Well, I knew it was going to happen. Yes, I shot a few Democrats just to watch ’em die. No, that was Johnny Cash in “Folsom Prison Blues.” I always liked Johnny. No, no, I didn’t shoot anybody.
What I did was get another dog. Yup, my life was just getting too comfortable and I was enjoying myself way too much to not have another fur ball around. And, of course, my good friend Paula Johnson had something to do with it. She suggested that I get a rescue dog from the pound and not get another damn purebred like my last dog, Hadley. And she kept giving me subtle hints, like, “got another dog yet, you jerk-off commie heartless bastard who likes to see dogs put down at the pound?” (Are you able to get new friends at the pound?)
So, as it happened, I had recently joined the Airedale Rescue Society, and my main function was to help them haul rescued dogs to kennels and homes. So they called me and had me go down to the animal shelter in Downey to pick up an Airedale who had been picked up off the street.
Well, I went down there and got him. And he was one ratty-looking dog. His hair was all matted and his head was bald and he was scary skinny and he had a trailer-trash long tail, and he smelled like No. 2 and he had just been neutered. I got him in the car and he nipped at me. (Hey, I would have nipped at someone too if I had just had my nuts snipped off.)
We got him home and he started to get acclimated by taking a dump on the living room carpet that was bigger than any dump Hadley had ever taken and would have given a rhinoceros dump a good challenge for both texture and total volume. I scolded him and he instantly rolled on the floor in a submissive posture. I told him I didn’t want him to be submissive because that’s what I want out of my wife, not my dog.
Then we had to give him a name. My first choice was Dumpy, but I didn’t share that with Marge. So, because he was bald, I said how about ArchiBALD? She thought that was just a little too cute, so I came up with Jughead because he has a jug-horse head. That didn’t fly, either. Then we remembered that Jughead used to hang out with Archie in the comics. So his name is officially Archie. Archie the Airedale.
I asked him how he liked his name and he didn’t say much. Then I asked him how he liked being rescued from the shelter and being with us, and he paused and said, “I would have preferred the 8-year-old boy on a Montana ranch, but seeing as I am nutless, I might like it here in the old folks’ home.” I told the Rhino Defecator not to press his luck.
Let me tell you a few things about this dog. We’ve only had him for three weeks but we are starting to see a trend. And the word “psycho” is in a lot of the early data. He likes to dig holes in the backyard; he likes to eat shoes; he is sneakier than Pete and waits until we leave a room before he shreds our valuables; he has squeezed under a fence and run away three times; and he likes to seriously haul ass around the house just tucking in his Airedale butt and crashing into things that used to be whole. I mean this sucker moves like Clinton after an intern, baby.
And one time while I was out playing Scrabble, and Marge had to go out for a few hours, she put him in the laundry room. When she got back, she opened the door and there was Archie, looking at her eyeball-to-eyeball. He had jumped up on a counter and ripped open some dog food packets and was trapped up there. But not before tearing down the curtains and overturning his water and food dishes. Psycho. Archie, not Marge.
And get this: I have never seen Archie either pee or go dumpy-poo. Never. Not once. Yes, I see the results, but I have never seen him do these things. Hadley would do these things until I cried. Archie is different. Oh, and Archie does not lick, either. Have you ever heard of a dog that doesn’t like to slobber on you? Me neither. He’ll put his mouth up to yours to smell what you’ve just eaten and try to remove it before you can swallow it, but he won’t lick. I think this is a case for The Dog Whisperer. Maybe even The Dog Hollerer.
But we love the big lug already. He’s very sweet. He is just a gentle giant of a dog. He now weighs more than 70 pounds and you can’t feel his bony sides anymore. And he’s getting healthier after the antibiotics and the de-worming and the deficit-building vet bills. And his hair is starting to grow out. And he smells a little better after the industrial bath and chemical dip.
But he’s still pissed off about his nuts.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Handyman Can (Cigar Smoke 2-25-10)
Is it just me or do things like this happen to you, and I don’t know if things like this don’t happen to you because you don’t have a column, or is it that these things may happen to you but you don’t give a flying fraguzzi, and I do give one of those?
Anyway, I’m up in my little Hovel by the Sea in Oregon last week and I need to do some work on my so-called house. I have to hang a large clock on the wall and I know from experience that if I do it myself I will leave a large hole in the wall and the anchor bolt will just hang there like Saddam Hussein and the clock will just be holding its breath until the first earthquake. And then it will fall on some luckless pet and I will be sued for every penny I have in my lousy shack hovel life. That is a pretty good summary of my handyman experience.
So I need to get a real handyman. So I go to a furniture store up there that I know fairly well, and I ask for a referral for a great handyman, and this guy standing near us hears my request and he says, “I am a great handyman.” So I looked at him and I said, “How do I know you are a great handyman?” And he said, “Because I drive a ratty pickup and I wear a tool belt.”
That was good enough for me. So we arrange for him to come over in the morning and do the work. He gets over to my place at 8 a.m. sharp and I have high hopes. (These hopes will be lowered very soon.) As he’s coming up the walkway, he seems to be wobbling just a bit. Nothing alarming, but there is definitely a wobble waiting to come out.
I asked him how he was doing and I didn’t want him to answer, but he did. He said he went to his brother’s bachelor party last night, but he had to leave early so he could help me out. Yup. Straight from the naked women and Chivas to old Jim E. Baby’s hovel handyman job. The hopes were pretty much at my ankles about then.
But, because I am a what? I am a dumb shit, that’s what. I let him continue. He comes into the house to analyze the job and he reaches for his tool belt, but his tool belt is not there. He says, “Oh shit, I left it with that stripper last night.” I said, “Hmm.” He said he would go out to his truck and get something. He did. A hammer.
He came back in and he had some kind of punch thing and he took a relatively straight swing with his hammer and he, well, he punched out a big enough hole in my cowering wall to put his fist through — and then crack his knuckles. He looks at me and I look at him and he says, “You got any Spackle?” I swear on my handyman’s manual, he said, “You got any Spackle?”
I said, “No. But I have a Colt 45 in the bedroom.” The humor went right over his hangover. He told me to sit tight; he would run down to the hardware store and get some stuff. He was back in 20 minutes with some hardware bolts and bullshit. And he worked awhile and the only thing I could see change was the size of the hole in the wall. He inquired as to whether I might have a bigger clock to hang.
Well, he went back and forth to the hardware store five times. Five frigging times. He kept coming back with wrong sizes and medieval attachment devices you may have seen in prisons in the Middle Ages. He was there for three-and-a-half hours. To hang one really tacky heavy clock. Three-and-a-half hours.
But finally he says, “Got ’er done. Come on over here and take a look.” I look and sure enough, the damn clock is on the wall. I kind of gingerly touch it and it seems secure. He asks me if I would like to see his work behind the clock and I tell him no, because I have a bad heart and I’ve seen large rat-entrance holes before. He laughed his handyman laugh.
I said, “Well, how much do I owe you?” and he said, and this is the God’s honest handyman fee truth, “how about five bucks?” Being from LA where I have been charged $120 dollars for a guy to come out to the house to look at a problem, I was pretty much stunned. Only five bucks.
I couldn’t believe it. Three-and-a-half hours of work for five bucks. I didn’t know what to say.
Finally, I said, “Would you take four?”
Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Anyway, I’m up in my little Hovel by the Sea in Oregon last week and I need to do some work on my so-called house. I have to hang a large clock on the wall and I know from experience that if I do it myself I will leave a large hole in the wall and the anchor bolt will just hang there like Saddam Hussein and the clock will just be holding its breath until the first earthquake. And then it will fall on some luckless pet and I will be sued for every penny I have in my lousy shack hovel life. That is a pretty good summary of my handyman experience.
So I need to get a real handyman. So I go to a furniture store up there that I know fairly well, and I ask for a referral for a great handyman, and this guy standing near us hears my request and he says, “I am a great handyman.” So I looked at him and I said, “How do I know you are a great handyman?” And he said, “Because I drive a ratty pickup and I wear a tool belt.”
That was good enough for me. So we arrange for him to come over in the morning and do the work. He gets over to my place at 8 a.m. sharp and I have high hopes. (These hopes will be lowered very soon.) As he’s coming up the walkway, he seems to be wobbling just a bit. Nothing alarming, but there is definitely a wobble waiting to come out.
I asked him how he was doing and I didn’t want him to answer, but he did. He said he went to his brother’s bachelor party last night, but he had to leave early so he could help me out. Yup. Straight from the naked women and Chivas to old Jim E. Baby’s hovel handyman job. The hopes were pretty much at my ankles about then.
But, because I am a what? I am a dumb shit, that’s what. I let him continue. He comes into the house to analyze the job and he reaches for his tool belt, but his tool belt is not there. He says, “Oh shit, I left it with that stripper last night.” I said, “Hmm.” He said he would go out to his truck and get something. He did. A hammer.
He came back in and he had some kind of punch thing and he took a relatively straight swing with his hammer and he, well, he punched out a big enough hole in my cowering wall to put his fist through — and then crack his knuckles. He looks at me and I look at him and he says, “You got any Spackle?” I swear on my handyman’s manual, he said, “You got any Spackle?”
I said, “No. But I have a Colt 45 in the bedroom.” The humor went right over his hangover. He told me to sit tight; he would run down to the hardware store and get some stuff. He was back in 20 minutes with some hardware bolts and bullshit. And he worked awhile and the only thing I could see change was the size of the hole in the wall. He inquired as to whether I might have a bigger clock to hang.
Well, he went back and forth to the hardware store five times. Five frigging times. He kept coming back with wrong sizes and medieval attachment devices you may have seen in prisons in the Middle Ages. He was there for three-and-a-half hours. To hang one really tacky heavy clock. Three-and-a-half hours.
But finally he says, “Got ’er done. Come on over here and take a look.” I look and sure enough, the damn clock is on the wall. I kind of gingerly touch it and it seems secure. He asks me if I would like to see his work behind the clock and I tell him no, because I have a bad heart and I’ve seen large rat-entrance holes before. He laughed his handyman laugh.
I said, “Well, how much do I owe you?” and he said, and this is the God’s honest handyman fee truth, “how about five bucks?” Being from LA where I have been charged $120 dollars for a guy to come out to the house to look at a problem, I was pretty much stunned. Only five bucks.
I couldn’t believe it. Three-and-a-half hours of work for five bucks. I didn’t know what to say.
Finally, I said, “Would you take four?”
Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Circus Lion Meat (Cigar Smoke 2-11-10)
Well, the little woman and I decided to go out for an evening of dinner and entertainment the other night. (By the way, I use the term “little woman” not because I am a sexist pig, but because Marge is indeed a little woman. She’s only four inches tall and I hold her in my hand.)
Anyway, before we left for the entertainment venue, I thought I would try out my new navigation app that I bought for my iPhone. I set everything up, I put in the address, I punched the buttons, and it seemed to be ready to go. I did a little app jig in the living room. Then we get in the car and, as I was driving, Marge was in charge of holding the iPhone, which was tough for her because the iPhone was also four inches tall. And as we were driving I kept asking her what the directions were. The app was supposed to talk to us in its little app voice. And guide us to our destination. But there was no response. Nothing. Just the silent treatment.
And I was getting all whacked out of shape and cursing and screaming and Marge was encouraging me with a “just drive, dumb ass” every once in a while. I had to just say to hell with the supposedly talking app and find the place myself. I don’t know how, but we got there and we got our table and I looked at the iPhone and I noticed that I had forgotten to turn the sound on. The app was talking to me after all, but I had not let it express itself fully. Marge wants to know if there is an app for being a dumb ass.
So we order dinner and we get two appetizers. Marge gets some commie French thing and I get the quesadillas with the guacamole dip that will jet propel me back home even without a car. Then we get two really great salads with killer crusty rolls and life looks livable again. And then our entrees arrive.
I had ordered a tri-tip with some special Roquefort sauce and that sucker was sitting on the plate like it had been there since it had been grazing in the pasture. And it was looking back at me. And it was not happy. I couldn’t quite tell, but I think it was giving me the finger.
I said to Marge, “Have you ever seen roast beef with semi-liquid white fluid on it before?” “Only when I worked at Huntington Hospital that one year,” she replied.
I kept looking at the tri-tip out of the corner of my eye, because I didn’t want to make direct eye contact with it and piss it off even more. But because I was hungry and because I will eat almost anything, I decided to take a bite. Holy Hoofed Dead Animal, that was not my best decision. It did not taste good. It did not taste healthy. It did not taste edible. It not only made my skin crawl, it made my tongue crawl. And I don’t blame my tongue — I was trying to crawl someplace myself.
Then I looked over at Marge and she was trying to crawl away from her dinner, too. I said, “Come back here. What did you order?” And she said, “I ordered the stuffed trout.” I said, “What was it stuffed with?” She said, “Rotting intestines and wolf feces.” I said, “Hmm?
Pretty creative.”
I ask you. I implore you. What are the odds that two people can order two completely different dinners, one dinner from the earth and one dinner from the lake, and have both dinners be so bad that we wouldn’t even try to trade them to each other? It was unbelievable. Both dinners looked gross and tasted worse. I wouldn’t have fed this stuff to enemy soldiers.
But all was not lost. Most of it was. But not all of it. We did find one shining blessing in the entertainment. While we were consuming an extra order of the killer crusty rolls and downing a few alcoholic beverages to give hope to our mortally wounded taste buds, some actor on the stage yells out, “I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!”
I am not making that up. The actor guy said, “I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!” Marge and I laughed so hard we spit up booze-drenched bits of crusty rolls, which made us laugh even harder.
And then, as we were leaving the theater, the hostess asked us how we liked our dinners, and I said, “If I ever eat here again I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!”
Then we ran to the car like eloping teenagers and started driving home. After a while, I asked Marge to check my email. She flipped on my iPhone and it started yapping out directions. At the next street, turn left. In a half a mile, exit here. Yap, yap, yap.. And I grabbed the phone and yelled at it, “If you don’t stop your little app yapping, I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!”
Anyway, before we left for the entertainment venue, I thought I would try out my new navigation app that I bought for my iPhone. I set everything up, I put in the address, I punched the buttons, and it seemed to be ready to go. I did a little app jig in the living room. Then we get in the car and, as I was driving, Marge was in charge of holding the iPhone, which was tough for her because the iPhone was also four inches tall. And as we were driving I kept asking her what the directions were. The app was supposed to talk to us in its little app voice. And guide us to our destination. But there was no response. Nothing. Just the silent treatment.
And I was getting all whacked out of shape and cursing and screaming and Marge was encouraging me with a “just drive, dumb ass” every once in a while. I had to just say to hell with the supposedly talking app and find the place myself. I don’t know how, but we got there and we got our table and I looked at the iPhone and I noticed that I had forgotten to turn the sound on. The app was talking to me after all, but I had not let it express itself fully. Marge wants to know if there is an app for being a dumb ass.
So we order dinner and we get two appetizers. Marge gets some commie French thing and I get the quesadillas with the guacamole dip that will jet propel me back home even without a car. Then we get two really great salads with killer crusty rolls and life looks livable again. And then our entrees arrive.
I had ordered a tri-tip with some special Roquefort sauce and that sucker was sitting on the plate like it had been there since it had been grazing in the pasture. And it was looking back at me. And it was not happy. I couldn’t quite tell, but I think it was giving me the finger.
I said to Marge, “Have you ever seen roast beef with semi-liquid white fluid on it before?” “Only when I worked at Huntington Hospital that one year,” she replied.
I kept looking at the tri-tip out of the corner of my eye, because I didn’t want to make direct eye contact with it and piss it off even more. But because I was hungry and because I will eat almost anything, I decided to take a bite. Holy Hoofed Dead Animal, that was not my best decision. It did not taste good. It did not taste healthy. It did not taste edible. It not only made my skin crawl, it made my tongue crawl. And I don’t blame my tongue — I was trying to crawl someplace myself.
Then I looked over at Marge and she was trying to crawl away from her dinner, too. I said, “Come back here. What did you order?” And she said, “I ordered the stuffed trout.” I said, “What was it stuffed with?” She said, “Rotting intestines and wolf feces.” I said, “Hmm?
Pretty creative.”
I ask you. I implore you. What are the odds that two people can order two completely different dinners, one dinner from the earth and one dinner from the lake, and have both dinners be so bad that we wouldn’t even try to trade them to each other? It was unbelievable. Both dinners looked gross and tasted worse. I wouldn’t have fed this stuff to enemy soldiers.
But all was not lost. Most of it was. But not all of it. We did find one shining blessing in the entertainment. While we were consuming an extra order of the killer crusty rolls and downing a few alcoholic beverages to give hope to our mortally wounded taste buds, some actor on the stage yells out, “I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!”
I am not making that up. The actor guy said, “I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!” Marge and I laughed so hard we spit up booze-drenched bits of crusty rolls, which made us laugh even harder.
And then, as we were leaving the theater, the hostess asked us how we liked our dinners, and I said, “If I ever eat here again I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!”
Then we ran to the car like eloping teenagers and started driving home. After a while, I asked Marge to check my email. She flipped on my iPhone and it started yapping out directions. At the next street, turn left. In a half a mile, exit here. Yap, yap, yap.. And I grabbed the phone and yelled at it, “If you don’t stop your little app yapping, I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!”
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Right Cross (Cigar Smoke 1-28-10)
OK, I am sitting here at my desk basking in the right-wing-nut glow of the Scott Brown win in Massachusetts. I still can’t quite believe what happened. The Democrats lost the Kennedy seat. The decisive 41st seat. Un-frigging-believable. Holy Political Moly, the irony is just too delicious to not gloat over it.
But I know it is unbecoming to gloat, so I won’t be gloating very long. I’m a short-term gloater. Something will piss me off within the next hour and there won’t be a Scott Brown truck to run it over.
So I would like to spend some time talking about being a right-wing nut. I think us right-wingers have gotten a semi-bum rap. All of us aren’t Bible-toting Ku Klux Klan racists and war-mongering insensitive capitalistic greedy scum who hate gays. Although, I would admit that most of those groups could be in the Republican Party. What can I say? I don’t sleep with any of them.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I think we should all chill out a little and take a closer look at who is on the other side. So I thought I would share with you some of my so-called right-wing views. So eventually you will love me, and send me nice gifts.
And I realize this will be a short and somewhat shallow revelation of my positions. However, I don’t have the space or the talent to present a more in-depth offering.
First of all, I am an atheist. I am not a big fan of religion. However, I would side with the religious right over the spiritual left. At least, the religious right has some kind of moral standard. They hold themselves accountable for their actions. Most people on the left seem to just want to be spiritual, whatever the hell that means. They all just want to move to New Mexico and gaze at sunsets or navels and take a few hits on something and be mellow. Seems to me they just don’t want to acknowledge any of the hard stuff.
I warned you it would be short and shallow.
I’m also on the right because people on the right actually show their love of the country. They are not embarrassed by being patriotic. People on the left always say they love the country, but they always say that when complaining about how bad things are. They never seem to show it with flags or pins or bumper stickers like us right-wing-nut jobs do. Is it really that hard to say that you love the country and not put a but after it? People on the left want us to be more like France. People on the right are comfortable being Americans. People on the right are proud to be Americans. Are people on the left proud to be American?
Maybe. But it would be nice if they showed it once in a while.
I like FOX News. Sue me. But I think Bill O’Reilly is an arrogant jerk. Just like MSNBC’s Keith Olbermann is an arrogant jerk. I’ll admit my guy is a jerk-off if you will throw yours under the bus. At least we could make a stab at being civil. Let’s get rid of those two guys, huh? You go first. I’ll drive the bus. Then maybe Scott Brown can swing by in his pickup.
But you can’t take away FOX News. You keep all the other stations. Just let me have my one poor little stepchild of a station. But hell, some of you lefties don’t even like the fact that us right-wing-wackos have any TV news stations at all. If it were up to Obama, FOX would be gone. What a whiner.
And in my simplistic right-wing view, global warming is the biggest hoax in my lifetime. It is such a crock that Betty should name a cooking pot after it. First it was that our poor planet was getting too hot and then, when the facts wouldn’t support that, they quickly morphed it to climate change. And just this week the United Nations acknowledged that they made a slight mistake in their prediction that the Himalayas were melting. They had said they would melt by 2035. Seems as if there was a typo. It should have been in the year 2350. What’s 315 years among us scientists?
And lest we forget, the other little UN global hot air goof: Remember when they said all this supposed melting would make the seas rise by 18 feet? They eventually confessed that they meant 18 inches. Feet? Inches? What’s the big deal?
And the polar bears are going to all die. Doesn’t anyone even give a leftist crap that the polar bear population is increasing? But that wouldn’t fit with the agenda. I’m glad I’m enrolled in another school. Remember, I’m not trying to be too heavy or critical here.
I’m extending my little peace pipe or lotus leaf or outstretched crushing right-handed manly handshake to help us see each other a little better. I love polar bears, dammit. But whatever global climate change there is (which may or may not be happening) is making the polar bear population go up. There are more polar bears. Shouldn’t having more bears be a good sign?
Finally, I’m on the right because the right is grateful for and honors the military. The Berkeley left tries to ban them from being able to recruit near college campuses. The left sings songs about how bad they are. John Lennon wants us to Imagine. I want us to imagine what the world would be like without the US military.
OK, I’m stepping down off my soapbox of gloating. Oops, I have to get back up there again. “Air America” just went under.
Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
But I know it is unbecoming to gloat, so I won’t be gloating very long. I’m a short-term gloater. Something will piss me off within the next hour and there won’t be a Scott Brown truck to run it over.
So I would like to spend some time talking about being a right-wing nut. I think us right-wingers have gotten a semi-bum rap. All of us aren’t Bible-toting Ku Klux Klan racists and war-mongering insensitive capitalistic greedy scum who hate gays. Although, I would admit that most of those groups could be in the Republican Party. What can I say? I don’t sleep with any of them.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I think we should all chill out a little and take a closer look at who is on the other side. So I thought I would share with you some of my so-called right-wing views. So eventually you will love me, and send me nice gifts.
And I realize this will be a short and somewhat shallow revelation of my positions. However, I don’t have the space or the talent to present a more in-depth offering.
First of all, I am an atheist. I am not a big fan of religion. However, I would side with the religious right over the spiritual left. At least, the religious right has some kind of moral standard. They hold themselves accountable for their actions. Most people on the left seem to just want to be spiritual, whatever the hell that means. They all just want to move to New Mexico and gaze at sunsets or navels and take a few hits on something and be mellow. Seems to me they just don’t want to acknowledge any of the hard stuff.
I warned you it would be short and shallow.
I’m also on the right because people on the right actually show their love of the country. They are not embarrassed by being patriotic. People on the left always say they love the country, but they always say that when complaining about how bad things are. They never seem to show it with flags or pins or bumper stickers like us right-wing-nut jobs do. Is it really that hard to say that you love the country and not put a but after it? People on the left want us to be more like France. People on the right are comfortable being Americans. People on the right are proud to be Americans. Are people on the left proud to be American?
Maybe. But it would be nice if they showed it once in a while.
I like FOX News. Sue me. But I think Bill O’Reilly is an arrogant jerk. Just like MSNBC’s Keith Olbermann is an arrogant jerk. I’ll admit my guy is a jerk-off if you will throw yours under the bus. At least we could make a stab at being civil. Let’s get rid of those two guys, huh? You go first. I’ll drive the bus. Then maybe Scott Brown can swing by in his pickup.
But you can’t take away FOX News. You keep all the other stations. Just let me have my one poor little stepchild of a station. But hell, some of you lefties don’t even like the fact that us right-wing-wackos have any TV news stations at all. If it were up to Obama, FOX would be gone. What a whiner.
And in my simplistic right-wing view, global warming is the biggest hoax in my lifetime. It is such a crock that Betty should name a cooking pot after it. First it was that our poor planet was getting too hot and then, when the facts wouldn’t support that, they quickly morphed it to climate change. And just this week the United Nations acknowledged that they made a slight mistake in their prediction that the Himalayas were melting. They had said they would melt by 2035. Seems as if there was a typo. It should have been in the year 2350. What’s 315 years among us scientists?
And lest we forget, the other little UN global hot air goof: Remember when they said all this supposed melting would make the seas rise by 18 feet? They eventually confessed that they meant 18 inches. Feet? Inches? What’s the big deal?
And the polar bears are going to all die. Doesn’t anyone even give a leftist crap that the polar bear population is increasing? But that wouldn’t fit with the agenda. I’m glad I’m enrolled in another school. Remember, I’m not trying to be too heavy or critical here.
I’m extending my little peace pipe or lotus leaf or outstretched crushing right-handed manly handshake to help us see each other a little better. I love polar bears, dammit. But whatever global climate change there is (which may or may not be happening) is making the polar bear population go up. There are more polar bears. Shouldn’t having more bears be a good sign?
Finally, I’m on the right because the right is grateful for and honors the military. The Berkeley left tries to ban them from being able to recruit near college campuses. The left sings songs about how bad they are. John Lennon wants us to Imagine. I want us to imagine what the world would be like without the US military.
OK, I’m stepping down off my soapbox of gloating. Oops, I have to get back up there again. “Air America” just went under.
Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Coffee with a Little Ire To Go (Cigar Smoke 1-14-10)
Being retired has enabled me to get into a number of things I didn’t have time for when I was a real person. I’ve been able to sit on the couch for very long periods of time until someone puts a feather in front of my nose to see if my nostril hairs are moving. I’ve been able to buy an iPhone ap that lets me track my FedEx packages and look at it every day to see if my packages are in Lexington, Ky., or en route to the delivery center in Austin, Texas. And most recently, I have been able to check out a different place to get my coffee every day in and around Pasadena.
Yes, I have had coffee at every Starbucks within a radius of 10 miles of Old Town. And I’ve enjoyed most of them. I usually go out and buy a USA Today and solve the crossword puzzle instead of solving my own life problems. And I always order a small coffee of the day and the clerk person always says, “Do you mean a tall or a grande?” And I always say, “Small.” And they say, “Tall or grande, you white-haired geezer bastard?” And I say, “Let’s compromise. How about a smande?”
After I had been to all the Starbucks in the area, and after many of the managers had put me on their no-sip lists, I started going to other coffee places. I would seek out semi-lowlife kind of spots where I could feel comfortable. Places with almost acceptable coffee and lots of open tables. Hole-in-the-wall spots. AM-PM stores. Hawaiian drink places with coffee signs in pencil. Donut shops. Enjoyed them all.
Except for the one on Colorado Boulevard that was so damn fancy that I felt like I had walked into someone’s living room. This place had poofy couches and nice chairs and carpets and — scariest of all — table lamps. Holy roasted coffee bean, baby. Table lamps! And then this nice Japanese woman asks me what I would like and I ordered a coffee and felt obligated to get this little mystery pastry goodie that was on a really nice plate with a lace napkin on it. And I paid her and she bowed and she kind of hesitated, so hell, I bowed back. And she bowed again. And I bowed.
And then, when I’m sitting in my stuffed chair with my table lamp on, she comes over and bows again, and I bow, and she bows, and I bow and I stick my nose into my coffee. She is startled at this, so she asks me if there is anything she can do, and I say, “Maybe bow one more time.”
Haven’t been back there. I found a new place out in Monrovia. Just my kind of place. Has coffee with sizes that you don’t have to be bilingual to order and is fairly big, so I can find a seat, and is far enough from my house that I can smoke a cigar on the way over and back. I love this place. I just take my iPhone and drink my coffee and observe all the other patrons with their electronic rectangles and am happy that we will never have to actually talk to each other. It’s perfect.
Well, almost perfect. I’ve been going there for a couple of months now, and it’s been great. And then a few days ago I go there and have my small coffee without flak and I go back out to my car. And some coffee-juiced jerk-off has parked his car so close to mine that I can’t get in.
How do people do this? He pulls into the stall next to me and parks right up against my car. He is literally within six inches of my door. He barely missed my rear-view mirror. There is no way anybody can get in my car. Twiggy on a diet couldn’t get in my car.
At first, I think of how I could beat this lowlife with a crowbar and tell the jury straight out that I did it and I know they’d let me off. But, of course, I am a semi-civil person. I will not club the guy to death. I try to stay calm. I accept that I will just have to live with the fantasy of clubbing the guy to death.
So I walk back into the coffee place. I say in a loud voice, “Excuse me. May I have your attention? Please put your hand-held devices down. This is a real person speaking to you. I am not voice- activated software. I am rage-activated human. I would like to know who the owner of the car is who parked his car so close to my car that I cannot get into my car. That’s what I want to know.”
Nobody raised his or her hand. So I said, “OK, here’s the deal. This key in my hand is my car key. I am going to walk out to my car and take this key and scratch my name and phone number on the side of your car so you can be sure to know who to apologize to. Or you can take your own car key and back your car out of the parking space where you have parked your pissily parked piece-of-shit-and-Shinola car.”
I turned and started walking out. Some lady ran by me and whisked that Escalade out of that parking spot before I could say “club to death with a tire iron.”
Damn soccer moms!
Yes, I have had coffee at every Starbucks within a radius of 10 miles of Old Town. And I’ve enjoyed most of them. I usually go out and buy a USA Today and solve the crossword puzzle instead of solving my own life problems. And I always order a small coffee of the day and the clerk person always says, “Do you mean a tall or a grande?” And I always say, “Small.” And they say, “Tall or grande, you white-haired geezer bastard?” And I say, “Let’s compromise. How about a smande?”
After I had been to all the Starbucks in the area, and after many of the managers had put me on their no-sip lists, I started going to other coffee places. I would seek out semi-lowlife kind of spots where I could feel comfortable. Places with almost acceptable coffee and lots of open tables. Hole-in-the-wall spots. AM-PM stores. Hawaiian drink places with coffee signs in pencil. Donut shops. Enjoyed them all.
Except for the one on Colorado Boulevard that was so damn fancy that I felt like I had walked into someone’s living room. This place had poofy couches and nice chairs and carpets and — scariest of all — table lamps. Holy roasted coffee bean, baby. Table lamps! And then this nice Japanese woman asks me what I would like and I ordered a coffee and felt obligated to get this little mystery pastry goodie that was on a really nice plate with a lace napkin on it. And I paid her and she bowed and she kind of hesitated, so hell, I bowed back. And she bowed again. And I bowed.
And then, when I’m sitting in my stuffed chair with my table lamp on, she comes over and bows again, and I bow, and she bows, and I bow and I stick my nose into my coffee. She is startled at this, so she asks me if there is anything she can do, and I say, “Maybe bow one more time.”
Haven’t been back there. I found a new place out in Monrovia. Just my kind of place. Has coffee with sizes that you don’t have to be bilingual to order and is fairly big, so I can find a seat, and is far enough from my house that I can smoke a cigar on the way over and back. I love this place. I just take my iPhone and drink my coffee and observe all the other patrons with their electronic rectangles and am happy that we will never have to actually talk to each other. It’s perfect.
Well, almost perfect. I’ve been going there for a couple of months now, and it’s been great. And then a few days ago I go there and have my small coffee without flak and I go back out to my car. And some coffee-juiced jerk-off has parked his car so close to mine that I can’t get in.
How do people do this? He pulls into the stall next to me and parks right up against my car. He is literally within six inches of my door. He barely missed my rear-view mirror. There is no way anybody can get in my car. Twiggy on a diet couldn’t get in my car.
At first, I think of how I could beat this lowlife with a crowbar and tell the jury straight out that I did it and I know they’d let me off. But, of course, I am a semi-civil person. I will not club the guy to death. I try to stay calm. I accept that I will just have to live with the fantasy of clubbing the guy to death.
So I walk back into the coffee place. I say in a loud voice, “Excuse me. May I have your attention? Please put your hand-held devices down. This is a real person speaking to you. I am not voice- activated software. I am rage-activated human. I would like to know who the owner of the car is who parked his car so close to my car that I cannot get into my car. That’s what I want to know.”
Nobody raised his or her hand. So I said, “OK, here’s the deal. This key in my hand is my car key. I am going to walk out to my car and take this key and scratch my name and phone number on the side of your car so you can be sure to know who to apologize to. Or you can take your own car key and back your car out of the parking space where you have parked your pissily parked piece-of-shit-and-Shinola car.”
I turned and started walking out. Some lady ran by me and whisked that Escalade out of that parking spot before I could say “club to death with a tire iron.”
Damn soccer moms!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wanna Sleep With Me? (Cigar Smoke 12-31-09)
Would you like to sleep with me? (Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you spill your coffee.) Actually, I’ve asked that question to many women over the years and, of course, they assumed that I meant would they like to have sex with me, and their answers have ranged from “With you?” to offensively feminine finger-pointing pissy laughter to being nailed on the side of the head with a purse to having to excuse myself before the police came — and once, to having to dodge projectile vomiting.
OK, forget the sex thing. I get it. I’m talking about actual sleep. I seem to have a few quirks when I get in the sack. (And that’s not counting that spaced-out country music groupie in Bakersfield 30 years ago who mistook me for Buck Owens.)
Here’s what I do when I get in bed. First of all, I have to wear boxer shorts. I cannot sleep in briefs. I just can’t do it. And I can’t sleep naked because of the restraining order. And I can’t wear pajamas ever since I went to college and wore them once and my so-called buddies ripped them up and waited until I got back from my classes to burn them in front of me. And I can’t wear a T-shirt. Just boxer shorts. Only boxer shorts. Big, loose, oversize boxer shorts.
And once I am actually in bed I have a set of rituals I must go through before I can even think about going to sleep. I am not joking here. I have to do the following. And in this particular order. No variance at all. Variance is for sissies. First of all, I have to sigh and moan. I just lie down and it seems as if the weight of the world lies down with me. And I sigh and I kind of moan “Oh, God, that feels good.” And I throw in a couple of other moans just because that is always what I do.
Then I consciously start addressing various body parts that need attention. My back is always first. I have a chronically bad back, and I have to press it down into the bed until it hurts. And it hurts every damn night, and I keep pressing it harder and harder into the mattress and the hurt kind of feels good and I moan out a few Oh, Gods to somebody — I’m not sure who.
Then I take the heel of my right foot and push on the inside of my left knee maybe three or four times. I’ve had two operations on that knee and it, like me, is somehow just not right. So when I push it with my heel that stretches it out — and the pain is both expected and welcome. And then I moan just a little louder than my back moan.
Then I take my right heel and continue down below the knee to my left calf. And then I massage my left calf a few times to take the pressure off of it, and it seems to relax me. And then, because I want to be fair, I take my left heel and go over and massage my right calf so it won’t feel neglected. I am not making this up. I do this, dammit. Every night.
Then I take one heel and put it in the ball of one foot and massage the bottom of that foot and then take the other heel and massage the bottom of the other foot. This allows me to draw one final moan-sigh out of my excuse for a functioning body. “Oh, God, that feels good.”
Then I pull the covers up around my neck and tuck the left covers under my left cheek really securely, and then I tuck the right covers under my right cheek, and it’s all very snug and tight like a Boy Scout mummy bag. It makes me feel, well, toasty. And then I rub my bare chest vigorously for a few seconds, and just before my chest hair catches on fire, I stop and enjoy the warmth.
Now, I move into my final phase. (No, not senility.) I interlace my fingers and rest them on my toasty chest and start to crack my knuckles. But I don’t just crack my knuckles. No, I count the number of successful cracks for each hand. For some reason, I can crack more of the fingers on my right hand than on my left hand. Usually I crack, maybe, three fingers on my right hand and only two on my left. Only rarely does my left hand ever win. And even rarer still are the nights when I successfully crack all my fingers. I think this has only happened three or four times in the last 10 years. And when it did happen, I was so excited I had a hard time going to sleep. But, like I said, that hardly ever happens.
Usually, I finish my knuckle-cracking ritual and I give one final sighing moan to the gods of sleep, and I lie perfectly still and let myself metaphorically melt into the bed like a drunk Zen guy. And I fall asleep within 30 seconds. Like a damn clock, baby.
Next week, I’ll tell you how I brush my teeth.
OK, forget the sex thing. I get it. I’m talking about actual sleep. I seem to have a few quirks when I get in the sack. (And that’s not counting that spaced-out country music groupie in Bakersfield 30 years ago who mistook me for Buck Owens.)
Here’s what I do when I get in bed. First of all, I have to wear boxer shorts. I cannot sleep in briefs. I just can’t do it. And I can’t sleep naked because of the restraining order. And I can’t wear pajamas ever since I went to college and wore them once and my so-called buddies ripped them up and waited until I got back from my classes to burn them in front of me. And I can’t wear a T-shirt. Just boxer shorts. Only boxer shorts. Big, loose, oversize boxer shorts.
And once I am actually in bed I have a set of rituals I must go through before I can even think about going to sleep. I am not joking here. I have to do the following. And in this particular order. No variance at all. Variance is for sissies. First of all, I have to sigh and moan. I just lie down and it seems as if the weight of the world lies down with me. And I sigh and I kind of moan “Oh, God, that feels good.” And I throw in a couple of other moans just because that is always what I do.
Then I consciously start addressing various body parts that need attention. My back is always first. I have a chronically bad back, and I have to press it down into the bed until it hurts. And it hurts every damn night, and I keep pressing it harder and harder into the mattress and the hurt kind of feels good and I moan out a few Oh, Gods to somebody — I’m not sure who.
Then I take the heel of my right foot and push on the inside of my left knee maybe three or four times. I’ve had two operations on that knee and it, like me, is somehow just not right. So when I push it with my heel that stretches it out — and the pain is both expected and welcome. And then I moan just a little louder than my back moan.
Then I take my right heel and continue down below the knee to my left calf. And then I massage my left calf a few times to take the pressure off of it, and it seems to relax me. And then, because I want to be fair, I take my left heel and go over and massage my right calf so it won’t feel neglected. I am not making this up. I do this, dammit. Every night.
Then I take one heel and put it in the ball of one foot and massage the bottom of that foot and then take the other heel and massage the bottom of the other foot. This allows me to draw one final moan-sigh out of my excuse for a functioning body. “Oh, God, that feels good.”
Then I pull the covers up around my neck and tuck the left covers under my left cheek really securely, and then I tuck the right covers under my right cheek, and it’s all very snug and tight like a Boy Scout mummy bag. It makes me feel, well, toasty. And then I rub my bare chest vigorously for a few seconds, and just before my chest hair catches on fire, I stop and enjoy the warmth.
Now, I move into my final phase. (No, not senility.) I interlace my fingers and rest them on my toasty chest and start to crack my knuckles. But I don’t just crack my knuckles. No, I count the number of successful cracks for each hand. For some reason, I can crack more of the fingers on my right hand than on my left hand. Usually I crack, maybe, three fingers on my right hand and only two on my left. Only rarely does my left hand ever win. And even rarer still are the nights when I successfully crack all my fingers. I think this has only happened three or four times in the last 10 years. And when it did happen, I was so excited I had a hard time going to sleep. But, like I said, that hardly ever happens.
Usually, I finish my knuckle-cracking ritual and I give one final sighing moan to the gods of sleep, and I lie perfectly still and let myself metaphorically melt into the bed like a drunk Zen guy. And I fall asleep within 30 seconds. Like a damn clock, baby.
Next week, I’ll tell you how I brush my teeth.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Giving the Gift That Never Starts Giving (Cigar Smoke 12-17-09)
I try to give good gifts at Christmas time. In fact, most people think I am very trying. Last year I asked someone who had received a gift from me how they liked it. And they said, “You are very trying.”
Like I was saying, I usually give pretty good gifts. But I do have a tendency to push Santa’s chunky envelope just a little. A couple of years ago I gave someone in our extended family a gift that I didn’t know what it was until after she got it. Really. I bought this kind of psycho-looking funky metal art object with arms reaching to Pomona kind-of-statue thing. At the time, I felt a little uneasy buying it, but I thought it looked pretty cool so I pulled the Visa on it.
Then when the unbelievably happy recipient of the gift opened it, she was very excited. She said, “Wow! I’ve always wanted a jewelry butler.” I am not kidding you. I had purchased a jewelry butler not knowing jewelry butlers even existed. She asked me where I found this and I had to tell her the truth — that I had searched the Internet for months and talked to jewelry experts around the country until I had found just the perfect jewelry butler I knew she would love. (Please don’t tell me what a jewelry butler does. I don’t want to know. My ignorance and I are very happy together.)
I admit I do try to give gifts that are a little off the beaten track. I like to give gifts that nobody would ever give themselves. I look for gifts out in left field, just north of the power alleys. Once Robert Frost told me one of my gifts was on a road that shouldn’t even be considered.
Yes, I am the guy who gives you that purple elephant footrest. I can’t think of a better way to rest your tired feet than propping them up on the back of a foot stool that looks like an elephant, a purple elephant. You know you wouldn’t buy that for yourself.
I once gave a newlywed couple I knew a Christmas gift of a power drill. I thought to myself, just how many pretty, useful things can one couple use. So I sprang for a Black & Decker beauty that could drill through cement, and I’ll never forget what the wife said to me after she opened it: “When did you get out of prison?” You talk about a moment of Christmas joy.
But last year something very unusual happened. I was visiting the house of someone whom I had given what I thought was a really nice gift and, hot damn, they actually had it in their kitchen and were actually using a gift that I had actually given. Actually. It was incredible.
I said, “Do you remember the wonderfully thoughtful person who gave you this stunning gift?” The woman whom I had asked, at first, tried to not tell me who it was, but I held her down near the sink and had my knee on her apron-covered upper torso until she said, “You did. You did. Thank you. Stop.” I said, “Yes, it was me who gave you that cool gift. Thank you for remembering.”
I had given them one of those combo coffee pot and tea-water-heating units that lets you use individual packets of specialty coffee or tea packets to make your own favorite beverage. That way everyone in your family can have just the right drink for themselves. It’s just so modern and efficient and cool (almost snazzy) that I feel like breaking out into a break dance. That reminds me; a few years ago I gave my 80-year-old uncle some break-dancing lessons. He made it to the lesson where he spins on his head in the kitchen. His widow never forgave me for that one.
But that combo coffee-brewing baby was a hit. I just love going over there when they throw a little party and walking among the coffee- and tea-drinking guests. Everyone is getting the exact drink they want and love and need. A latte. A mint tea. A cappuccino imotatte. An English tea. A Chinese tea. A Chai tea. A Nestlé’s cocoa packet some little fart neighbor kid snuck in. It just makes my Christmas heart sing.
Speaking of Christmas singing, I bought our family a wonderful gift many years ago and it still is the most joyous gift we as a family have ever received, (although, technically, because I was the one who gave it, I don’t know if I can receive it, too. In the spirit of the season, let’s just say I can.)
Anyway, I gave the family a Christmas ornament that is painted a bright and shiny Tijuana gold, and if I say so myself, it is quite beautiful. It’s a gold metal ornament that looks like Elvis. Looks just like him. Right down to the drug injection marks on his arms. The detail is amazing. And not only does it look great, it plays two of his Christmas songs — “Blue Christmas” and something else we can’t make out. And get this. The batteries are still going. The same batteries it came with 10 years ago. It makes me want to cry.
My family feels the same way.
Like I was saying, I usually give pretty good gifts. But I do have a tendency to push Santa’s chunky envelope just a little. A couple of years ago I gave someone in our extended family a gift that I didn’t know what it was until after she got it. Really. I bought this kind of psycho-looking funky metal art object with arms reaching to Pomona kind-of-statue thing. At the time, I felt a little uneasy buying it, but I thought it looked pretty cool so I pulled the Visa on it.
Then when the unbelievably happy recipient of the gift opened it, she was very excited. She said, “Wow! I’ve always wanted a jewelry butler.” I am not kidding you. I had purchased a jewelry butler not knowing jewelry butlers even existed. She asked me where I found this and I had to tell her the truth — that I had searched the Internet for months and talked to jewelry experts around the country until I had found just the perfect jewelry butler I knew she would love. (Please don’t tell me what a jewelry butler does. I don’t want to know. My ignorance and I are very happy together.)
I admit I do try to give gifts that are a little off the beaten track. I like to give gifts that nobody would ever give themselves. I look for gifts out in left field, just north of the power alleys. Once Robert Frost told me one of my gifts was on a road that shouldn’t even be considered.
Yes, I am the guy who gives you that purple elephant footrest. I can’t think of a better way to rest your tired feet than propping them up on the back of a foot stool that looks like an elephant, a purple elephant. You know you wouldn’t buy that for yourself.
I once gave a newlywed couple I knew a Christmas gift of a power drill. I thought to myself, just how many pretty, useful things can one couple use. So I sprang for a Black & Decker beauty that could drill through cement, and I’ll never forget what the wife said to me after she opened it: “When did you get out of prison?” You talk about a moment of Christmas joy.
But last year something very unusual happened. I was visiting the house of someone whom I had given what I thought was a really nice gift and, hot damn, they actually had it in their kitchen and were actually using a gift that I had actually given. Actually. It was incredible.
I said, “Do you remember the wonderfully thoughtful person who gave you this stunning gift?” The woman whom I had asked, at first, tried to not tell me who it was, but I held her down near the sink and had my knee on her apron-covered upper torso until she said, “You did. You did. Thank you. Stop.” I said, “Yes, it was me who gave you that cool gift. Thank you for remembering.”
I had given them one of those combo coffee pot and tea-water-heating units that lets you use individual packets of specialty coffee or tea packets to make your own favorite beverage. That way everyone in your family can have just the right drink for themselves. It’s just so modern and efficient and cool (almost snazzy) that I feel like breaking out into a break dance. That reminds me; a few years ago I gave my 80-year-old uncle some break-dancing lessons. He made it to the lesson where he spins on his head in the kitchen. His widow never forgave me for that one.
But that combo coffee-brewing baby was a hit. I just love going over there when they throw a little party and walking among the coffee- and tea-drinking guests. Everyone is getting the exact drink they want and love and need. A latte. A mint tea. A cappuccino imotatte. An English tea. A Chinese tea. A Chai tea. A Nestlé’s cocoa packet some little fart neighbor kid snuck in. It just makes my Christmas heart sing.
Speaking of Christmas singing, I bought our family a wonderful gift many years ago and it still is the most joyous gift we as a family have ever received, (although, technically, because I was the one who gave it, I don’t know if I can receive it, too. In the spirit of the season, let’s just say I can.)
Anyway, I gave the family a Christmas ornament that is painted a bright and shiny Tijuana gold, and if I say so myself, it is quite beautiful. It’s a gold metal ornament that looks like Elvis. Looks just like him. Right down to the drug injection marks on his arms. The detail is amazing. And not only does it look great, it plays two of his Christmas songs — “Blue Christmas” and something else we can’t make out. And get this. The batteries are still going. The same batteries it came with 10 years ago. It makes me want to cry.
My family feels the same way.
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