Marty Barrett: The Flight of the Mavervorl

Uncomfortable plurals

2008-05-16T10:49:00.000-07:00

For years I have cringed upon hearing the word "grasses." I feel that grass, like sheep and moose, should be both plural and singular. I believe it has earned that right.

This grass lives in Malibu Lake, near some gooses.

The War on the Poor from four fronts

2008-05-15T10:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I needed to get to the Corman Federal Building in Van Nuys, the San Fernando Valley counterpart to the federal centers in Los Angeles proper. I decided to take public transportation because gas prices make it almost convenient.

I bought an MTA day pass for five bucks, which would cover the bus to the subway station, the subway to the articulated busway, and the articulated bus to Van Nuys, and back. I loaded my bike to the front of the bus, locked my bike at the train station, and arrived in Van Nuys unfettered 90 minutes from when I left home.

In my five years attempting to squeeze value and enjoyment out of riding subways in L.A. (which includes the articulated bus, or Orange Line, for purposes of fares), I have had my ticket checked maybe three times.

When one descends into the subway in L.A. one buys a ticket, which must be shown to any MTA employee on demand. There are no turnstiles or gates, but if a rider is caught without a ticket he may be fined $250.

That said, the honor system can't be working too well, as the MTA announced it will be adding high-tech turnstiles soon, and the occasional MTA officer assigned to ticket detail must feel abashed doing a job that might better be assigned to a basket (I feel the same way about toll booth operators).

Anyway, the complex in which the Corman Federal Building stands also houses the Van Nuys Division of Los Angeles Superior Court as well as the offices of probation officers and a radiating web of bail bond companies. So I was riding on the Orange Line with a bunch of ex-cons going to see their parole officers and families going to see their relatives on trial.

The bus was met at Van Nuys Station by four uniformed police who checked everyone's ticket (I just flashed mine, but there was no way for the officer to really see it. He didn't follow me) and apprehended at least five people and let one family go with a warning.

That the cops were out in force at the Courthouse but where one might not be seen for months elsewhere on the route seemed unbalanced, but I guess if there's a quota to fill of scofflaws who will be stuck with $250 fines because they can't afford five bucks, it's a smarter move to go where the poor people are.

Filled with rightewous indignation at the end of the day and carrying no currency but my day pass in my pocket, I made the long journey back to Hollywood where my bike was, and pulled a book from my pocket, waiting for the bus that would take me home.

As you know, I am a vagrant magnet. In 2009 I will have my own entry indicating this in the Periodic Table of the Elements. In a crowd of people I will be the person a vagrant asks for money, and they never believe me when I say I don't have any change.

As I was reading my book in the group of four people, I heard a strange honking coming toward me and knew, without looking up, that it was the voice of someone coming to ask me for money. I figured the guy deserved at least the courtesy of my looking up, plus I wanted to see the type of person who honked, so I looked up.

"Honk honk honk," said a guy holding a ragged piece of paper reading I AM A DEAF MUTE.

He was signing something to me, so I made the American Sign Language signs for NO and MONEY. He then pointed to ".50" on the other side of his paper, and I signed NO MONEY again.

Then he started signing fast and furious. I wasn't even sure it was real ASL. He was pointing up, as if to God, and at that point I said the word "No." He kept honking at me and gesturing, the gist of which was, "You have to give me something." Finally I signed STOP and said, "Go away." I wish I knew the ASL for GOD DOESN'T EXIST.

(Having watched Evan Almighty recently, I am more sure than ever.)

A friend of mine used to manage a Starbucks and I recounted something that recently happened to me at a Starbucks near the Kodak Theatre in Hollywood, where the Oscars are awarded.

We had the following e-mail conversation:

Dear Michelle,

I know this part of your life is behind you, but I am curious about the Starbucks policy on vagrants.

The other day I was at a Starbucks at the corner of Highland and Franklin, just north of Hollywood/Highland, and a homeless guy came in and started terrorizing the place.

I was in a suit and tie and had my computer bag and a camera, and he saw me before I saw him, so there was no time to put on my Fuck You face, which I certainly would have, because he was drunk.

I admit that my willingness to give people money goes way down when they're drunk, unless they're hookers.

So he comes to my table and the first I saw of him was him kneeling down next to me.

"Bro I beg you bro I just need a cup of coffee bro you're a handsome guy bro - ..."

And I just didn't like him, so I said, "I'm not giving you any money."

He said, "I didn't ask you for money Bro I said I wanted a cup of coffee."

I hadn't though of this tactic before. What I should have said, of course, was Get Away from Me, because that's what I meant. So instead I said, "You can have some of my coffee."

He goes and gets a cup from somewhere, comes back, and pours like a third of my coffee cup into his before I look up again and said, "I said you can have SOME of mine."

Then he heads off to bother other patrons, then he goes outside to harass people coming in, then he leaves. Meanwhile, I'm staring at his coffee mug, thinking, "Whose coffee is this now?"

Then he comes back and starts telling this girl to my right that I'm rich and I wouldn't give him any money.

So very nicely I turn and say, "Shut the fuck up, you fucking piece of shit, and drink the fucking coffee I gave you."

Then he gets up and says (and I don't know what this means), "You're all Shit Ass," and he leaves.

From beginning to end, this journey took about 40 minutes, during which time the employees knew the guy was there and, I got the impression, were familiar with him already.

I am very conflicted about whom I give money, and decide on a case by case basis, and as I said am prejudiced against people who appear under the influence, but I'm wondering what the Starbucks policy is about people who create disruptions, because that guy had the run of the place.

She wrote me back immediately:

ok - so Starbucks policy. simple answer? there isn't one. they don't have any official policy on how to handle vagrants because in Starbucks Corporate La La Land vagrants don't exist. they have this pristine image of creating a neighborhood environment wherever they plink down a store and that is really what they want you to build: a neighborhood feeling where all are welcome. you know, you walk into a store and your friendly barista Joe starts making your favorite beverage, asking you how the kids are and what you thought of the game last night - the whole transaction taking place in under 3 minutes, the alloted amount of time that you are given to service a customer from start to finish. ideally - it is a great vision. realistically - it is total bullshit.

in my experience working for starbucks - especially starbucks in a heavily populated area like LA - you deal with things that the every day corporate suit couldn't even imagine. and because of that, and the pressure they put on you to MAKE IT WORK, you start creating your own policies regarding vagrants, thieves, drunks and assholes. and MY policy in MY stores was ZERO TOLERANCE. period. i became a cunt. seriously. i was the "heavy" that - whenever someone came in and behaved like the situation you described - would immediately jump over the counter while yelling to my assistant to call the cops, and i would tell them to get out. get out NOW. and if they didn't i would very politely start pushing them out the door. one time, i had a vagrant who was such a nuissance and insisted on getting in my customers face that several of us pushed him out the door and locked it until the police arrived and he went away. i HATED the whole scene - and by the end of my Starbucks career, after bullying and pushing around countless vagrants and drunks; after being yelled at, pushed, shoved, threatened, had stuff thrown at me and even being SPIT on, i had had enough. getting no support to behave this way took its toll on me and i just became a miserable person. and essentially that was why i left. there was nothing 'happy' about my job at all and i just wanted OUT.

it would be my recommmendation to you to let corporate headquarters know of the experience you had in that location. i do know the store you are talking about - and it is plagued with homeless in that area - but someone should have done SOMETHING. my guess is that the partners in that store were either pussies or just didn't care. and either choice is unacceptable, imho. if you call or write Starbucks and let them know, at the very least you will get a free beverage or two out of it. at the most someone will get a talking to - and they really should get a talking to for not having done ANYTHING.

i am so damn glad to be out of that world. it just was a horrible experience to have to deal with that wild card factor on a daily basis. and no matter how many people i told in the upper eschalon, there really was nothing to be done. we actually had a meeting with the SM police dept once to discuss how to handle vagrants and it was determined that we were not allowed to do anything like ask them to leave or call the cops because "they had rights too" and we were infringing upon them by treating them any differently than any other customer. that even though they might be shitting all over our restroom floors or screaming at another customer that they are all 'shit ass' it was wrong to treat them in a manner that could be deemed PREJUDICE. when i heard that, i thought Fuck you all - i'm gonna do what i want and sue the company for hiring me if you don't like it. i mean, honestly: until we actually handle the homeless situation at large, it will continue to interupt the lives of those of us who are working for a living. but my personal credo? NEVER give money. never ever ever. it's like feeding a stray cat - they will keep returning because they know that there are suckers like you who will take care of them, enabling them to live another day on the streets and drink themselves to oblivion.

Finally, a little while ago I was approached by a vagrant near my office on Wilshire Blvd.

"Mumble mumble mumble," he said.

"I'm sorry?" I said, leaning my head down.

"Spare some change," he declared.

"I don't have any change on me," I said. I rarely have actual cash on me unless it's a bunch of quarters for the bus I'm waiting for.

"Oh, so you're sorry?" he said, turning away from me.

"I said 'I'm sorry' because I didn't hear you," I said.

"Oh well," he said, "I'm sorry."

There is no through line here other than, I think, that the police have no reservations about the prejudices we share.

See also: Ear mites; Magical thinking

Was the sermon about Diner's Club?

2008-04-30T20:26:00.000-07:00

...or paying four bucks for gas? Or school integration? Or devil worship?

I would have stopped in but I was driving my ATV down the wrong side of the road.

Giving a hoot

2008-04-27T23:43:00.000-07:00

This picture reminds me of one of my favorite Bible stories:

Jesus asked His disciples: "Why doesn't Smokey Bear have any children?"

They answered Him, "We don't know, Lord. Tell us."

Then He replied unto them: "Because every time his wife gets hot, he hits her over the head with a shovel."

Previously: Los Angeles on three senses a day

Jose Feliciano through the Looking Glass

2008-04-24T11:44:00.000-07:00

While we wait to complete the instrumental tracks on the All That Jaws album, Brian Descheneaux and I decided to form a band that would be impervious to studio delays, musicians' schedules, and mountain road closures in that it would consist of ourselves.

We chose the name Fogelfoot, an abbreviation of Croce Dan and Seals Bread Fogelfoot, to pay tribute to the earnest 70's songwriting traditions of Jim Croce, Bread, Seals & Crofts, Gordon Lightfoot, Dan Fogelberg, and England Dan And John Ford Coley.

And because the name "Cormorant" was already taken, inexplicably, by a San Francisco metal band.

So each week we set ourselves a task. This week I wanted to pay homage to every 70's song that used the word "Lady" and write a story a la "Brandy" about an inaccessible love interest with a past. Because the past involved a Mexican soldier, I wanted the song to be reminiscent of Jose Feliciano's "Chico and the Man" and to incorporate as many 70's props as possible, including a creepy narrator, amulets, and cocaine. Finally, the narrator needed to solve all his love interest's problems by telling her that she was pretty.

I also borrowed a little from "Love in the Time of Cholera."

The song is called "Lady And the Man," Brian did all the music, and it is available on the Flight of the Mavervorl podcast. Subscribe now!

Lady is a lady
Long-legged sultry lady
She sways her hips for the gentlemen
On the lonely side of town

When it's midnight in the city
I go to see my Lady
And I bring her gifts of sweet white wine
And spices from the East

She tells me, "I would like to make sweet love to you
By the torrid Tampiquena Sea
But you cannot catch The Cormorant, can you?
It's only when she's dancing that she's free."

There's a sadness in my Lady
So I feed her rails of cocaine
But the rain it falls like honey in the snow

OK!

'twas a horseman named Felipe
Not a word could she comprende
But she understood his urgency
'fore he marched off to the West

And I'm dancing with my Lady
And she has something to tell me
She shows to me the amulet
That dangles 'twixt her breasts

And when the letter came one chilly Friday
Saying that he'd been et by ants
She knew of nothing else to serve his mem'ry
Than to love him through her dance

So if you see my Lady
Just tell her that she's pretty
That's all a lovely lady
Needs to know

High noon at the Claim Jumper

2008-04-23T10:47:00.000-07:00

Claim Jumper is one of those restaurants to which people say you should go with an empty stomach and big appetite.

"Go with an empty stomach and big appetite!" they say.

Because the Northridge Claim Jumper is perched at the epicenter of the 1994 Los Angeles earthquake, I chose to go there recently when my stomach was empty, my appetite was big, and my Richter scale needed recalibrating.

"I will have the crab cakes and the Whiskey Chicken," I told the waitress. If I could have had Jagermeister Chicken or just Jagermeister, I would have.

"Do you think you can eat all that?" she asked.

"I'll take a doggie bag if I can't," I said. I'm not proud.

It wasn't until recently that I became aware that taking a doggie bag is viewed as uncool. Not that I thought it was cool, particularly, but that someone who chooses not to throw food away would be thought of as uncool made me think I wasn't subscribing to the right magazines.

It was at a sushi restaurant in Canoga Park and I'd eaten most everything on my plate. But now I felt bloated and mean.

"Can I get a To Go bag?" I asked.

"No," I was told, "you have to eat that here."

"But I paid for it (actually I hadn't). Are you saying you're going to throw it away?"

"If you don't eat it."

"At least tell me that you'll eat it or you'll take it home," I said. "Because it's stupid to just leave this food here and not be able to take it from the building."

"We don't do doggie bags," I was told.

"Whoa," I said. That smarts.

When I worked at Pizza Hut as a teen, we would eat our mistakes. I will not say I ever made a deliberate mistake so that I could eat a pizza with the wrong topping on it, because I have evidence that my former manager reads this site. All I'm saying is that the food was not wasted.

At the sushi restaurant, I sat back down and finished my meal in spite.

People talk about animal fear. When I eat a steak, I enjoy trying to detect fear.

"Not enough fear on this one," I will say at a steakhouse. "Send it back and scare the shit out of it."

But I wonder if one's own spite changes the taste of food?

Back at the Claim Jumper, my crab cakes and Whiskey Chicken had arrived. I had a couple of margaritas and a glass of water. As I ate I was aware that I would easily finish this meal and still be hungry.

"You're really tearing through that," the waitress said. "You must have been hungry."

Maybe the experience at the sushi place a mile away had released a chemical into my hypothalamus that turned off my awareness of my own satiation in restaurants. In any case, my waitress was beginning to make me feel like I was a miracle of science, because I finished my meal and she said, "You got through it!"

I was sad that I wasn't going to be able to eat this at work.

There are food riots going on in the Southern Hemisphere. Today I found this excellent pictorial article detailing the weekly meals and food expenditures for several households around the world. I was envious of this North Carolina family's ability (left) to get pizza delivered twice a week. They must be tycoons.

See also: What we eat around the world

Diet advice from Keith Richards

2008-04-11T21:14:00.000-07:00

If you were to enter a conversation late on the line "...he should be dead," chances are you would assume the topic was Keith Richards.

That is why I listen when he tells me what food I should avoid; because what scares Keith Richards scares me.

The miracle of pharmacology Rolling Stones guitarist said in an interview with GQ that he will not eat cheese. He said this while guzzling a 16-oz. Solo cup filled with Ketel One at 4 in the afternoon. Therefore, I will stop eating cheese.

"Cheese is very wrong," he said. "Fermented milk is not the ideal choice for everyday eating."

He also said the story about the daily blood transfusions is an untrue rumor. But he was pretty clear about the cheese.

See also: The GQ&A: Keith Richards

A Classy move in Boston

2008-04-09T11:09:00.000-07:00

Note that they had to win the World Series twice in order for this to happen.

Bill Brightman on the phone pt. I

2008-04-07T01:41:00.000-07:00

It pains me to so blatantly rip off Joe Frank and "This American Life," but I've been meaning to record some of my conversations with my junior high school friend Bill Brightman for several years, and Ennio Morricone's is the best possible soundtrack for that sort of thing.

This will soon be available for download as a podcast in the iTunes Store, but for now here's a Flash video.

UPDATE: "The Flight of the Mavervorl" is now available as an enhanced podcast on iTunes. If you have an Apple account, feel free to subscribe and comment here.

See also: The Flight of the Mavervorl on iTunes

Alcohol is the best Chamber of Commerce

2008-04-02T01:10:00.000-07:00

I was recently in Tempe, AZ for a conference and also to visit my in-laws. I have never liked the Phoenix area, despite my fondness for Alice and Death Wish, and each time I visit it is a struggle to enjoy myself, beloved in-laws notwithstanding.

Too hot outside, too air-conditioned inside, too many chain stores, and a sense of overwhelming complacence. I will make this sound better when I run for President, but until then, I sure don't like Arizona.

I explained this to my friend Troy while typing online in a coffee shop in the shadow of Arizona State University Mountain.

"Are you on Mill Ave?" he asked.

"I am," I said. "But how did you know that?"

"Because I used to go to ASU," he confided. "While Tempe is best seen through a rearview mirror, there is one place you can walk to..."

He directed me to a neighborhood a few blocks away, where I found Casey Moore's, an Irish bar and oyster house built by the parents of early Arizona governor Benjamin Mouer. Apparently it's haunted.

I haunted it myself for the course of three drinks. It was the first time I actually enjoyed being here; the neighborhood reminded me of Austin.

After my Lenten teetotallitarianism I have not rebounded with a vengeance, but a few drinks at a bar in the middle of the afternoon on a work day was great. "I need to do this more," I said, and I don't care if it was out loud.

"Yes, you do," the ghost said.

On the way home (gas cost $168 this trip, or about $12 for each hour in the car), we stopped in the bucolic former mining town of Desert Center, CA.

"I could live here," I told my wife, as my daughter ran around an abandoned Kaiser Steel boxcar. "This is the kind of place where a man can breathe."

I wonder if my credit union would give me a loan for some jet skis and a meth lab?

There are two things I look forward to seeing on the way home from Arizona. One is the Colorado River, which forms part of the California/Arizona border. It has always been a relief to cross the Colorado; the first time I did it was when I moved here. At that time I was on the 40, not the 10, and had passed through Flagstaff instead of Phoenix. I was driving a 40-foot Ryder truck with a car towed in back and was just happy to have made it to the final state in my trip.

The other is the miles-long windmill farm near Indio and Palm Springs. We drove into the sunset this time, so it looked a little like Mordor.

But, on the whole, if you think Mordor is bad, try Arizona.

Where do the birds go?

2008-03-23T09:56:00.000-07:00

Each year I go to the Hollywood Bowl's sunrise Easter service. I pack some coffee in a thermos, drive through the teller window of the Burbank Krispy Kreme, and find much better Bowl parking than I would for, say, Elvis Costello and The Police.

This year's theme, we were told, was "Peace on Earth." I have a feeling that that is always the theme and no one could put aside his precious placidity long enough to suggest another one, like "Jesus in Space." Peace on Earth. That's like calling a Fourth of July parade "Celebrating America."

Still, the event is a Hollywood tradition with local choirs, a "living cross" of children arranged in a cross pattern who dramatically doff their black robes to reveal white ones, and the release of dozens of white birds when the choir sings ~~"Paradise City"~~ "Let There Be Peace on Earth."

I can imagine the effect was jaw-dropping in 1921, but it's still a lot better today than bottle service.

Well, the Living Cross was a little smaller this year, Shirley Jones was not on hand to read "The Master Is Coming," and an unprecedented cello-acompanied dance performance seemed strange (in that the dancers ended up folded together on the floor), but a grand time was had by all, as always.

It left me wondering, though. When ceremonial birds are released, where do they go? Are they ceremonially captured and eaten, too? Is that what Shirley Jones was doing this year?

Previously: Bowl of Pigs; Bugs at the Bowl

New breed of spam thinks you're boring

2008-03-01T18:01:00.000-08:00

Like love, spam goes through cycles. Sometimes we receive more mortgage spam, sometimes we receive more diplomas from non-accredited universities spam. One thing is certain: we will always receive Viagra spam, and that is comforting.

But whereas last year's big spam trend was a provocative, get you on the defensive subject line like "Where were you last night?" this year's crop is aimed at slackers:

Hello! I am tired today. I am nice girl that would like to chat with you. Email me at (xxxxxxx) only, because I am using my friend's email to write this. Don't miss some of my naughty pictures.

This troubles me. Spam is supposed to appeal to our vanity, to uplift us, to make us think that the world can be better.

What kind of person responds to "I am tired today (so I thought of you)"? What kind of person uses a friend's computer? Do we use a friend's toothbrush? Orthodontic elastics? Mail-order bride?

Let's say your name is Norman and you walk into a room to hear your friends talking.

"And I said, 'Yes, if I were a big fat fatty fat fatass fatty with fat for brains and instead of teeth I had fat,' and oh, speaking of fat: Hello, Norman."

Since I am tired today I have devised some uplifting spam that you are encouraged via Creative Commons License to circulate throughout the world.

Subject: Your Great Worth to the World

Hello! I am seeking a scintillating person such as yourself to view pictures of me covered with oil and jellies in this home I purchased with an adjustable rate mortgage from a Canadian pharmacy. As we are both PhDs from non-accredited universities filled with lovely Russian ladies who want to meet you in Nigeria, perhaps you can sign this petition to keep NPR from losing its funding. Send to 30 friends or you will die (and go to heaven).

That would make me feel better about giving out my Social Security number.

Approaching the Lenten hump

2008-02-26T09:52:00.000-08:00

At 20 days into Lent I am horrified to realize there are more than 20 more.

As a cultural anthropologist, I engage in many traditions the world has proven obsolete, such as reading books, being married, and trepanning.

And this year I decided to give up something for Lent.

Lent is the period between Ash Wednesday and Easter, and this year Ash Wednesday was February 6 and Easter is March 23, 46 days later. Like the other bait and switch aspects of organized religions, however, Lent is advertised on its website as being just "40 days."

The last time I did Lent I was a child and had no choice. There is nothing that brings a child closer to someone else's idea of God than associating it with the removal of something that makes him happy.

So, like many children, I gave up something I could live without.

"This Lent I'm giving up Munchausen's-by-Proxy," I told my priest when I was ten. Thus I also learned the valuable lesson that my priest didn't listen to me.

Different churches determine Lent differently, but it is traditionally a variant on the 40 days Jesus was to have spent in the desert being tempted by a devil.

But a release valve was built in so that people didn't have to abstain the entire time. Catholics are allowed to go back to their vices on Sundays, but are not allowed to eat meat on Fridays (a practice abandoned year-round but still maintained during Lent), hence why McDonald's still advertises Filet o' Fish specifically on that day.

Perhaps because, as adults, we more or less arrange to get what we want when we want it, thereby taking away the childhood appeal of birthdays and Christmas, I thought it would be a good experiment to do without some things during this arbitrary time.

Tuesday, February 5 was the last day I drank anything alcoholic. Ten days after that I stopped eating fast food, a few days after that I stopped coffee and caffeinated soda. Then no red meat. Ten days before Easter I will stop murdering the homeless.

And I stick to it on Sundays because I'm hard-core. I don't know of anyone in recorded history who has gone without alcohol and snacks for more than 20 days.

The challenge then is: after these things are removed, mightn't I also add something? I might take some time to invent a religion based on my science fiction stories.

So far I don't feel the benefits that giving up on vices is supposed to provide, but then I'm not missing them as much as I thought I would. Ask me in a month if I feel the same way.

Sniff 'n' My Lady

2008-02-13T10:44:00.000-08:00

To keep myself from going insane, I allow 15 minutes a day for Internet goof-off time. So this morning I tracked down Jay Ferguson's "Thunder Island," which I'd been thinking of recently as a great example of 70's Southern California use of the word "Lady" in songwriting.

"Sha la la la la la My Lady," sings Ferguson. In fact, he says "M'Lady," which is even better.

"Thunder Island" is from one of Ferguson's solo albums. Prior to this, he had been in Jo Jo Gunne and Spirit, famous for the song "Nature's Way."

Not necessarily a one-hit wonder, Ferguson has instead worked steadily since the 60's. You just never knew you were listening to his work.

Ferguson's animated performance of "Thunder Island" in this video made me think of the backup singer from Sniff 'n' the Tears, whose 1978 song "Driver's Seat" is one of the most satisfying songs ever recorded.

But it appears that the powers that be didn't think lead singer Paul "Sniff" Roberts was interesting enough in the video, so the camera focused instead on backup singer Noel "'n'" McCalla, whose energy exceeded the requirements of the song.

Not knowing anything about the band, I wouldn't be surprised to find out that Noel just showed up off the street that day and the band was too polite to tell him to leave.

"We were one of the first bands to tour post-Franco Spain," stated Paul Roberts on the band's website.

"I think Franco-American Spaghetti-O's smell like vomit," I stated on my website.

Previously: Tearing that hotel down contextually; Bob Dylan's kelping hand; Nature loves her little surprises
See also: Sniff 'n' the Tears, Jo Jo Gunne

I think he's gone under the ground

2008-02-11T11:07:00.000-08:00

I'll miss Roy Scheider

See also: Roy Scheider dies, Coast Guard not alerted

Voter manipulation

2008-02-05T12:06:00.000-08:00

I thought I was pretty decisive in my political stance, but when I arrived at my polling place and found this crying Indian, I knew that my resolve about California Indian Gaming propositions 94-97 would be tested.

"I'm not sure if I agree with you, Crying Indian," I said.

"No heap deal," he said. "After this gig, I'm Spiderman at the Chinese Theatre."

Once inside, a representative of the old ladies' cabal that rigs all elections looked me over and said (I'm not kidding), "You are Democrat, Yes?"

"Yes, but how did you know?"

"Here is ballot."

Previously: Good Mittance
See also: The Crying Indian Commercial; "Iron Eyes" Cody dies

Honda's sense of snow

2008-02-05T09:44:00.000-08:00

As long as I have lived in California - now seven years - I have not physically encountered snow in this state. I have had to travel to other states to see it. Neither has my car ever dealt with snow.

But yesterday, while beginning the arduous process of recording the "All that Jaws" album in the mountain community of Wrightwood (redubbed Great Wrightwood, you know, because of the shark), I enjoyed the dryer lint-sized snowflakes and bone-chilling cold that most closely resembles my soul.

I used to carry two ice scrapers in my car. Now I found myself easing down the street on loafers that do fine on casino carpeting but otherwise were unfit for shoveling out my parking space. I thought, "I deserve to fall and crack my head open in these shoes."

Then I thought, "Who came up with 'Crack your head open'? No one cracks anything shut."

Certain things came back, like waiting for the car to warm up. "Hey, I'll have to wait for the car to warm up."

I also remembered not to pick up any shivering women in Victorian pyjamas on the side of the road, because after I dropped them off, I would stop by an Inn and be told that that's Poor Mary, dead for a hundred years, who lost her baby in the snow. Then I would ask why she was fucking hitchhiking. No wonder she lost her baby.

I return next week. I'll have to find my gloves and boots, but they probably have a family of flamingos living in them.

Hard questions for the guy at Albertson's

2008-02-03T10:40:00.000-08:00

"Did you build this display?"

"No, the guys from Pepsi did."

"How long did it take, and when did they do it?"

"It took three guys about four hours to do it last Friday."

"Do you think the Patriots will be harried and hindered to the point that the brilliance of the last 18 games will be obscured for most of the Superbowl, save for some clearheadedness in the fourth quarter, and the dream no one thought to have just one year ago will be dashed by a team from, of all hated places, New York?"

"I don't watch soccer."

Clouds over La Crescenta

2008-01-24T14:05:00.000-08:00

Did I stand in the middle of the Mighty 2 freeway to take this picture? Yes I did. Was I hit by a car? Yes I was. Did the car bounce off me like birdseed, leaving me unmarked? Undoubtedly. Were all the other cars stopped because there was some kind of virus? Yeah, probably. Also, there's some ghosts.

Mavervorl Media: Ahead of the curve

2008-01-06T20:20:00.000-08:00

As America's Freelance Writer, I thought I loved the idea of working at home.

But for me, working at home is difficult; I will respond to every family-oriented stimulus and never have the satisfaction of leaving work. I lumped in my hatred of working for a boss with the generally-positive experiences I've had working in an office.

So a year ago I rented 1000 square feet of office space in Koreatown and moved all my work-related stuff in there and then, because I didn't need all that space, rented out a couple of offices to like-minded people who could do their jobs from home but didn't want to.

Now, each of us has his own office to hole up in as well as a common area to bounce ideas around. We actually chat around the office cooler. And the complaints about bosses have been transformed into complaints about people not paying us on time.

There are no downsides, save for the fact that, as a freelancer, I could continue to work 20 hours a day and not feel like I've done enough.

I mention this because my friend Robyn pointed out that the New York Times has only recently recognized my kind as the visionaries we are.

Zzyzx on full bars

2008-01-06T14:31:00.000-08:00

The true test of my USB broadband connection was when I triumphantly returned to my stomping grounds at Zzyzx Road on the way to this week's Consumer Electronics Show, took a picture, and uploaded it live two minutes thereafter.

The only reason the transfer from camera to Internet was not instantaneous was because I had to fight and disembowel an attacking bear. Then I had to look up the correct spelling of tauntaun so I could make up a joke about using its steaming entrails for heat in the high desert cold and not get it confused with the city on the road to Cape Cod. Then I decided not to use the joke.

This technological breakthrough will seem like nothing when, in three to six months, I will be able to hook a GPS and a T3 connection into my spinal column, but it sure was exciting in these pioneer days.

My job is done here and I remain validated in my decision not to buy an iPhone.

Another country heard from - Inland Empire edition

2008-01-04T17:58:00.000-08:00

I got my wife an iPod Touch (the iPhone without the useless phone) for Christmas. She has so far refused to pick it up, look at it, or even sniff it when I thrust it at her (we're still talking about the iPod).

Here, David Lynch talks about watching movies in a manner signifying the depth of feeling people have about technology.

Spotting Cylons

2008-01-04T08:52:00.000-08:00

The graphic design on this poster is great.

★Do they say God instead of Gods?
★Have you seen them before, but you know it's not the same person?

For Christmas I was given two seasons of Battlestar Galactica on DVD and now am scheduling a month to neglect my family to watch the series. I will have to take a break from my regularly-scheduled family-neglecting time.

Sometimes it is poignant and touching, in a way that makes me want to go off and write an independent screenplay, to see my family's hollow faces and eyes big with hunger and need. Other times it is funny because they look like anime characters.

In time-honored science fiction tradition, BSG's Cylons are human-made machines that have become sentient and spiritually aware and, unlike the show's humans, they are monotheistic. In addition to better hygiene, there is a lot to recommend the Cylons, including their hot-swappable souls.

Previously: Ladies' Razor
See also: How to Spot a Cylon

Hard luck turducken

2007-12-27T11:02:00.000-08:00

The turducken was one of the greatest successes I have ever experienced, despite a rocky start in which FedEx failed to deliver it overnight from Louisiana and I had to go to their facility in downtown L.A. and wait, literally in a cage, while others berated employees about not receiving Canadian medications in time for Christmas.

The birds comprised a Fowly Trinity of Yuletide Tastiness, though I was surprised to see that the 12-lb. hy-bird was supposed to feed 44 people in servings of 5.5 ounces. I seem to recall that people with stomach staples can only accommodate about five ounces of material in their newly svelte guts, so perhaps a lot of people on the bayou have had that surgery.

The turducken cannot hear the turduckener

2007-12-20T12:18:00.000-08:00

For Christmas we are eating a turducken, a Cajun dish in which a duck is shoved into a chicken which is shoved into a turkey. Beaks and bones have been removed (though a beak would have come in handy during the shoving).

In between the discrete fowlic elements is slathered a cornbread stuffing. Eating a turducken is like slicing through three-layered Neopolitan ice cream, except with birds.

Because our friend Eric is joining us, and because Eric actually raises falcons, we were hoping to surprise him by adding his falcon to the mix. The integrity of the meter would be maintained if the resulting dish was a turdalcken, and the configuration would be duck -> falcon -> chicken -> turkey. If we can get it together in time, we might be able to surprise Eric with this new tradition.

"This tastes like -- Oh My God!" he will say. "It's my Charlemagne!"

If we had more time, we might have been able to prepare a turdalckenelope, turdalckenelopiraffe, or even a turdalckenelopiraffephant, but Christmas shouldn't be about complexity.

See also: The Second Coming