Stupid Thing of the Week

So, I was working on a TV show this week, just as an extra, playing a soldier in 1963.  They had us change into our uniforms in the honey wagons (which are the restrooms that are part of trailers), and while getting into those awkward, scratchy outfits, a dude came into the mens room and took up the single unoccupied stall.  He then proceeded to pour several cans of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup into the toilet.

At least that's what it sounded like.

Oh wait, that's not what I wanted to write about.  Weird that I got on here and typed that.  Sort of gives all blogs everywhere a bad name.

So, what I wanted to complain about was, that while I was on the set, I ran into another extra who I had seen on a couple of other film shoots.  He was a dorky, depressing, gawpy, overweight, dumpy-looking, balding dude, and I became sad just looking at him.  Because we had worked together before, I ended up talking to him for a while, sitting by him at lunch, and sort of feeling sorry for the hand this guy was dealt.

And then, a crewmember came up to us and said, "Hey, are you two brothers, then? You look so much alike I knew you had to be related."

Sigh.

Stupid Thing of the Week

So, there's a water park in town, and I hadn't been there since I was in my teens.  I remember one time my friends all went, and I had to stay home, and I missed seeing ole-what's-her-name in a swimsuit, and it sort of soured the whole park for me (in my mind, anyway).

But now I live with two children, and my sister thought it would be fun if we all went to the water park together, and she was kind enough to get me a pass, so that I could help her take care of the children when we went (they are one and four, so they can be a handful, and you need to be vigilant with them around water).

So, I went and we had a really good time.  The four year old was afraid of the waterslides, but we rented an innertube and I sort of forced him to go on it with me, and though he was scared the whole wait in line, by the time we got to the bottom of the slide, he wanted to go on it again.

At one point, I saw one of the waterslides you just go down without a tube, and a man came out of the end with what looked like a six month old in his arms.  The baby--can't even be called a toddler, in my estimation--seemed confused, but not overly frightened, so I asked the lifeguard at the exit what the age limit was on that thing.  He told me there was none, but that kids under a certain height had to ride with a grownup.

So, I went over to the wave pool, where my sister was wrestling with her kids, and grabbed the one year old to go on that slide with me.  He, like the newborn I'd just seen, is too young to know what's happening, or to complain ahead of time, so I just held him through the line and, sure enough, they let me hold him and go down the slide together.  This was one of those waterslides where there is a large . . . what would you call it? . . . toiletbowl-like container at the top that fills with water, then flushes out on top of you, forcing you down through the slide with the water.*  The day and water temperature were fairly warm, so it was no shock to the baby when we started to slide down, but it was a shock to me when, about halfway down, we stopped.

For a moment, I was confused.  All the water pushed past me, but instead of carrying me along, it left me with a toddler on top of me, like a beached whale there, unable to get moving again.  I believe the operator of the waterslide saw what was going on there (I assume so, anyway, since there are lifeguards whose jobs it is to watch out for accidents and horseplay and people who don't make it down all the way), for a second or three later, a large burst of water came down and sort of shoved us out of the dry spot, until, very slowly, we made it to the end and splashing into the pool there.

The baby didn't seem to love it or hate it, but I immediately told his brother about it, and suggested the two of us try it.  Now, he is afraid of everything, but is trusting enough that I was able to get him in the line with me, then distracted him by singing the Black-Eyed Peas song we'd been hearing on the intercom (which plays something called Radio Disney, which is apparently made up of only six songs on rotation, none of which are from Disney movies).  We got up to the top, I showed him how the tank filled with water and then flushed people down, and luckily, there was another kid, probably three years of age, ahead of us in the queue, that neither cried nor shat his pants because the ride was inappropriate for a young, young childe.

We got on, and got flushed down . . . and then, at the exact same point as before . . . we stopped.

Now, I recognize that I'm overweight.  I'm not gargantuanly fat, but I could lose a few, and if there were absolutely any chance of hooking up romantically with a partner, I would lose the pounds.  But I don't think I'm fat enough to get stuck in a goddamn waterslide, not when Louie Anderson and Melissa McCarthy were zooming through it like a bad enchilada through a tourist.

But I couldn't move.  I tried to lay flatter, hoping to float through the slide, but nothing happened.  I tried to crab walk with the boy on my stomach, and only made it a few inches.  A moment later, more water came through the tube, but it didn't work.  Finally, I sat up and used my legs and arms to scootch us forward, hoping to get some kind of momentum, but had no luck.  A moment after that, I felt another burst of water come through, and thought that would solve my problem, but instead, I got slammed into by another rider of the waterslide.

This was a girl, and her feet struck me in the small of my back (since I was sitting up at that moment), then she somehow skied up and around me, and on down the slide, leaving me and my nephew glued in place, but now in pain.  "Crap," I said, "We've got to get out of this if they're still sending people down."  Finally, I took the boy off my lap and sent him on ahead--he seemed to slide like greased lightning, and I sort of crab-walked after him, all the while afraid of somebody's feet shooting into the back of my head John F. Kennedy-style.

We emerged from the other side, my nephew far enough ahead that the lifeguard had to scoop him out of the clutches of Poseidon's child-hungry fingers, and wonder, "Who the hell sent a pre-schooler through this thing by himself?"  I swam over and took the boy from the lifeguard, and got us up and out of the water.  "Sorry," I said to my nephew, "I guess that wasn't fun."

He didn't argue.  And I didn't want to go on it again either.

But what was the deal?  Is it just that I'm too fat?  Are people supposed to rub bacon grease on their posteriors before entering the sliding area?  Was it my posture?  Heck, I'd even guess that I was destined to get stuck in it so I'd have a funny story to tell . . . except that this one hasn't been very funny (and nobody I told it to laughed).

Man, I hate those fables where the message isn't clear.

Rish "Aquaman" Outfield

*Guess I'm not cut out to be a writer, since I couldn't find the words to describe how that slide works.

Stupid Thing of the Week

I was listening to the radio yesterday, and switching through the channels, I hit upon that "I'm on the edge of glory..." song, that I imagine y'all are already familiar with. Well, it was the first time I'd heard it, and I thought, "Wow, finally a Kelly Clarkson song I can really get behind." I listened through to the end, totally digging it, when to my horror, the soulless robot voice at the end of the song said, "eDgE oF gLOrY, lAdY gAGa."

I finally know how those serial killers who black out and then wake up with bloody rolling pins and the bodies of children in their hands feel. And it's not all that great.

Stupid Thing of the Week

I saw a bus stop poster for the 3-D re-release of STAR WARS: THE PHANTOM MENACE the other day. They've been pushing it quite a bit around here, hoping to make the kind of money LION KING's reissue did (or better yet, the 1997 reissue of STAR WARS).

Everybody's seen that flick, and I've made it more than clear what I think about the frickin' Prequels, and yet, seeing that poster, the first thing that went through my head was: "Wow, I think I'll go see that. I really liked that movie."

Sigh.

Stupid Thing of the Week

Yesterday, I made a little business transaction with a stranger in a parking lot (no, not THAT kind of business transaction, but one much lamer), and I had to pay in cash (ditto). So, I scraped together all my money and had to borrow the rest, and met the guy in the designated area. I handed him the money, and took my purchase to my car.

When I turned around, he was standing next to me. "Hey," he said, "there's something wrong with a couple of the bills."

Immediately, I knew what he was talking about and sort of laughed it off, "Yeah, I've had those for a long time."

But he wouldn't laugh along. "Look at these twenties," he said, showing me the three pre-2000 bills with the smaller circles and less color. "The backs don't match either."

True enough, he turned them over and they didn't have the same art on the back that the new bills do. America has been changing the design on their currency little by little, making them more complicated and harder to counterfeit, and when the new twenties first hit, I remember people saying they looked like Monopoly money. I guess it's been long enough this guy got used to the new ones, but I'd never heard somebody think the old ones looked fake before.

For a minute there, I actually thought the guy was going to refuse to take them, which would've been a headache. But then, maybe I deserve a headache, for trying to use currency from the bloody 20th Century. Sad old man.

Rish "Monkeybags" Outfield

Stupid Thing of the Week

The other day, I took my niece to the library to check out a couple books. While we were there, I spied a five dollar bill on the floor by the DVDs and Books On Tape. "Hey, free money," I said to her, "Looks like we can go ice skating for free."

She just looked at the money, then said, "I'd better not."

"Why not?" I asked, trying to figure out her reluctance.

"It's not mine," she said.

"It is now, congratulations," said I.

Still, she did not move. "I don't want to get in trouble."

"You won't," I said, then, "Pick up the money."

She finally did, and said, "Well, shouldn't we turn it in? In case someone is looking for it?"

"If it was a wallet, or car keys, or a kidney or something, sure," I said, "but not for cash. There's no way to identify it, and nobody's going to ask if somebody turned in a five dollar bill."

She pocketed the money, but I could tell she still had reservations about it. We tried to go ice skating, but they close early on Thursdays, apparently (either that or it's a conspiracy to keep me from exercising).

I forgot all about it until the other night, where my sister mentioned that she had chastised her daughter for picking up the money. She has an Adrian Monk-like obsession with germs, so I assumed that was her reasoning. "What, because it had been on the floor? Or just because money is dirty?"

"For taking money that didn't belong to her," my sister said.

"It didn't belong to anyone," I said, "it was dropped on the floor."

"Well, she should have turned it in, or left it there."

I argued with her for a moment about the unlikelihood that someone would even consider going to the Lost and Found for cash, and probably didn't even know it was gone, but in her mind, it was dishonest of me to tell her kid the money was hers if she found it.

I guess she never heard that ancient teaching of the Buddha, the one that ends with "losers weepers."

Rish "You Owe Me Five Dollars" Outfield

Stupid Thing of the Week

I was in the grocery store today, and a toddler (maybe three, but probably two) had a t-shirt on that read, "I have the biggest dick in my family."

Stupid Thing of the Week II: Solar-powered Boogaloo

I've got something of a love-hate relationship with the town library. We didn't have a library in the village where I grew up (there was something called the Bookmobile, that would come to the elementary school every other week or so, and not only could students check out books from the small bus, but everyday townsfolk could too), and in Los Angeles, it was just so much of a bloody hassle to go the libraries there (I went a couple of times, but it just made more sense to get my books at used bookstores, or buy them new and resell them when I was finished).

Lately, though, I've been grabbing as many books as I can, as well as audiobooks, and kiddie stuff for my nephew or niece. Unfortunately, they've got something called late fees, for when a book is overdue, and many of the books on CD are so in demand that, if I return an overdue one, they won't let me re-check it out. So, I keep them until I finish, and pay the fees.

But I was surprised today to get an email from them saying I owed $19.80 in late fees, and I couldn't check out or renew anything until it was paid. I'd made a trip to the library just this pass Saturday to return three books, because my late fees were over seven dollars. But I couldn't figure out how my fees could have more than doubled in three days (one of which was a Sunday, and probably should count fee-wise, right?).

My nephew likes to go to the library with me, so I brought him along, and he wanted to take a whole stack of books, but first, I told him, I had to get to the bottom of this late fees thing. I stood in the line, and the boy stood beside me, and I explained the situation and my puzzlement. The late fees are ten cents per day, so unless I checked out, what, thirty books, all overdue, the huge late fee made no sense.

The woman told me that one of the books I had returned had been damaged, a nature book about the life cycle of frogs (which I'd checked out for the three year old, not me). "Damaged?" I asked, not really getting it. "I just brought that back on Saturday." The woman told me that they'd only just noticed it was damaged, and that I had to pay for it because it was ruined from water damage.

Well, I suppose that sort of thing is possible, but I told her that if I had to pay for the book, I might as well get to have the book, and she agreed. She went to get it, and I didn't remember getting it wet or putting it anywhere it might have gotten wet, and wondered if, in the last three days, something else might have happened to it.

She brought it out, and sure enough, there were water spots on the lower third of every page. But it was a big book for kids, and it was far from ruined. "Well, I'll buy it, I guess," I grumbled, "But it's not that badly damaged, and I honestly didn't get it wet." The woman looked at me, and at the book, and decided that she agreed, and said she could waive the fee. That was a relief, and I said as much, as well as, "I can't imagine how it could have gotten water on it, since I brought it here in my car just the other day." The woman typed something, and a child's voice beside me said, "I dropped it in the sprinklers." "What?" said I. My nephew said, "The sprinkler was on and I dropped it in on accident."

Unfortunately, the woman was still sitting there, and she heard him say that too. Sigh.

Stupid Thing of the Week

So, this weekend, I went out of town with my siblings (two sisters and a brother), as well as brother-in-law, cousin, and . . . friend of my cousin to a hotel and casino, like we did for New Year's. My sister had her birthday on Saturday, and that was the present she wanted.

It was a lot of fun, and we didn't stay very long (the whole trip lasted about twenty-four hours), so it didn't wear out its welcome, although my allergies went absolutely crazy on me, and I have yet to recover.

My sister took us to the Craps tables and we played that for a while, trying to figure it out (I'd never played before), and she ended up winning the most money out of us all (my brother lost the most money, which is sad since he's usually the lucky one and can't lose it all even if he wants to*), but I played Roulette for a while last night, and won back all the money I'd blown on Blackjack and Draw Poker, and then some.

Unfortunately, I hit a curb driving back this afternoon and blew out my two passenger side tires, which ate up all my winnings plus a great deal more. Sigh.

So, that's probably the best candidate for Stupid Thing of the Week, that I would win a little, but lose a lot with my lousy driving, but instead, I wanted to bring up an amusing experience we had at the Blackjack table. There were three or four different dealers, and though we didn't play long, they kept switching out/getting relieved by the next one. And each of these dealers was a little more uptight about rules or casino etiquette than the other. I'm not really experienced (or at least out of practice), so I didn't know you couldn't touch your cards with both hands, or put your drink on the table, or let your girlfriend touch your cards. But really minor things like placing your bet right on the word "Nugget" rather than above it or next to it, or scraping your cards to signal you'd like another instead of saying "Gimmee another" or "I'll take one more" were absolutely hammered into us with various levels of rigidity.

The worst of the dealers in this regard was a middle-aged Asian woman, who ran the table until I lost all my money, and sourly said things like "I no tell you how to play" when I'd ask, "Should I stay on a fifteen?" Math is not my strong suit, and she had little patience with me trying to figure out what Four plus Ace plus Three plus Seven was. Watching her try to explain how insurance worked confused me much worse than never hearing the term would have, and all of us evidently infuriated her when we laid our cards next to our chips instead of under them, or put them face up instead of face down (which didn't matter anyway since our turn was over).

At one point, a trio (perhaps quartet) of drunken twenty-somethings sat down at the table next to us, and they drew her ire more than we ever had. A loud, inebriated dude kept breaking her rules or not understanding her broken English, and she berated him and all of us for his behavior. "You no hate me, you hate game! If you hate game, you go and play other game!"

I thought he was a bit of a tool, especially when my brother told him how the side bet for a suited pair worked, and he snarled, "Are you trying to tell me what to do with my money?" But there was nothing he could do that didn't upset the dealer. She didn't want to pay him for having the matched pair because he didn't show her immediately, he was wasting time by not announcing he had busted the second it happened, and there's apparently a law against raising your cards a foot off the table to show your buddies.

"I no making the rules. All Blackjack like this," she said when he got frustrated.
She told him to watch his language, when he was disappointed she'd gotten a goddamn twenty, and when she got 21 and took all our money, he used that most ubiquitous of English words.
"No F-word!" she said loud enough for the other tables to hear. "You get mad if you want, you no say F-word at my table!"

The dude's blonde girlfriend looked at the dealer and said, "What about the C-word?"

The dealer said, "I no know bout that one."

To which, the dude said, "As in, you are a c**t."

I thought that was dang funny, but the little group of inebriates all got up and took off then, leaving just me and my brother playing.

In the end, since I lost every single one of my chips, I realize, they were the smart ones.

Rish "No Q-Word" Outfield

*That's no exaggeration. The last time we went to Vegas, my brother didn't want to have to stand in line at the Cashier, so he kept putting all of his winnings on Black or Red (or Odd or Even) on the Roulette table, just hoping to double it or lose it all . . . and the crazy bastard just kept winning. He'd do it again, and win again. Finally, my sister grabbed him and said, "I'LL stand in the Cashier's line, just don't throw away all that money!"

Stupid Thing of the Week

Last year, I established some sort of precedent by taking my niece to an amusement park the Thursday before school started. We had a good time, and all this summer, she kept asking if we'd do it again. I didn't really want to, since I'd taken her to movies and plays really recently, but she wanted it to be some kind of tradition, and you know how weak-willed I am.

So, we went, the Thursday before school starts, and drove all the way up there (more than an hour's drive), and enjoyed ourselves, even though it was in the upper nineties and sunny the whole darn day. As the day ended, and we were passing signs that said, "This ride closes at 9:45," she asked me what time it was, and in pulling out my phone to answer, I realized I didn't have my keys.

Oh no, I'd lost my keys on one of the rides.

We stayed in the line while my mind scrambled for a solution. Did I lose my keys recently, or early on? Wouldn't I have worried about my keys on the ride that went upside-down? Did I even have my keys coming into the park?

I decided I must have left them in the door of the trunk when I opened it to get sunscreen, and either they were still there, or somebody had spied them and recognized the opportunity for a free joyride in front of them. Either way, I was too worried to stick out that line and get on another ride. We made our way all the way through the park, and across the parking lot, where, whew!, my car was still parked there. No keys, though.

I had a spare key, but it was at home, sitting by the door on a spare key ring, doing me a fat lot of good now. Why hadn't I gotten one of those magnetic keyholders to stick under the frame somewhere, so it would drop off when I hit a bump and be gone when I really needed it?

The car doors were unlocked, and I began to suspect that the reason for that was that I'd closed the keys in the trunk, and thus been unable to lock the car. Pretty fortunate, really. Because my trunk won't open except for with a key, I thought I was screwed, but when I put the back seat down, I saw a little crawlspace there into the trunk. I gave my niece my phone to use as a flashlight, and she went spelunking until she found the keys.

I was relieved. It would've been mighty headachey to have to call my mom or sister and have them get my spare key and then drive sixty miles to meet us just so we could also drive home. As a reward, I took my niece back into the park to go on one more ride (she chose the one we'd been in the line for last anyway), and then out to get horribly overpriced ice cream at Dairy Queen.

Still worth it, though.

Really Odd Thing of the Week

I was at Jeff's yesterday, and he told me he'd taken his children to see CAPTAIN AMERICA, and while they liked it, they all agreed that THOR was better. Their reasoning . . . well, THOR, when you come down to it, was based in reality, but CAP was mostly fantasy. The children were already familiar with the pantheon of Norse gods and "believed" in them, if you will (since the family's cats are named after some of them) . . . but World War II? The Nineteen-Forties? America? These were totally foreign, made-up concepts to the kids.

And they couldn't really happen like THOR could, right?

Stupid Thing of the Week

There's a dip in the road leading up to my street that I imagine is there for water to flow through (though it might be there just to punish people who drive too fast), and it has one of those big yellow signs warning people there is a DIP there.

Well, some brilliant young person took some spray paint this week and wrote "shit" under it (and not altogether well). So, you may take this as a stupid thing because some idiot thought it would be cool to deface a street sign like that, or because I found it kind of amusing. And it's exactly the sort of thing I would've done in my teens.

Or twenties.

Or thirties.

P.S. A couple of days after writing this, I grabbed my camera and tossed it in my car, meaning to take a picture of the offending sign. Well, I forgot about it. But driving home, as I crossed the dip, I remembered only to see that someone had painted over the graffitti. Once again, procrastination kicks me where it hurts.

Stupid Thing of the Week

There's a wedding going on in Vegas this weekend, and my whole family is loading into the car(s) together to head over there. I spent some of today hanging out with my nephew, who is now three, and offered to make him some Kool Aid. I made about two ounces for him, and about twenty for myself, but had to get after the boy to make sure he didn't drink it in the living room, where he could spill it on the carpet. My mom doesn't let the kids drink or eat anything near the carpet, and I was trying to follow suite.

A little while later, though, I scooted my chair back so I could stand up and sure enough, I knocked my entire container over . . . onto the carpet. It was red Kool Aid too, which may actually be worse than the purple kind.

Stupid Thing of the Week

I recently auditioned for a role in an audio drama. I do that from time to time because I like acting, and because I've got a microphone I paid good money for, and why let it go to waste?

I guess I got the part, because the script for the first episode was sent me (not to mention and email that told me I had gotten the part), and my lines were highlighted and a deadline given me to have the lines done.

I recorded those and the guy said, "Wow, thanks! Here's the script to episode two." That's cool. I like it when people are on the ball.*

Before I could record those lines, however, I got a new email that said, "I got a guy to do another character I was going to voice, so now I can do your part. Don't bother sending the lines. Thanks for everything."

Dude, this is so not cool.

I may have to explain that people volunteer to do voices in internet audio dramas for no pay, and with the knowledge that they're just doing someone a favor, for no compensation ever. It's something you do out of friendship (if not fun), and if you've got a podcast/audio drama/fan film/etc., you need to let your voice actors (or artists or producers or slush readers) know you appreciate them.

I'm probably not worthy to cast the first stone, here. I've been editing a story a guy sent us last year, that was actually supposed to hit the air before 2010 was out. I do feel bad that it hasn't been finished yet, but I have hours of work every week for the show, and it's hard to make time beyond that for my own production.

I agonized recently over a part that a guy did for us for that story. I hoped he wouldn't be upset that we didn't use his lines, but they just didn't work for the story as a whole (he did them in a sort of imitation of a famous Al Pacino movie), and he'd already done a different character in the same story. I felt bad, and considered leaving it in, even though it sounded a bit silly. Ultimately, I called Big and asked what he suggested.

He said that the story has to come first, and if it doesn't work, then don't use it, and that the guy'll understand. But I still feel bad about it.

I feel worse now that my work for this other show has been tossed. I don't want somebody to feel as unappreciated as I did when I got that email.

Look, I've got way more free time than ninety percent of non-homeless Americans, and yet I really felt like I'd wasted it with this guy. Of course, there are always extenuating circumstances behind just about everything, and maybe I really did a lackluster job or he found out I despise cats (and cat lovers) and had to make a stand like Zack what's-his-name did when he refused to work on HANGOVER 2 if Mel Gibson was going to be in it.

All I know is that it made me want to treat people better, and let my people (ie the ones who work for my show for free and very few shout-outs, and even fewer sexual perks) know that I'm grateful to them. Even if I don't know their names. And pretend I've never met them when we're standing in an elevator or at a urinal together.

The long metal trough kind. I really hate those.

So, on with the countdown. I could be a better collaborator. I could be a worse one. I recently got an email from someone working on the "Green Lantern" podcast that said she really loved my Sinestro and was sorry to hear I was going to die alone. Maybe I should do the same for my team.

Heck, I'm gonna do that now.

Rish "The Boss From Heck" Outfield

*Although it does make me feel like something of a slacker. Which I am.

Stupid Thing of the Week

I was at a store today, and I paused to look at the t-shirts. There were several Marvel and DC-related shirts, and it occurred to me that if someone went to school wearing a Green Lantern shirt in 2011, they'd be admired rather than called a fag and tossed in a trashcan. But ah well.

And then, I saw a shirt that gave me pause. It had only words on it, in big blocky letters:

TEXT ME WHEN YOU'RE DONE TALKING.

I smirked when I saw it, and then realized (to my horror) that it was saying the opposite of what I initially thought it said.* It wasn't telling me the shirt's owner would prefer to speak with them face to face, it was telling me to go fuck myself.

I dwelled on this shirt for, oh, I don't know, five minutes maybe. It's a bummer that something like that can exist.

You might think it made me feel old, or out of touch. But no, it made me feel angry. I would probably punch someone in the stomach if they were wearing that shirt, and then say, "Oh, sorry. Guess you better text the police."

Rish "Vex Message" Outfield

*I was reminded of a sign I saw at a Los Angeles costume shop back in '02 or '03 that said, "We would be happy to serve you after you've completed your cellphone call." It struck me as tremendously bold and admirable. Of course, the owners of the shop were later reported, detained, and put into camps.

Mildly Stupid Thing of the Week

I had something of a love/hate relationship with the homeless in Los Angeles. I hated them and loved how they . . .

No, I guess it was more of a hate/hate relationship.

So, I saw a homeless guy standing at the edge of a grocery store parking lot yesterday, holding a sign that said "HOMELESS Need Money God Bless." I don't tend to give money to those folks after an encounter with a particularly venomous one in Santa Monica, but I noticed this one like the first Robin Redbreast or haltertop of spring, and felt something akin to my heart warming.

I went into the grocery store, spent more money than I ever have before in my life, then came out with a new set of keys and possibilities. Pulling out of the parking lot, I saw the homeless guy again . . . and he was talking on his cellphone.

Bad form, sir. Bad form.

Somewhat Irritating Thing of the Week

Yesterday, my alarm went off (set to the Jack-FM radio station) to the nostalgic beat of Funky Cold Medina. I've never been a huge fan of the song, but I like Tone-Loc's voice, plus, that "olde skool rap" is my favorite kind.

Today, my alarm went off, and . . . what the bunt? . . . it was Funky Cold Medina again. This didn't ruin my day or anything (until I realized it was Monday again, and I stepped in the same gorram puddle), but if a radio station has, onstensibly, hundreds of songs in its catalog . . . why would they possibly play Tone Loc twice in a twenty-four hour period, let alone the same song in the same hour?

Rish "My Threads Are Fresh And I'm Lookin' Def" Outfield

Stupid Thing of the Week

My sister came over yesterday, dropping off my nephew. The boy was complaining, and when she got him out of her car, she discovered tiny black ants on him. We got out the car seat, and discovered there was a colony of these ants inside of it. Kind of horrifying if you don't really think about it. My sister had a job interview, so she asked me if I could watch the boy (apparently, she was planning on just leaving him in the carseat while she had her interview, but the ants ruined those plans).

I told her I was about to eat, but sure, I'd watch him, maybe take him to eat with me. "So, you'll just take him without a car seat?" she asked.

"Sure. I've done it before."

"You have?"

"I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel."

"Alright," she said, "but you probably ought to put him in the back seat rather than your lap."

Minutes later, we drove away, the three year old on my lap, helping me drive.

And let me interject for a moment. Everybody over twenty has ridden this way before. It's how you bonded with a driver, pretended to maneuver the car, looked forward to the power of adulthood. I once drove from Vista, California to Las Vegas, Nevada on my uncle's lap.* The child loves it, and it's not so bad for the grown-up either. It's not a crime, right?

We went to KFC, which was once called Kentucky Fried Chicken, before urban marketing started pulling in billions, just a mile from where I live. We hopped out and went in to grab us a meal, which my nephew refused to eat and got all over his shirt and pants.

A couple of minutes into the meal, a police officer came into the restaurant, and walked up to me.

"Are you the owner of a beat-to-shit blue Subaru that won't start when it's cold and emits a sickening grey smoke like from the very heart of Mordor itself?"

"Yes," I said, and I supposed I knew what it was about.

"I suppose you know what this is about," he said.

"Him, I'd guess," I said, pointing at my nephew.

"That's right," he said. "We got calls that you were driving with a child on your lap. And reckless driving, so maybe you cut somebody off or didn't signal when you . . ."

"Calls?" I interrupted. "More than one?"

"Yes. They gave us your make and model and someone gave your license plate."

That gave me pause. I'm not thrilled with a cop seeing me driving with a kid and pulling me over, but some stranger calling the police and lying to get the cops after me? That seems a bit excessive. Not to mention if it was more than one stranger.

But who am I to judge? That's their job.

So, from the policeman I got the lecture you probably formulated in your head while you read the above. Children under something like fourteen get their vertebrae snapped like a wet towel if they're not in a car seat and seatbelts become guillotines if you don't vote down gay marriage.

Finally, he said, "Well, I don't want to make a scene in front of the boy, so I'm going to let you off with a warning."

That too gave me pause. What kind of scene was he talking about? Beating me with his nightstick, I would imagine. I wanted to ask him if he was threatening to arrest me, or if he was itching to use his Taser. But I didn't. I was upset that the boy had spread honey and catsup all over himself instead of eating. And I was also upset that some people spell "ketchup" wrong.

But I couldn't just let it go. I told him about the ants.

He made absolutely no comment about that, save to say that I needed to find another way to transport the child back home. Otherwise, it was a fifty dollar ticket for breaking the car seat law (plus whatever fines were imposed for reckless driving, child endangerment, attempted murder, probably kidnapping, vagrancy, etc.).

I told him I would call my sister.

"Good," he said, and then he showed his hand. "Since I didn't actually witness any of your infractions, I can't cite you for them, but we want everybody to be safe. You understand?"

I guessed that I did. He still stood there, waiting. And I honestly think that he was waiting for an apology.

I settled for "Alright."

The policeman walked off, and my mind started to reel. Had there really been multiple calls about us? In a ten block stretch, how many cars had we gone by, and how many of those would have seen my attempted vehicular manslaughter? And how many would call the police about it? I even considered that the reason I got such lousy service from the KFC employee (she got my order wrong, and there was no ketchup, let alone catsup, and she had disappeared into the back when I tried to ask for some) was because she was on the phone to the police department regarding the horrible child abuser with the traumatized toddler daring to ask for potatoes instead of coleslaw.

Look, I'll make no judgments, besides the many implicit in this entry. If you like to say that I deserve the moniker of Stupid Thing this week, that's fine.

Drive on, cabbie.

The Notorious Rish Outfield

*I remember it vividly, as I was twenty-nine when it happened.

Stupid Thing of the Week

I went to A&W today to partake of their super-cheap Country Fried Steak meal. The girl behind the counter asked if I wanted to get a drink with it for a dollar more (as she does everytime I go in, like a good little droid), and of course I said yes.

But then, I went to the soda machine and tried to get a Pepsi . . . but nothing came out but brown water. The Wild Cherry Pepsi was foamy brown water. The Mountain Dew was . . . well, I can't even imagine, since I don't drink it, could've been--gasp!--regular Mountain Dew. Their world famous root beer wasn't working either.

I went to the counter and said, "This machine seems not to be working." "I know," the girl said, "We called somebody to come fix it later today." I asked if she could get me some Pepsi from the drive-thru drink machine, and she said, "No, they're all out right now."

So I sat down and ate my meal dry, but filled up the cup with ice, and filled when I got home.

It was only then that I realized that she charged me for a drink, knowing the machine was broken, and that--more importantly--I could have asked for my money back on that drink. But didn't.

So, where does the stupidity lie?

Stupid Thing of the Week

I was at a poker game at my brother's house last night. I lost, as usual.

But what's making me type this is that one of the player had brought their kid over, and he was boredly running around while the rest of us played, and at one point, went out to the car to get something. When he came back, he seemed overly timid, and his mother asked him what was wrong. Turns out he had locked the keys in the car.

So, my brother-in-law called the local police and asked them to come over and get the door opened. As penance, the boy had to keep watch by the window for them to arrive, while the rest of us played our game.

I told the boy to signal us when the cops arrived by saying, "You guys, I smell bacon." A couple people laughed at that (even though it wasn't all that funny, but ah well), and the game continued. I don't know why I continue to go to these poker games when I always lose, but I guess I'm dumb that way.

An hour or so later, the doorbell rang, and the boy answered it. Two cops stood on the doorstep.

I kid you nod, he turned and shouted, "Hey everybody, I smell bacon!"

This, folks, is why mother nature has decreed that I shall not have children.

Rish "Role Model" Outfield