuts.
That's what I'm going to do.
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