You know, I have been stimulating the economy for more than 50 years now. And how do I do this altruistic service to humanity? I buy cars, that’s how. No, I’m not Jay Leno. I don’t keep the cars and buy more cars. No, I just buy one car at a time, milk every last dying ounce of metallic life-juice out of it, then buy a new over-priced piece of potential junk, and repeat. I’m a serial car buyer. I live to stimulate the economy.
And while you have been crying and whining about the economy, I have been out there in the car-buying streets of hell for a half-century.
I bought my first car in 1957. I was 16 years old and the only thing leaner than my tough, stud body was my wallet. So, I bought a 1947 Mercury coupe for $50. The guy said he dropped a ’49 Ford engine in it and, sure enough, he did drop a V-8 into the engine compartment. However, he did not bolt it down to the actual car.
But you don’t care about my problems. All you care about is me stimulating the damn economy while you lie back and bitch about bailouts and moan about money. Go buy a car. Right now. They’re cheaper than houses.
When I was in my 20s and had a little more money, I remember, literally, using my last $900 to buy an MG roadster. It was a dumb decision. I did not have rent money. But, because my life was based on stimulating the economy, I did this for you and your ungrateful friends. I never even got a thank-you note.
A couple years later, I had my first kid and my wife thought we should sell the MG to help pay for the little interloper. She won that fight and I sold it for $500. I’ve made many bad decisions in my life, but that’s in the final four.
So, I took the $500 MG money and immediately bought an old lady Plymouth Valiant from my dad’s girlfriend. It was like a sedan with doilies. My biggest expense was buying paper towels to clean up my upchuck every time I got in that four-door loser. But I held my nose and my tongue and something else — I wanted to stimulate something. Yes, the economy. For you.
After owning the Valiant for a while, a friend of mine at work was selling this cool Pontiac convertible. I mean, it was really cool. It was really long and had more chrome and silver than Mexico and was shiny and had whitewall tires and air conditioning and the seats were this plush, dark blue leather. I bought it right on the spot, without telling the semi-little woman. I brought it home. I took the SLW (semi-little woman) out to see it. I told her to sit in the driver’s seat. I sat down in the passenger seat and I let the top down and I turned on the radio (which the Valiant didn’t even have) and turned the volume up to rumble and raised my eyebrows a couple of times and said, “What do you think, Interloper Mother?” And she said, “This will sure stimulate the economy.”
And I continued my personal stimulus plan over the years. When I left the job I had for about seven years, I had the option to take out my retirement money, so because I knew the economy needed to be stroked a little, I took the whole wad and went down to Felix Chevrolet in downtown LA and bought a brand new Monte Carlo. Drove that damn thing right off the showroom floor. I remember it to this day. My accountant was yelling at me as I drove off, “Don’t do this, you dumbass!”
And when that Monte Carlo turned into a worthless heap, I took that pile of junk over to a car dealer in Arcadia and I asked him what I could get for it, and he said, “Arrested.” OK, it didn’t have any brakes and the exhaust fumes were killing neighborhood pets. But the important thing was I had had the courage to drive it over there without any brakes to help stimulate the economy.
Yes, I ended up buying a pissy little Sentra because I was divorced and broke and lonely and the payments were only $127 a month. I hope you heard that. I was broke and lonely and I still had the humanity to stimulate the economy. I selflessly spent $127 a month for three years to help America defeat communism and be safe for me to get more credit cards with a 29 percent interest rate. And what were you doing? Don’t lie to me.
Oh, I could go on about other stimulating things I have done. But maybe there are kids reading this. Sure, I could tell you how I went out and bought an Eagle Talon sports car moving-ass machine so I could race home after my shrink sessions to regain my sanity. Yes, again I sacrificed and stimulated the economy. I was a good citizen in deep crushing debt, and you did nothing!
And, because the need is so great today, I went out and bought a new used car just yesterday. Yeah, I sold my big old gas-guzzling Durango SUV and I bought a pretty cool car. I can’t tell you what kind of car it is or you would know what size galoshes to buy Mr. Johnson.
The important thing is I stimulated the economy. I bought something I don’t need and I spent more money than I wanted to spend. You can do it too. S-T-I-M-U-L-A-T-E!
Jim Laris is for the former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
This Column is Depressing (Cigar Smoke 3-12-09)
I’ve always had a problem with depression. It runs in my family. (Or walks, trudges actually, with its head down.) My dad was depressed. My grandmother was depressed. Her father was depressed. And I’m pretty sure my Greek forebears, Plato and Aristotle, were depressed.
I’ve had a lot of therapy over the years. It’s helped a little. Now I pretty much know why I’m depressed. But, when I think of how much money it cost me for that knowledge, I get depressed. I’ve got two friends who are depressed, too. But we’re too depressed to talk about it. We’d all shoot ourselves except we’re such poor shots.
So, how do I deal with depression? Basically, I try to ignore it, or blame it on other people. Especially dead people – it’s very difficult for dead people to defend themselves. But when that fails, I do something that has worked every damn time. I take a road trip.
I just get in the car, light up a semi-cheap cigar and take off. And something always happens that cheers me up. Like last week I was feeling really low, so I decided to drive up to Oregon to visit my empty hovel.
I was buzzing along Highway 5 in the rain, which is not the part that cheered me up, and I had to pee. I saw a sign that said there was a rest stop in 20 miles. I thought me and my bladder could make that, so I kept driving. When we get to the rest stop exit, it says: Closed. Next Rest Stop 52 miles. Mr. Bladder was, excuse the expression, pissed.
Anyway, I couldn’t wait that long, so I found a gas station in a few miles. Got some gas and went in to the Stop N’ Overpay store to get a bottle of water and a lighter. I gave the clerk five bucks and she said, “It’s $11.27, sir?” I said, “For a bottle of water and a $1.99 lighter?” She said, “The lighter is $9.99.”
I looked down and, sure enough, it was $9.99. I inquired as to why it was $9.99. She told me because it had a fingernail clipper hidden inside it.
Now that cheered me up. Finally someone had invented something I’ve needed. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been lighting a cigar and I’ve said to myself, “God, I wish I could cut my fingernails right now, too.” It’s just a shame they didn’t come up with this lighter/fingernail clipper earlier. I could have saved a bundle in psychiatry bills. It’s depressing.
Oh, well. Got back on the road and drove along the California Aqueduct for a while, and remembered many years ago seeing a pilot fly his open-cockpit crop-duster right over my head and he had a Snoopy scarf blowing behind him in the wind and it made me smile. The road comes through. Again.
I got to the Kettleman City turnoff. I always stop at Mike’s Diner for lunch. It’s one of those cluttered Cracker Barrel kind of places with kids’ wagons and old Texaco signs and license plates on the walls. I ordered a chicken tostada. (Yes, I’m going to tell you what I ate for breakfast soon.) When I took my first bite of chicken, I thought something wasn’t right. It did not taste like chicken. It did not taste like anything I had ever eaten before. It tasted like an unlucky circus animal. But it did get me out of my own head. It’s hard to be depressed while eating a lion tostada.
That night I stayed at a Holiday Inn and my avalanche of cheerfulness continued. I turned on the TV and I saw a bunch of teenage guys chasing emus around in a field. Yes, emus. Big, clumsy, ostrich-like emus. Yee-haw! Take that, depression.
The next morning I had breakfast at IHOP. (I told you.) Every time I eat there, I get real serious and lower my voice and I ask the waitress, “Do you guys have pancakes?” And every time, her reaction cheers me up. But then I look at the seven kinds of syrup to choose from, and I go back down.
After breakfast I drove three hours out of my way to see a little mountain town called Hayfork. I’d always wanted to see it. I don’t want to see it again. Then I zigzagged and car-sicked my way through hours of switchbacks and slushy snow and I got to the Eureka Bay in Humboldt County. Now, I’m not saying the rainy, foggy, cold, sludge-filled bay is not attractive, but their slogan is “Our Harbor is Uglier than Your Butt.”
I ate lunch at a neat little place at the marina. And I swear to God, as I’m eating my tuna melt, the waitress comes up to me and says, “Would you run with the bulls?” Out of nowhere. “Would you run with the bulls?” So I said, “Would you share what you’re smoking?” She looked quizzical. I said, “Honey, I wouldn’t even walk with the cows.”
By the time you read this, I’ll be home again. Why don’t you come on over. I’ll light up a cigar for you. And clip your nails.
I’ve had a lot of therapy over the years. It’s helped a little. Now I pretty much know why I’m depressed. But, when I think of how much money it cost me for that knowledge, I get depressed. I’ve got two friends who are depressed, too. But we’re too depressed to talk about it. We’d all shoot ourselves except we’re such poor shots.
So, how do I deal with depression? Basically, I try to ignore it, or blame it on other people. Especially dead people – it’s very difficult for dead people to defend themselves. But when that fails, I do something that has worked every damn time. I take a road trip.
I just get in the car, light up a semi-cheap cigar and take off. And something always happens that cheers me up. Like last week I was feeling really low, so I decided to drive up to Oregon to visit my empty hovel.
I was buzzing along Highway 5 in the rain, which is not the part that cheered me up, and I had to pee. I saw a sign that said there was a rest stop in 20 miles. I thought me and my bladder could make that, so I kept driving. When we get to the rest stop exit, it says: Closed. Next Rest Stop 52 miles. Mr. Bladder was, excuse the expression, pissed.
Anyway, I couldn’t wait that long, so I found a gas station in a few miles. Got some gas and went in to the Stop N’ Overpay store to get a bottle of water and a lighter. I gave the clerk five bucks and she said, “It’s $11.27, sir?” I said, “For a bottle of water and a $1.99 lighter?” She said, “The lighter is $9.99.”
I looked down and, sure enough, it was $9.99. I inquired as to why it was $9.99. She told me because it had a fingernail clipper hidden inside it.
Now that cheered me up. Finally someone had invented something I’ve needed. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been lighting a cigar and I’ve said to myself, “God, I wish I could cut my fingernails right now, too.” It’s just a shame they didn’t come up with this lighter/fingernail clipper earlier. I could have saved a bundle in psychiatry bills. It’s depressing.
Oh, well. Got back on the road and drove along the California Aqueduct for a while, and remembered many years ago seeing a pilot fly his open-cockpit crop-duster right over my head and he had a Snoopy scarf blowing behind him in the wind and it made me smile. The road comes through. Again.
I got to the Kettleman City turnoff. I always stop at Mike’s Diner for lunch. It’s one of those cluttered Cracker Barrel kind of places with kids’ wagons and old Texaco signs and license plates on the walls. I ordered a chicken tostada. (Yes, I’m going to tell you what I ate for breakfast soon.) When I took my first bite of chicken, I thought something wasn’t right. It did not taste like chicken. It did not taste like anything I had ever eaten before. It tasted like an unlucky circus animal. But it did get me out of my own head. It’s hard to be depressed while eating a lion tostada.
That night I stayed at a Holiday Inn and my avalanche of cheerfulness continued. I turned on the TV and I saw a bunch of teenage guys chasing emus around in a field. Yes, emus. Big, clumsy, ostrich-like emus. Yee-haw! Take that, depression.
The next morning I had breakfast at IHOP. (I told you.) Every time I eat there, I get real serious and lower my voice and I ask the waitress, “Do you guys have pancakes?” And every time, her reaction cheers me up. But then I look at the seven kinds of syrup to choose from, and I go back down.
After breakfast I drove three hours out of my way to see a little mountain town called Hayfork. I’d always wanted to see it. I don’t want to see it again. Then I zigzagged and car-sicked my way through hours of switchbacks and slushy snow and I got to the Eureka Bay in Humboldt County. Now, I’m not saying the rainy, foggy, cold, sludge-filled bay is not attractive, but their slogan is “Our Harbor is Uglier than Your Butt.”
I ate lunch at a neat little place at the marina. And I swear to God, as I’m eating my tuna melt, the waitress comes up to me and says, “Would you run with the bulls?” Out of nowhere. “Would you run with the bulls?” So I said, “Would you share what you’re smoking?” She looked quizzical. I said, “Honey, I wouldn’t even walk with the cows.”
By the time you read this, I’ll be home again. Why don’t you come on over. I’ll light up a cigar for you. And clip your nails.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Spilling My Guts (Cigar Smoke 2-26-09)
You probably think you’re a better person than I am. Maybe you are, maybe you’re not. You probably think you’re smarter than I am. I doubt it, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. And you probably think you’re better looking than I am, don’t you? OK, I’ll give you that, too, Brad Pitt Face.
But I know one thing you’re not as good as I am on. Nope. You cannot now, or have ever in the past, or will ever in your fecund future, be able to spill stuff on yourself like I do. I can spill, baby. I am the Sultan of Spilling. I have been spilling stuff on myself for as long as I can remember — even as long as I can’t remember. I thought I would outgrow it, but now I have reached the doggone doddering age of 67 and I am still spilling stuff on myself. I have failed in this one aspect of life and I acknowledge it and I hereby pause to listen to your cruel mockery of a spill-stained senior citizen suck-face such as myself. Mock away.
I won’t go back to my childhood days and charmingly regale you with adorable childish spilling stories. But I do remember my mom just taking a bottle of milk and emptying it on my high chair and on my head and on my baby jammies outfit and on the floor, saying, “It’ll save time.” My mom was a kidder.
I will also skip through my teen and college years where I developed my spilling skills to near perfection. You don’t need to know the details, especially if you are eating right now. I will tell you though, that my friends applauded me one day with appreciative slow-clapping of hands that built into a genuine crescendo of pure admiration when they couldn’t determine just what gross liquid I had spilled on my shirt as they watched it eat away one of my pockets and start burning my chest hair. God, those were good days.
When I got married and became mature and bought insurance and sedans and got mad at younger people who spilled things, I had one particular spilling problem. I always spilled little drops of chocolate sauce on my white T-shirts. (For you younger readers, a white T-shirt is like your T-shirts only without all the rock star art and sports advertising bullshit and profanity.) By the way, when I was a kid we didn’t even have white T-shirts. We just had T-shirts. Period. No need to differentiate — colors were invented by the next generation.
Back in the ’60s and ’70s my first wife and I always had ice cream sundaes for dessert after dinner. Almost every night, just some, excuse the expression, healthy scoops of vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce. And every night I would be on the couch watching TV, and my wife would look over at me, and say, “Why in the name of holy bejabbers did I marry you?” No, that was something else she would say. She would say, “There’s chocolate on your shirt.” And she’d kind of head-point. And I’d look down and, sure as Shinola, there were two dark chocolate drops on my white T-shirt. This would happen most every night. (In later years, if I hadn’t spilled chocolate on my T-shirt, my kids would walk by and smear chocolate onto it. I don’t think the authorities ever found their bodies.)
I don’t know what to say. I still spill ashes on myself every time I drive. A bunch of my shirts have cigar-ash holes in them, and there are burn marks on most of the cushions in the backyard. And I swear I am not trying to be careless.
I really make an effort to not spill stuff. I just don’t succeed. Dammit, I try. Like when I get a barbecue-beef sandwich, I’ll be careful for the first half, but I always fail on the second half. I’ll end up with a wadded-up soppy-ass napkin that could kick Mike Tyson’s butt, and then I’ll accidentally wipe my face and I’ll get barbecue-sauce stains on my cheeks and on my collar and on my eyelids and on my dog. I’m worthless.
Just last night, after Marge went to bed, I stayed up and made myself a fried-egg sandwich. A couple of over-easy eggs on some white bread. I put it on a plate. I go sit down on the couch. I’m watching TV. I am very aware of the egg sandwich and my proneness to spillage. I lift the sandwich off the plate, carefully, and I extend my hands out over the plate like a Boy Scout asking for a nun’s hand in marriage, and I take a big, careful bite.
And I hear something. A whooshing sound. I look on the plate. It’s clean. For a split second I think I am not a spilling slob. Then I glance at my chest and my dark blue robe has a giant splotch of yellow yolk on it. Ugly, ugly splotch, a glob of guck. Looked like the Sea of Cortez with hepatitis. Just all yellow and yucky.
I told you I was The King.
Jim Laris is for the former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
But I know one thing you’re not as good as I am on. Nope. You cannot now, or have ever in the past, or will ever in your fecund future, be able to spill stuff on yourself like I do. I can spill, baby. I am the Sultan of Spilling. I have been spilling stuff on myself for as long as I can remember — even as long as I can’t remember. I thought I would outgrow it, but now I have reached the doggone doddering age of 67 and I am still spilling stuff on myself. I have failed in this one aspect of life and I acknowledge it and I hereby pause to listen to your cruel mockery of a spill-stained senior citizen suck-face such as myself. Mock away.
I won’t go back to my childhood days and charmingly regale you with adorable childish spilling stories. But I do remember my mom just taking a bottle of milk and emptying it on my high chair and on my head and on my baby jammies outfit and on the floor, saying, “It’ll save time.” My mom was a kidder.
I will also skip through my teen and college years where I developed my spilling skills to near perfection. You don’t need to know the details, especially if you are eating right now. I will tell you though, that my friends applauded me one day with appreciative slow-clapping of hands that built into a genuine crescendo of pure admiration when they couldn’t determine just what gross liquid I had spilled on my shirt as they watched it eat away one of my pockets and start burning my chest hair. God, those were good days.
When I got married and became mature and bought insurance and sedans and got mad at younger people who spilled things, I had one particular spilling problem. I always spilled little drops of chocolate sauce on my white T-shirts. (For you younger readers, a white T-shirt is like your T-shirts only without all the rock star art and sports advertising bullshit and profanity.) By the way, when I was a kid we didn’t even have white T-shirts. We just had T-shirts. Period. No need to differentiate — colors were invented by the next generation.
Back in the ’60s and ’70s my first wife and I always had ice cream sundaes for dessert after dinner. Almost every night, just some, excuse the expression, healthy scoops of vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce. And every night I would be on the couch watching TV, and my wife would look over at me, and say, “Why in the name of holy bejabbers did I marry you?” No, that was something else she would say. She would say, “There’s chocolate on your shirt.” And she’d kind of head-point. And I’d look down and, sure as Shinola, there were two dark chocolate drops on my white T-shirt. This would happen most every night. (In later years, if I hadn’t spilled chocolate on my T-shirt, my kids would walk by and smear chocolate onto it. I don’t think the authorities ever found their bodies.)
I don’t know what to say. I still spill ashes on myself every time I drive. A bunch of my shirts have cigar-ash holes in them, and there are burn marks on most of the cushions in the backyard. And I swear I am not trying to be careless.
I really make an effort to not spill stuff. I just don’t succeed. Dammit, I try. Like when I get a barbecue-beef sandwich, I’ll be careful for the first half, but I always fail on the second half. I’ll end up with a wadded-up soppy-ass napkin that could kick Mike Tyson’s butt, and then I’ll accidentally wipe my face and I’ll get barbecue-sauce stains on my cheeks and on my collar and on my eyelids and on my dog. I’m worthless.
Just last night, after Marge went to bed, I stayed up and made myself a fried-egg sandwich. A couple of over-easy eggs on some white bread. I put it on a plate. I go sit down on the couch. I’m watching TV. I am very aware of the egg sandwich and my proneness to spillage. I lift the sandwich off the plate, carefully, and I extend my hands out over the plate like a Boy Scout asking for a nun’s hand in marriage, and I take a big, careful bite.
And I hear something. A whooshing sound. I look on the plate. It’s clean. For a split second I think I am not a spilling slob. Then I glance at my chest and my dark blue robe has a giant splotch of yellow yolk on it. Ugly, ugly splotch, a glob of guck. Looked like the Sea of Cortez with hepatitis. Just all yellow and yucky.
I told you I was The King.
Jim Laris is for the former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The Eagle Has Landed (Cigar Smoke 2-12-09)
Hello my friends, and hello my commie-loving, socialism-seeking, Democratic Party wastes-of-good-DNA, Obama-Kool-Aid-drinking cultists. (I’m just kidding. I love you people, too. Just not as much as the good people. I’m sure Bill Maher still likes you guys. Go over to his house. Eat his guacamole.)
A while back I confessed to you that my dream had died and I was not ever going to actually buy a little piece of land where Lenny and I could escape to and be men and play with mice. Well, dammit, I misspoke too soon.
I finally pulled the trigger. I was finally able to act. The anchor is off my ass. The dream is now a reality. The eagle has landed. My life is complete. I bought a mobile home up in Oregon, in a little town called Harbor, right below Brookings. It’s just a cow-chip-toss over the California border.
OK, I’ll say it before you do: I am now trailer trash. But I think I am trailer trash in a good way. I now consider myself one of the Jeffersons — moving on up, baby. This mobile home / trailer is actually properly referred to as a Park Model. Which basically means it’s a permanent mobile home in an RV park. That’s gotta be way better than a mobile home you can move somewhere, doesn’t it? And I’m pretty sure permanent trailer trash gets invited to better parties than itinerant trailer trash does. The way I see the trailer trash hierarchy is like this: dead people, homeless people, people who live in motels by the week, RV motor home drivers, mobile-homes-that-still-have-wheels-on-them dwellers, and then Park Model high-class residents, such as myself.
So, being such a model citizen (OK, a Park-Model citizen), I have decided to officially name my abode. Nothing says high-class like naming where you live. I call it “The Eagle’s Nest.” For some damn reason I have always related to eagles. I have user names with “eagle” in them for chat rooms and forums. I have paintings and artwork and art objects and T-shirts with eagles on them. I have a really nice plaster of Paris chalk eagle sculpture from Tijuana with one broken wing where it got caught in the window coming back through customs. I have a beautiful set of patriotic bookends in red, white and blue, where the two eagles’ heads are looking at each other with fierce eagleness. I just love eagles, dammit. Maybe because I yearn to be free and fly off to Alaska and mate with a cheap falcon — or maybe a foxy governor.
And not only was my love of eagles involved in the naming of my new hideaway, “The Eagle’s Nest,” but the hovel was also perched, yes perched, up on this cliff overlooking the harbor and the ocean. There’s a driftwood beach within 200 yards, and the Chetco River flows into the surf right there. The view is pretty damn cool. In fact, when I first walked out on the deck and saw the ocean and harbor and river on the horizon, I said to the real estate guy, “I’ll take it.” And Marge said, “Shouldn’t we look inside first?”
Well, being the shrewd investor I am, I did look inside. I took a two-minute lap around the place, and it had a toilet and a kitchen and no visible rodents, so I thought it would be fine. And I made the dream come true. I bought it. The eagle had landed.
So we came home to Altadena, and I was trying to figure out how to furnish it and I forgot what the hell the inside looked like. So, of course, I had to go back up there to check everything out. When I opened the front door I was stunned. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It looked really nice! Yes, the interior of “The Eagle’s Nest” looked new and clean, and it was actually decorated by a designer and furnished beautifully. An attractive sofa, two specially made recliners, built-in appliances, freshly painted walls, tasteful oak trim, even skylights — I thought I walked into the wrong house.
It was way too nice for me. I felt like I was dating someone from Vassar, which I think is a college. I even went outside on the deck to fart. My Vassar date said, “What was that sound?” I told her it was an eagle landing.
So I come home again, and I’m feeling a little freaked out. Out of place. Unworthy. But I decide I should buy some dishes and silverware, and see if I can accept living in a nice hovel.
I go over to Macy’s (I’m changing already!). I go down to the housewares section and a saleswoman comes over and I say those six little words I never thought I would ever say: “Can you show me the Fiestaware?” She does. I buy a set of dishes in ivory.
To complete the metamorphosis, I then say, “Do you have the matching flatware in Evergreen?” She says, “Certainly, sir. We’re not savages.” She laughs and asks, “What kind of place mats would you like?”
I say, “You have any with refried bean stains?”
A while back I confessed to you that my dream had died and I was not ever going to actually buy a little piece of land where Lenny and I could escape to and be men and play with mice. Well, dammit, I misspoke too soon.
I finally pulled the trigger. I was finally able to act. The anchor is off my ass. The dream is now a reality. The eagle has landed. My life is complete. I bought a mobile home up in Oregon, in a little town called Harbor, right below Brookings. It’s just a cow-chip-toss over the California border.
OK, I’ll say it before you do: I am now trailer trash. But I think I am trailer trash in a good way. I now consider myself one of the Jeffersons — moving on up, baby. This mobile home / trailer is actually properly referred to as a Park Model. Which basically means it’s a permanent mobile home in an RV park. That’s gotta be way better than a mobile home you can move somewhere, doesn’t it? And I’m pretty sure permanent trailer trash gets invited to better parties than itinerant trailer trash does. The way I see the trailer trash hierarchy is like this: dead people, homeless people, people who live in motels by the week, RV motor home drivers, mobile-homes-that-still-have-wheels-on-them dwellers, and then Park Model high-class residents, such as myself.
So, being such a model citizen (OK, a Park-Model citizen), I have decided to officially name my abode. Nothing says high-class like naming where you live. I call it “The Eagle’s Nest.” For some damn reason I have always related to eagles. I have user names with “eagle” in them for chat rooms and forums. I have paintings and artwork and art objects and T-shirts with eagles on them. I have a really nice plaster of Paris chalk eagle sculpture from Tijuana with one broken wing where it got caught in the window coming back through customs. I have a beautiful set of patriotic bookends in red, white and blue, where the two eagles’ heads are looking at each other with fierce eagleness. I just love eagles, dammit. Maybe because I yearn to be free and fly off to Alaska and mate with a cheap falcon — or maybe a foxy governor.
And not only was my love of eagles involved in the naming of my new hideaway, “The Eagle’s Nest,” but the hovel was also perched, yes perched, up on this cliff overlooking the harbor and the ocean. There’s a driftwood beach within 200 yards, and the Chetco River flows into the surf right there. The view is pretty damn cool. In fact, when I first walked out on the deck and saw the ocean and harbor and river on the horizon, I said to the real estate guy, “I’ll take it.” And Marge said, “Shouldn’t we look inside first?”
Well, being the shrewd investor I am, I did look inside. I took a two-minute lap around the place, and it had a toilet and a kitchen and no visible rodents, so I thought it would be fine. And I made the dream come true. I bought it. The eagle had landed.
So we came home to Altadena, and I was trying to figure out how to furnish it and I forgot what the hell the inside looked like. So, of course, I had to go back up there to check everything out. When I opened the front door I was stunned. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It looked really nice! Yes, the interior of “The Eagle’s Nest” looked new and clean, and it was actually decorated by a designer and furnished beautifully. An attractive sofa, two specially made recliners, built-in appliances, freshly painted walls, tasteful oak trim, even skylights — I thought I walked into the wrong house.
It was way too nice for me. I felt like I was dating someone from Vassar, which I think is a college. I even went outside on the deck to fart. My Vassar date said, “What was that sound?” I told her it was an eagle landing.
So I come home again, and I’m feeling a little freaked out. Out of place. Unworthy. But I decide I should buy some dishes and silverware, and see if I can accept living in a nice hovel.
I go over to Macy’s (I’m changing already!). I go down to the housewares section and a saleswoman comes over and I say those six little words I never thought I would ever say: “Can you show me the Fiestaware?” She does. I buy a set of dishes in ivory.
To complete the metamorphosis, I then say, “Do you have the matching flatware in Evergreen?” She says, “Certainly, sir. We’re not savages.” She laughs and asks, “What kind of place mats would you like?”
I say, “You have any with refried bean stains?”
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Enough Already (Cigar Smoke 1-25-09)
I’m just sitting here at my desk, pretending to be happy and analyzing life and the horse it rode in on, and listening to my favorite song on the radio — the Kars for Kids Ad Jingle:
1-877 Kars for Kids
K-A-R-S, Kars for Kids
Donate Your Car Today
God, I love that song. The little tyke sings the first verse and then the gruff lovable guy with the deep voice repeats the verse. And then they both sing the verse a third time to just yank the aorta right out of your heart.
If I had a car to give them I would. Kind of feel bad that I sold my last one on eBay and stiffed the kids. And bought useless things I didn’t need with the money. What can I say?
Anyway, back to analyzing life. I went to the Santa Anita Mall the other day (no, not to eat lunch with mall cop Paul Blart but to buy a pair of shoes). And as I was walking around the mall, I started actually noticing all the stores. Yeah, noticing exactly what all the stores were.
Everybody is saying we are in an economic depression right now and everything is so damn bad. We have to dial that kind of scaredy-cat talk down a few notches. No, I was not around during the real Great Depression, back in the ’30s, but I’ve seen pictures of people in breadlines and soup lines and dust was blowing all over the place. It looked pretty bad to me.
But today, walking in a mall is incredible. There are so many specialty shops, it almost makes the free enterprise system seem, I hate to say it, frivolous. I used to be an entrepreneur myself, but jeez — I saw a store specializing in chocolate. All kinds of chocolate. Dark chocolate, milk chocolate, semi-sweet chocolate, white chocolate, chocolate with nuts, chocolate with fruit, Asian chocolate, Obama chocolate.
Another shop was just selling soap. Scented soap, powdered soap, bubble bath soap, frilly soap, girly soap, soap tied in little bundles with bows, different colored soap nuggets, non-global-warming soap, soap for acne, soap for lumberjacks. I asked a very clean sales clerk if I could buy a regular old three-pack of white, anti-sweat Dial because my armpits were winning. She said I could go to OSH.
I continued walking around for a while. I walked past a pretzel store. Sold just pretzels. Past a popcorn store. Just popcorn. A candy-apple store. A nut store. A tea store. And a coffee store. If we are in such a horrible depression, will someone tell me why is there a Starbucks on every corner in America? Is there a new caffeine zoning law I missed? Did them commie environmentalists slip one by me?
The other day at a Starbucks I was drinking my wonderful beverage made with ergonomic coffee beans grown by vegetarian Ethiopians or Brazilian pacifists, I looked across the street and there was another Starbucks. Dueling Starbucks! I almost spilled $4.95 on three laptops. Not only that, there was another coffee place two doors down. No kidding.
Anyway, as you astute readers must be wondering, “Did you ever buy the shoes you went to the mall for?” Well, after walking past the food court and being torn between getting the two-pound baked potato filled with shrimp and bacon and olives and cashews and sour cream and guacamole and cheese, or the Korean sandwich that was still barking. I kept walking and looking.
I was looking for what I refer to as “sneakers.” I know that dates me. I just needed a damn pair of tennis shoes. So I look up and I see a Walking Shoes store. I’m about to go in when I notice a Running Shoes store. I think to myself, I probably should get the walking shoes because I walk 98 percent of the time, but I didn’t want to exclude the possibility of ever running again. So I kept walking, not running, to see what other options I had.
I went into a Sports Chalet, I think. And I walked to the shoe section, which was just a little smaller than the hangar they used to house the Spruce Goose in, and on the wall I saw the following signs: Walking Shoes, Running Shoes, Hiking Shoes, Court Shoes, Tennis Shoes, Racquetball Shoes, Basketball Shoes, Training Shoes, Men’s Shoes, Women’s Shoes, Boy’s Shoes, Girl’s Shoes, Youth’s Shoes, Toddler’s Shoes and Embryo’s Shoes.
As a sales guy was running/walking/or hiking towards me, I ran/walked/or hiked out of there, baby, and went directly to Nordstrom hoping the piano player would hug me. I bought the first pair of tennis shoes I could find in the discount bin. I asked the clerk if these sneakers would make me play like Michael Jordan. He said, “Yes. Yes, they will.” That was good enough for me.
And when the clerk was ringing up my shoes, he asked me if I would like to buy a Bruce Springsteen CD. I looked down on the counter. There were CDs for sale.
I said, “No, I don’t think I’ll buy a CD here in a shoe store. I think I’ll go get my CD at Starbucks. They have a much better selection.”
1-877 Kars for Kids
K-A-R-S, Kars for Kids
Donate Your Car Today
God, I love that song. The little tyke sings the first verse and then the gruff lovable guy with the deep voice repeats the verse. And then they both sing the verse a third time to just yank the aorta right out of your heart.
If I had a car to give them I would. Kind of feel bad that I sold my last one on eBay and stiffed the kids. And bought useless things I didn’t need with the money. What can I say?
Anyway, back to analyzing life. I went to the Santa Anita Mall the other day (no, not to eat lunch with mall cop Paul Blart but to buy a pair of shoes). And as I was walking around the mall, I started actually noticing all the stores. Yeah, noticing exactly what all the stores were.
Everybody is saying we are in an economic depression right now and everything is so damn bad. We have to dial that kind of scaredy-cat talk down a few notches. No, I was not around during the real Great Depression, back in the ’30s, but I’ve seen pictures of people in breadlines and soup lines and dust was blowing all over the place. It looked pretty bad to me.
But today, walking in a mall is incredible. There are so many specialty shops, it almost makes the free enterprise system seem, I hate to say it, frivolous. I used to be an entrepreneur myself, but jeez — I saw a store specializing in chocolate. All kinds of chocolate. Dark chocolate, milk chocolate, semi-sweet chocolate, white chocolate, chocolate with nuts, chocolate with fruit, Asian chocolate, Obama chocolate.
Another shop was just selling soap. Scented soap, powdered soap, bubble bath soap, frilly soap, girly soap, soap tied in little bundles with bows, different colored soap nuggets, non-global-warming soap, soap for acne, soap for lumberjacks. I asked a very clean sales clerk if I could buy a regular old three-pack of white, anti-sweat Dial because my armpits were winning. She said I could go to OSH.
I continued walking around for a while. I walked past a pretzel store. Sold just pretzels. Past a popcorn store. Just popcorn. A candy-apple store. A nut store. A tea store. And a coffee store. If we are in such a horrible depression, will someone tell me why is there a Starbucks on every corner in America? Is there a new caffeine zoning law I missed? Did them commie environmentalists slip one by me?
The other day at a Starbucks I was drinking my wonderful beverage made with ergonomic coffee beans grown by vegetarian Ethiopians or Brazilian pacifists, I looked across the street and there was another Starbucks. Dueling Starbucks! I almost spilled $4.95 on three laptops. Not only that, there was another coffee place two doors down. No kidding.
Anyway, as you astute readers must be wondering, “Did you ever buy the shoes you went to the mall for?” Well, after walking past the food court and being torn between getting the two-pound baked potato filled with shrimp and bacon and olives and cashews and sour cream and guacamole and cheese, or the Korean sandwich that was still barking. I kept walking and looking.
I was looking for what I refer to as “sneakers.” I know that dates me. I just needed a damn pair of tennis shoes. So I look up and I see a Walking Shoes store. I’m about to go in when I notice a Running Shoes store. I think to myself, I probably should get the walking shoes because I walk 98 percent of the time, but I didn’t want to exclude the possibility of ever running again. So I kept walking, not running, to see what other options I had.
I went into a Sports Chalet, I think. And I walked to the shoe section, which was just a little smaller than the hangar they used to house the Spruce Goose in, and on the wall I saw the following signs: Walking Shoes, Running Shoes, Hiking Shoes, Court Shoes, Tennis Shoes, Racquetball Shoes, Basketball Shoes, Training Shoes, Men’s Shoes, Women’s Shoes, Boy’s Shoes, Girl’s Shoes, Youth’s Shoes, Toddler’s Shoes and Embryo’s Shoes.
As a sales guy was running/walking/or hiking towards me, I ran/walked/or hiked out of there, baby, and went directly to Nordstrom hoping the piano player would hug me. I bought the first pair of tennis shoes I could find in the discount bin. I asked the clerk if these sneakers would make me play like Michael Jordan. He said, “Yes. Yes, they will.” That was good enough for me.
And when the clerk was ringing up my shoes, he asked me if I would like to buy a Bruce Springsteen CD. I looked down on the counter. There were CDs for sale.
I said, “No, I don’t think I’ll buy a CD here in a shoe store. I think I’ll go get my CD at Starbucks. They have a much better selection.”
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Getting off to a Complaining New Year (Cigar Smoke 1-15-09)
Well, here we are in 2009. I thought I’d start the year off right by complaining my butt off. My butt could use a little off.
I had a terrific holiday season. We had a houseful of people I love over and one uncle who maybe I didn’t love quite as much as the others, and I accidentally put a few laxative tablets in his eggnog. I never knew that old sucker could dance like that.
As much as I enjoyed everything and everybody, I was ready for a little post-Christmas combat R&R. So when everybody left, I sighed and sat down on the end of the couch, and closed my eyes, and as my left-wing friends would say, my mind, too. But when I opened my eyes, I found something I usually don’t see. Clutter.
I pride myself on being anally retentive. It’s something I’ve worked hard at, and have annoyed people with for years. In fact, I’m not sure if “anally retentive” should only have one L in it or a hyphen. I feel uneasy right now just thinking about it, but I’m going with the damn spellchecker.
Anyway, the living room is full of guided rocket missiles that maybe could have been guided a little better, and video game cases, and the TV is turned sideways because the grandkids had to hook up their Play Stations, and there are a few orphan toy box lids around, and a some gnarly drink glasses were lying on their sides behind various pieces of furniture. And our neighbors’ cat was tied to the pool table by its tail. I told you we had a nice holiday.
So, the little lady asked me if I would mind helping her pick up some stuff because “isn’t it about time you got off your lazy, lanky, marshmallow-Santa-filled ass?” So, I helped her. And when I got through, I sank back down on the couch, and she appeared again like a genie, and said, “could you come into the kitchen and help me un-stick these plates.” Women can’t even pry a couple of plates apart. You’d think five-day-old gravy was epoxy.
So I do that, too. Cheerfully. Isn’t cheerfulness next to godliness? Oh no, that’s cleanliness —
I wasted a fake cheerful act for nothing.
Then I quietly, on little elf feet, tiptoe into another room and close the door and sit down where I think Marge will never find me. I hear a knock on the door. “Are you in there, honey?” I don’t answer. She says, “I know you are in there. I can smell your cigar reek.” So I said, “Yes, dear, me and my reek are in here. And I have a migraine. And maybe something worse if you don’t buy that. Could you come back in March?”
She laughs her Stalin laugh, and says “You know, we should take down the tree before Valentine’s Day.” The sarcasm peeled the paint off the door. “Sure, honey. I’ll hop right on it, as soon as this pounding in my head levels off.”
So, even though my left knee is feeling horrible from my recent arthroscopic surgery, and from the constant getting up and down from the couch, I say to Marge, “As the surgeon said to the amputee, you don’t have a leg to stand on.” She says, “What?” I said, “Never mind, just a little attempt at one-legged humor.”
I finished taking down the tree and I put away all the wrapping paper and name tags and bows and Christmas bags and I said, “I’m all finished, Dumpling Face.” And she said, “What?” I said, “Dumpling Face, Sir!”
I asked if there was anything else. She said there wasn’t. And paused for three seconds. And said, “Except.” (Except. Boy, that’s a killer word, isn’t it? Comes in second place, right after “you want me to do what?”) She finishes her “except” sentence, “for the guest room.” She requested nicely that “to save our marriage” it might be a good idea if I took off all the sheets and pillowcases from the beds in the guest room and put them in the washer. I sighed a really loud sigh, and said, “I don’t remember signing up for all these things when I said ‘I do’.” She said, “I do.”
I come out of the laundry room, and I pick up my car keys, and I’m walking towards the front door, and I yell to Marge, “See you in a bit. I gotta go help some charities do something.” She says, “You know, as long as you’re out, would you mind returning these shoes that Ryan didn’t want, and then stopping by the UPS store to send that espresso machine back to Amazon. It shouldn’t be too hard to wrap.”
Knowing that spousal abuse is not accepted in our culture, I said to Marge, in a soft unintelligible voice not much louder than a whisper — in a voice she could not hear — “You shouldn’t be too hard to rap, either.”
Jim Laris is for the former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
I had a terrific holiday season. We had a houseful of people I love over and one uncle who maybe I didn’t love quite as much as the others, and I accidentally put a few laxative tablets in his eggnog. I never knew that old sucker could dance like that.
As much as I enjoyed everything and everybody, I was ready for a little post-Christmas combat R&R. So when everybody left, I sighed and sat down on the end of the couch, and closed my eyes, and as my left-wing friends would say, my mind, too. But when I opened my eyes, I found something I usually don’t see. Clutter.
I pride myself on being anally retentive. It’s something I’ve worked hard at, and have annoyed people with for years. In fact, I’m not sure if “anally retentive” should only have one L in it or a hyphen. I feel uneasy right now just thinking about it, but I’m going with the damn spellchecker.
Anyway, the living room is full of guided rocket missiles that maybe could have been guided a little better, and video game cases, and the TV is turned sideways because the grandkids had to hook up their Play Stations, and there are a few orphan toy box lids around, and a some gnarly drink glasses were lying on their sides behind various pieces of furniture. And our neighbors’ cat was tied to the pool table by its tail. I told you we had a nice holiday.
So, the little lady asked me if I would mind helping her pick up some stuff because “isn’t it about time you got off your lazy, lanky, marshmallow-Santa-filled ass?” So, I helped her. And when I got through, I sank back down on the couch, and she appeared again like a genie, and said, “could you come into the kitchen and help me un-stick these plates.” Women can’t even pry a couple of plates apart. You’d think five-day-old gravy was epoxy.
So I do that, too. Cheerfully. Isn’t cheerfulness next to godliness? Oh no, that’s cleanliness —
I wasted a fake cheerful act for nothing.
Then I quietly, on little elf feet, tiptoe into another room and close the door and sit down where I think Marge will never find me. I hear a knock on the door. “Are you in there, honey?” I don’t answer. She says, “I know you are in there. I can smell your cigar reek.” So I said, “Yes, dear, me and my reek are in here. And I have a migraine. And maybe something worse if you don’t buy that. Could you come back in March?”
She laughs her Stalin laugh, and says “You know, we should take down the tree before Valentine’s Day.” The sarcasm peeled the paint off the door. “Sure, honey. I’ll hop right on it, as soon as this pounding in my head levels off.”
So, even though my left knee is feeling horrible from my recent arthroscopic surgery, and from the constant getting up and down from the couch, I say to Marge, “As the surgeon said to the amputee, you don’t have a leg to stand on.” She says, “What?” I said, “Never mind, just a little attempt at one-legged humor.”
I finished taking down the tree and I put away all the wrapping paper and name tags and bows and Christmas bags and I said, “I’m all finished, Dumpling Face.” And she said, “What?” I said, “Dumpling Face, Sir!”
I asked if there was anything else. She said there wasn’t. And paused for three seconds. And said, “Except.” (Except. Boy, that’s a killer word, isn’t it? Comes in second place, right after “you want me to do what?”) She finishes her “except” sentence, “for the guest room.” She requested nicely that “to save our marriage” it might be a good idea if I took off all the sheets and pillowcases from the beds in the guest room and put them in the washer. I sighed a really loud sigh, and said, “I don’t remember signing up for all these things when I said ‘I do’.” She said, “I do.”
I come out of the laundry room, and I pick up my car keys, and I’m walking towards the front door, and I yell to Marge, “See you in a bit. I gotta go help some charities do something.” She says, “You know, as long as you’re out, would you mind returning these shoes that Ryan didn’t want, and then stopping by the UPS store to send that espresso machine back to Amazon. It shouldn’t be too hard to wrap.”
Knowing that spousal abuse is not accepted in our culture, I said to Marge, in a soft unintelligible voice not much louder than a whisper — in a voice she could not hear — “You shouldn’t be too hard to rap, either.”
Jim Laris is for the former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Sometimes I'm Almost Happy (Cigar Smoke 12-25-08)
You know, it’s funny but I seem to have a reputation for not being a happy guy. I really don’t know why that is. I think of myself as a happy person. Yes, occasionally I might get a bit cynical, but not enough to put out the torch of my shining happiness. OK, maybe there’s a little pessimism thrown in there. And yes, a dash of fatalism and a few over-the-top sighs now and then. But dammit, does that make me an unhappy person?
No, it does not. What it does make me is a thinking person who – if he thought things through and saw things as they really were and acted like it was not like that – he would be lying to himself and his fake pretend happiness would be seen by his family and friends as false and ugly and downright dishonest and they would all yell at him, “Aha! You are not only unhappy but you are a lying sack of disgusting cowardly pretend happiness that none of us likes or even grudgingly would admire.”
Hey, re-read that last paragraph. There’s a lot of truth in there and I want you to be as happy as I think I am. And if you can’t figure it out, don’t tell me you can just to make me happy. Trust me, it won’t make me happy. It’ll make me think of you as everyone thinks of me. I’ll know you are just a miserable, unhappy glob of chromosomes walking around faking it.
Usually my well-disguised happiness shows up bright and bubbly at the breakfast table. I’ll just be stirring my coffee and asking Margie-Wargie how my little Muffie-Wuffie slept last night, and I’ll look down at the Los Angeles Times and I’ll read about how the drug lords down in Tijuana just killed 39 people and beheaded nine of them, and I’ll make some sort of exclamation like, “Holy crap, who does that? What kind of world do we live in?” And Marge will say “That’s a record. Took you only five seconds to get pissed off.”
Technically, of course, she may be right. Yes, I am yelling and I am loud and the skin on my forehead is tighter than Nancy Pelosi’s face. But does just getting mad make someone unhappy? I don’t think it does. It just makes me aware that I’m living in a semi-sick world and that horrible things will happen, and I will hate those horrible things and I will express my hatred of those horrible things with very audible anger. I can still pet puppies and eat hot fudge sundaes at hockey games after reading that stuff. I still have a shot at being happy. You know I’m right. Admit it — it might make me happy.
Another example of people thinking I’m not happy occurred the other night. I’m watching the tube and Deepak Chopra comes on and old Dipstick says in his freaky spiritual precious pseudo-intellectual subdued way that he thinks it’s our fault that the terrorists blew up the hotels and killed all those people in India. The learned man thinks we caused it. Chop Face doesn’t say one damn word about the actual 300 people who were slaughtered or about the fact that the murderers were Islamic terrorists. No, he just jumps right in on how bad we are here in the US and in the West. And how we need to work with these maggots.
I was so mad I threw a magazine and screamed some non-spiritual words at the TV and scared my poor old dog silly, and I was truly ticked off. Hell, I’m still mad at Sixpak and his bullshit. But, I do not think that makes me un-frigging-happy. I still think I’m a pretty happy guy trying to survive in a pretty messed-up world. Just because I get mega-pissed at the Dipstick Sixpaks of the world does not mean I am unhappy. Nope, I’m damn happy. Wanna fight?
Anyway, I finally calm down and I am happier than a lark dating a clam. That’s pretty happy. And then a few days later I’m watching “CSI: Las Vegas” and one story is about some homeowner getting harassed by some punk kids driving around with baseball bats and playing Mailbox Baseball. These punks had smashed four of his previous mailboxes, so Mr. Homeowner decides to give them a little surprise and fills the mailbox with cement.
The guy riding shotgun takes a swing at the mailbox, and indeed gets a surprise. He breaks his arm and shoulder, and the driver loses control of the car and they crash into a tree and are both killed. The mailbox and the gene pool high-five each other. But the CSI cops arrest the homeowner for negligent homicide.
There was no outrage at the four previous crimes, no being upset about trespassing and the car being on private property, and no concern that the bat swingers were driving drunk. Nope. I guess they just got on their cell phone and called DeepAss ChopSix and he told them it was the homeowner’s fault for buying his home in the first place.
OK, you finally got me. I was not happy about this one.
Jim Laris is for the former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
No, it does not. What it does make me is a thinking person who – if he thought things through and saw things as they really were and acted like it was not like that – he would be lying to himself and his fake pretend happiness would be seen by his family and friends as false and ugly and downright dishonest and they would all yell at him, “Aha! You are not only unhappy but you are a lying sack of disgusting cowardly pretend happiness that none of us likes or even grudgingly would admire.”
Hey, re-read that last paragraph. There’s a lot of truth in there and I want you to be as happy as I think I am. And if you can’t figure it out, don’t tell me you can just to make me happy. Trust me, it won’t make me happy. It’ll make me think of you as everyone thinks of me. I’ll know you are just a miserable, unhappy glob of chromosomes walking around faking it.
Usually my well-disguised happiness shows up bright and bubbly at the breakfast table. I’ll just be stirring my coffee and asking Margie-Wargie how my little Muffie-Wuffie slept last night, and I’ll look down at the Los Angeles Times and I’ll read about how the drug lords down in Tijuana just killed 39 people and beheaded nine of them, and I’ll make some sort of exclamation like, “Holy crap, who does that? What kind of world do we live in?” And Marge will say “That’s a record. Took you only five seconds to get pissed off.”
Technically, of course, she may be right. Yes, I am yelling and I am loud and the skin on my forehead is tighter than Nancy Pelosi’s face. But does just getting mad make someone unhappy? I don’t think it does. It just makes me aware that I’m living in a semi-sick world and that horrible things will happen, and I will hate those horrible things and I will express my hatred of those horrible things with very audible anger. I can still pet puppies and eat hot fudge sundaes at hockey games after reading that stuff. I still have a shot at being happy. You know I’m right. Admit it — it might make me happy.
Another example of people thinking I’m not happy occurred the other night. I’m watching the tube and Deepak Chopra comes on and old Dipstick says in his freaky spiritual precious pseudo-intellectual subdued way that he thinks it’s our fault that the terrorists blew up the hotels and killed all those people in India. The learned man thinks we caused it. Chop Face doesn’t say one damn word about the actual 300 people who were slaughtered or about the fact that the murderers were Islamic terrorists. No, he just jumps right in on how bad we are here in the US and in the West. And how we need to work with these maggots.
I was so mad I threw a magazine and screamed some non-spiritual words at the TV and scared my poor old dog silly, and I was truly ticked off. Hell, I’m still mad at Sixpak and his bullshit. But, I do not think that makes me un-frigging-happy. I still think I’m a pretty happy guy trying to survive in a pretty messed-up world. Just because I get mega-pissed at the Dipstick Sixpaks of the world does not mean I am unhappy. Nope, I’m damn happy. Wanna fight?
Anyway, I finally calm down and I am happier than a lark dating a clam. That’s pretty happy. And then a few days later I’m watching “CSI: Las Vegas” and one story is about some homeowner getting harassed by some punk kids driving around with baseball bats and playing Mailbox Baseball. These punks had smashed four of his previous mailboxes, so Mr. Homeowner decides to give them a little surprise and fills the mailbox with cement.
The guy riding shotgun takes a swing at the mailbox, and indeed gets a surprise. He breaks his arm and shoulder, and the driver loses control of the car and they crash into a tree and are both killed. The mailbox and the gene pool high-five each other. But the CSI cops arrest the homeowner for negligent homicide.
There was no outrage at the four previous crimes, no being upset about trespassing and the car being on private property, and no concern that the bat swingers were driving drunk. Nope. I guess they just got on their cell phone and called DeepAss ChopSix and he told them it was the homeowner’s fault for buying his home in the first place.
OK, you finally got me. I was not happy about this one.
Jim Laris is for the former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)