Inaugural Exuberance

Media coverage of this past week’s inaugural festivities for the swearing in of then president-elect* George W. Bush dominated the airwaves – from the preparations to the post-event analysis. While I agree that he needs to be sworn in (or at), I don’t understand the need for all the hoopla.

Didn’t we just throw a party for him four years ago? Plus, we’re at war, as Bush is so wont to remind us. He won the election on his fear mongering, so it only seems fitting that he should scale back the celebration as other war-time presidents have done. Sure, you could argue that he actually won the election this time, but there just has be a better way to spend $40 million.

Whoa there cobra. Before you get all hot under the collar, I know that the principal costs of the festivities are being covered by private donors, not taxpayers. But what if Bush said that he would still show preferential treatment to his favorite lobbyists if the money they donated was used instead to better equip our troops in Iraq? That seems like a win-win situation to me, and I’m sure the troops wouldn’t mind.

I would also like to note that the estimated $40 million doesn’t include the estimated $17 million in added security costs for the inauguration – and that money does come from taxpayers. It’s just a hunch, but I bet that Washington D.C. could have used that money for something else that would actually benefit taxpayers. Feeding the homeless instead of a few egos seems like a much more noble cause.

Normally, I wouldn’t have an issue with spending some money on a lavish presidential inauguration. The pomp and circumstance comes from a long tradition in U.S. politics, and the American people do like to get “all patriotic” from time to time. Heck, I probably wouldn’t have such an issue with the fact that Dubbya’s two inaugurations were the most expensive in U.S. history if we weren’t at war. But, we are. All of this extravagance seems to fly in the face of the American soldiers who are dying nearly every day in Iraq.

In the end, perhaps it’s only fair. George Bush hasn’t asked the American people at large to make any sacrifices during this time of war, so why should he make any? But therein lies the problem. If this war is truly just, then I believe our government should be asking us to make sacrifices – not just our men and women in uniform. If taxes need to be raised to provide our soldiers with the proper protective gear, then so be it. Plus, raising taxes might encourage the American people to pay better attention to our foreign policy decisions.

As I step down from my soapbox, I would like to clarify that I’m not saying that we shouldn’t have celebrated, despite my own political leanings. I’m just saying that a little moderation was in order. OK, I’m done now.


*president-elect may not be the usual designation for a second-term president, but I think it’s appropriate since he wasn’t really elected last time

A Fixed Fix or Trouble Brewing or Caffeine Conspiracy or...

I’m usually not one to buy into outlandish conspiracy theories, but I’m convinced that there is an organized movement hell-bent on subtly wreaking havoc in the workplace. They do this by attacking a pillar of workplace productivity – the office coffee. It’s not blatant – and that’s exactly why it works.

I’m not talking about Starbucks secretly paying off corporations to serve bad coffee so employees are forced to get a double-shot-vente-nonfat-carmel-macchiato – we all know that to be true. What I am talking about is a more secret and subversive effort by condiment makers to attack cheap bastards like me who drink the rancid work coffee despite the best efforts of corrupt office managers.

In order to save $80 a month (i.e. 20 double-shot-vente-nonfat-carmel-macchiatos at 4 bucks a pop), I instead spend a dollar a week on a pint of whole milk. This strategic investment helps make the work coffee marginally palatable. Without it, I would be left with only sugar and non-dairy creamer to try and erase the gastronomical foibles inherent with large-scale commercial roasting and inferior grade beans.

Of course, milk on its own is not enough – I also need sugar – and that is where the conspiracy begins. Industrial size sugar and non-dairy containers are identical in their cylinder-style shape, with the only difference being whether it happens to be red or blue. Sounds easy enough, as you can quickly associate the sugar with calming blue and the non-dairy creamer with warning red. However, the various sugar and non-dairy creamer conglomerates have nefariously plotted to produce their wares in conflicting colors.

If you notice in exhibit ‘A,’ the inappropriately-named Coffee-‘Mate’ is red, while the N’Joy ‘creamer’ and Dixie sugar are both blue. Thus, if you’re not completely awake (which you aren’t – hence the coffee), you could easily grab the blue ‘creamer’ by mistake and ruin your coffee. And this is exactly what they want. The condiment conspirators win by you using up more product, and Starbucks wins by converting some of the weak-willed creamer victims. And I lose, because I’m the cheap bastard who should be drinking the $4 double-shot-vente-carmel macchiato.

Random Banter Serves Society's Elite

Recently, I discovered that RandomBanter.com is helping people around the world find information on some very important topics. After installing a bit of code, I am now able to see how people navigate to my site, which surprisingly is often via search engines.

I must say that it feels very rewarding to be able to help people in their quest for knowledge. With all the mis- dis- and piss information on the Web, it must be nice to be directed to my site, where you’re sure to find honest commentary on some of life’s more complex issues.

A sampling of some of the search terms people use to get to my site is indicative of the quality content I provide as a public service to humanity. Whether you’re searching for images of big boobs, looking to get out of jury duty or wanting more information on the Jackson clan – it’s all here. RandomBanter.com proudly serves the sophisticated tastes of today’s intelligentsia.

You're welcome.

Some Recent Search Terms Used to Find RandomBanter.com

• Google Norway - "Michael Jackson spends a lot"


• Google – "bust ratio"


• Yahoo! Image Search - "masks surgical"


• MSN Search - "Johnny Cash T-Shirt"


• Google - "Bush makes up words"


• Yahoo! Search – "homelessman blog"


• Google Search - "ignore jury summons"


• Alta Vista Image Search - "thin waist, big boobs"


• Google Search – "odd word skullduggery"


• MSN Search – "Janet Jackson’s wardrobe malfunction"

There’s Something You Don’t See Every Day #1

In order to keep all you word whores entertained, I am starting this new column to document odd visual occurrences and rarities that please the mental palate. I really should have started this years ago, before blogs, before the Internet, before I was born – but I get before myself.

Alas, I am truly saddened to think of all the crazy-ass stuff I’ve seen over the years that has leaked irretrievably out of the porous memory cells in my brain - lost forever, never to be documented, never to be commented wittily upon. It all ends here!…or begins here.

Regardless, the point is that I’m writing it down now. I might also send it to the Smithsonian so it can be captured for future generations. That’s how generous I am. Oh, and feel free to add to the dialogue by commenting about your own surreal sightings.

So here goes…

Get off your high bike

I’m on my way to work, minding my own business, not letting someone cut in at the last moment to avoid waiting in line to get on the freeway, and in my rear view mirror I see something spectacular. I say spectacular, because I, along with everyone else, were spectators to the anachronism of a man riding atop a first generation bicycle with the huge front wheel and tiny rear wheel.

I don’t know if it would have been more odd if the man had been wearing a 19th century getup with tweed knickers and suspenders, or like how it was – an aging body-builder wearing shorts and a Gold’s Gym tank top. Either way, it was strange and definitely something you don’t see everyday, or ever, for that matter.

I apologize for the grainy, ill-framed photos, but that’s what you get for me trying to drive, keep people from cutting in, and snapping photos with a so-called ‘camera’ phone. Referring to these mini-pixel talky devices as ‘cameras’ has the same credibility as Britney Spears’ latest marriage. But I digress, when I should be closing.

So that’s it. I hope you enjoyed this little foray into the peculiarities that our fine, spinning globe has to offer. If you think this account is not that strange, just let me know the next time you see me – unless it happens to be when you’re cutting me off to get on the freeway. Then, don’t bother.

Awash in Pink

In anticipation of our daughter’s coming out party later this month, my wife has been dutifully washing all of the baby clothes that we’ve received from family, friends, and friends of friends. The first grandchild of either side of the family, I expected her to be bestowed with innumerable gifts from these impending relations, however I was taken back by the micro clothing bounty from friends and friends/friends. Our child will not go naked, which is a pledge that I plan on enforcing her whole life.

The key to non-nakedness is clothing, which I now come back to in expert literary fashion. My wife’s laundering was interrupted by a social engagement, so she asked me to insert myself in the process by transferring the clothes from the washer to the dryer.

Now, I’ve been washing clothes since my early teens, when I reluctantly learned the skill from my impressively crafty parents. During that time, I’ve had my fair share of mishaps involving global chromatic change, however I have never seen my wife make such a rookie mistake. Thus, I was quite surprised by what I saw when I lifted the lid of the washer - the entire load had turned pink!

Of course, I never should have doubted my wife’s ability, for the pink hue was no mistake. Upon closer inspection, I realized that the clothes were supposed to be pink. Sure, I hear pink is a popular color these days for baby girl accoutrements, but I didn’t realize our daughter-to-be was going to be awash in it.

The truth is, my wife and I never set out to procure a uni-pigmented wardrobe – it just kind of happened. In order to reassure myself that I our baby would not be subjected to such outright color bias, I went to the baby closet to examine the rest of her diminutive duds. Hmm. I hope our child likes pink, although she should be used to it after nine months in her rose-colored uterine apartment.

A Hummer of an Excursion

I used to get most upset about the massive Ford Excursion that is often parked outside our house in North Park. How I long for the days when this monstrosity was the only vehicular blight in our quaint corner of this up-and-coming urban neighborhood of San Diego. Unfortunately, in classic Southern California fashion, the owners of the Excursion have been one-upped by the recent addition of a Hummer.

No, not one of those pansy H2’s. Those bastard GM creations can’t hold a candle to the original, desert-stomping variety, which make no attempt to add refinement or make apologies for their lane-busting girth. Suddenly, the Excursion doesn’t look so bad – which is wrong on so many levels.

While not an expert on the psychological profile of someone who needs to own an expensive, impractical and environmentally insensitive means of transportation, I now fear that the Excursion owner will soon be trading it in for a Bradley Fighting Vehicle. You have to keep up with the Joneses after all, even if the Joneses are hell-bent on destroying the environment at a rate of 10 miles per gallon.

Some may feel I am overreacting here, as I did choose to live in the SUV capital of the world. However, I feel it’s perfectly reasonable to say that my block isn’t big enough for the both of them. Literally. If they ever park directly across from each other on our humble street, I’m not sure my car will be able to squeeze past. And, they always park on the street, as they won’t fit in their driveways. That should be a first sign – if it’s too big for the driveway, then perhaps it’s too big for the neighborhood.

Of course, I know I’m not alone in my hatred for these offensive icons of American arrogance and excess. In fact, there’s a whole Web site devoted to it, which has recently been updated with my own submission.

When Words Attack

As children, we are quickly taught that while sticks and stones may cause grievous corporal damage, our small, innocent bodies still remain impervious to name-calling. Of course, this is a well-intentioned fallacy that parents propagate as way to defend their offspring from the stinging, usually ill-formed verbal attacks from schoolyard bullies.


The fact is that broken bones tend to heal more quickly than the mental injuries inflicted from the poisoned barbs of the spoken word. Heck, as we grow older we learn a contradictory maxim that says the pen is mightier than the sword. So which is it!? Sticks are more powerful than words, but swords aren't? Let me set the record straight - words hurt and so do swords, pointed sticks, etc.


However, words have the ability to physically maim as well - and I'm not talking about uttering 'fire' in a crowded building or to a firing squad. Consider the recent story of the spelling bee contestant fainting upon hearing the word "alopecoid." A seemingly innocent word, - especially since I have no idea what it means - yet it quickly prostrated little Akshay Buddiga. Luckily, he was okay and even spelled the word correctly after regaining consciousness, but his parents might be right to get him interested in a safer hobby, like football.

Say what you want about words, but they're handy little critters, whether they're used for good or evil. In terms of sheer volume of words, English speakers have a distinct advantage over many of their foreign-tongued counterparts. Unlike other languages that try to get the most value and use out of every word without creating new ones, English constantly expands its vocabulary with stupid, unnecessary words. Take "euro-creep" and "info-dump" for example, which were recently added to the Oxford English Dictionary. For a second, I'm inclined to think that the French aren't so off-base in how far they go to protect their language. Just for a second, though.

The one advantage to our superfluous language is in the area of signage. Upon observing signs, clothing tags, etc. that are written in multiple languages, I have noticed that other languages often require at least 30 percent more words to say the same thing in English. I'm sure that if an over-ambitious researcher were to figure out the business impact in terms of costs associated with printing real estate, ink, typesetting, etc, there would be a serious outcry for an increase in foreign vocabulary counts. In case you think I digress, hold on, I'm coming back around.

In order to combat this linguistic disproportion, some signs severely truncate the original message when it's translated into a foreign tongue. Most of the time, this isn't a big deal. Maybe the shampoo container doesn't tell the non-English speaker to rinse and repeat, but the user will probably be able to figure it out or else go around with soapy hair. Not exactly a travesty. However, I noticed a warning sign the other day that perked my attention.

Upon visiting the neighborhood "icky-mart," there was a warning sign posted on the adjacent fence housing a high voltage substation. The sign communicated its message in English, Spanish and graphic icon - the latter looking like Shazam losing a tug-of-war competition. The English text stated the following, "Danger, Hazardous Voltage Inside, Can Cause Injury Or Death, Keep Out!" The Spanish translation simply said "Danger, High Voltage, Do Not Enter."

At first, I felt the sign was being "linguist," that is to say discriminatory towards those unable to speak the dominant tongue. Why should Spanish speakers not be given the full warning? Are they less citizens? Then I realized, that maybe it's because they're smarter and less litigious. Spanish speakers understand that the high voltage is inside and not on the fence, and that the specified voltage can cause injury or death.

English speakers on the other hand have to be told. Otherwise, you would have people suing the power companies saying, "Yeah, it said 'high voltage' and not to enter, but it didn't say anything about it causing injury or death!" It makes me long for the days when a simple "keep out" would serve as a warning and not an invitation. Coincidentally, I found it fitting that the Icky-Mart attendant couldn't be bothered to hang up the phone to utter two simple words of thanks for the purchased milk, but let the 'Thank You' emblazed bag speak for itself.

Yeaaaagh!

The whole presidential primary system makes me want to scream. I’m not talking about a wimpy, half-hearted scream, but a Howard Dean style, top-of-my-lungs, hold-nothing-back scream. If I lived in Iowa, I might be very happy with the system. However, I live in California, where I am very happy that I don’t live in Iowa – except for this whole primary thing.

It really is a disheartening experience. Earlier this year, as I watched the coverage from the caucus events, I began to formulate opinions on who I thought might be the best candidate to take the tattered reins from Dubbya. However, as the results from each primary and caucus rolled in, the candidates began dropping out like flies. By the time it got to California, only two realistic candidates were still in – John Kerry and John Edwards.

Sure, Al Sharpton and Ralph Nader were still in the race, but I wouldn’t trust Al as far as I could throw him (not very far), and hasn’t Nader already done enough?! It was his votes that put Bush in the White House the last time around. While Nader has some good ideas, he’s not helping the Democratic effort to dethrone the incumbent.

My parents always told me that life was unfair, but it still bothers me that I never got the opportunity to vote for Wesley Clark or Howard Dean. Their fate was already determined by the states that came before. Not that I would have voted for them, but I wanted the choice. Isn’t that what America is all about?

Despite my frustration with the process, I went to the polls on March 2nd. At least I had two candidates to choose from them – or so I thought. By afternoon, John Edwards announced he was dropping out. And people wonder why so few people vote.

I admit that I’m no expert when it comes to politics – in fact, you’re more likely to find me reading Entertainment Weekly than the New Yorker. However, I think there needs to be a better system. Here’s a thought – how about we run the primaries like the presidential elections? You could have all the nominees tour around various states debating the issues, and then on one date the whole nation votes. That way, people in obscure places like California, New York and Texas might actually have a say in matter.

It’s a pretty radical idea, that’s for sure, but perhaps we could all vote on it. We could start in Iowa…

Enough Already

I was already near the end of my rope with the incessant Michael Jackson media coverage that was punctuated by such gems as the SUV rooftop press conference and Jesus Juice fiasco. The recent titillating performance by Janet Jackson only confirmed my sincere belief that the entire Jackson clan needs to go away. Far away.

If our feared national leader really wants to waste taxpayer’s money by sending a manned mission to Mars, then I suggest sending the Jackson family...the whole lot of them. Sure, Michael and Janet have been the main culprits as of late, but I’m convinced that lunacy runs in the bloodlines. It’s best not to risk it. I don’t think Jesse Jackson is related, but it might be a good idea to throw him in the ship too, just in case.

If this isn’t possible then can we please ignore them? Can the worldwide media please make a pact that they won’t cover anything regarding the Jacksons, not matter how surreal or outlandish? Perhaps if the Jackons knew that we didn’t care anymore, they’ll quietly go about their business. Although we’d have to clarify that “sharing a bed with a child” and flashing 80 million television viewers is not “business.”

I must admit that I do enjoy the news media hypocrisy regarding the Super Bowl’s “Boob-gate.” In the days following the event, NBC’s Today Show provided commentary on how the story was getting over-exposed in the press. Of course, their coverage wasn’t contributing to this phenomenon. I do give Katie Couric a little bit of credit, as she would half-apologize each time she had to give an update on this issue of worldwide importance. Plus, she’s kind of cute.

For the record, the Jacksons (and Michael and Janet in paticular) are nutcases. End of story. When crazy people do crazy things, it shouldn’t be news. I’m a writer, so no one is surprised when I write – except the half-dozen readers of this blog. The point is, when someone does something that they’re hard-wired to do, it shouldn’t be shocking and certainly not news. When George W. Bush makes up words, does anyone call this news? Oh, yeah, I guess they do.

I’m going to take my own advice and never again mention the Jacksons – unless it’s to cover the fact that NASA took my advice and is shipping them to the red planet. Although, when Michael’s through with it, the planet might mysteriously turn white.

P.S. For those of you who missed Janet’s wardrobe malfunction, I’ve included a photo here with a close up of the sole object standing between this being a simple case of bad taste vs. porn.

Jurified

As my first civil act of 2004, I reported for jury duty today. I don’t use the term "official civil act," because I haven’t yet had the opportunity to be civil in any sense of the word. Given the opportunity to spend New Year’s in San Francisco, I have been more concerned about reveling, not being civil. Civility could wait until my return to San Diego late last night.

When I received my Jury Summons about four weeks ago, I didn’t properly process all the implications of reporting on the first working day of the New Year. My first thought was that it would be good to get it over with. However, I should have thought about how busy it would be as the judicial wheels once again began to turn after the holiday season – and the busier it was, the more likely that I would be needed.

The morning started off bad enough with either my alarm failing to sound or me failing to hear it. Regardless, when I awoke, I had less than 45 minutes to get up, get dressed and get downtown to the San Diego Hall of Justice. Convinced that the police would put out an affidavit for my arrest if I were late, I quickly scurried my law-abiding ass out the door.

I was actually kind of excited about going to the Hall of Justice – heck, maybe I would even bump into the sultry Wonder Woman, who in the embodiment of a corseted Linda Carter fueled a number of adolescent fantasies. If she happened to be off fighting crime in her invisible jet, there was also the possibility of accosting Superman, Batman, or at the very least, one of the second-tier Super Friends. I wouldn’t mind seeing the Wonder Twins turn themselves into a glass of ice water and a dairy cow – at least I wouldn’t go thirsty.

The tension mounted as traffic was threatening to keep me from reaching the courthouse by my court-appointed time. Luckily I arrived two minutes early, kissed my dutiful wife and hopped out of the car and up the steps. I quickly glanced around to see if Aquaman might be sitting outside on a cigarette break. No luck, however, I did spot the infamous HomelessMan, along with JadedCityEmployeeMan, but no trading card quality super heroes.

As I opened the double glass doors, I realized that all my rushing had been in vain. There was a huge line of solemn-looking individuals holding Jury Summons forms waiting for safe passage through the metal detector. A real test of an individual’s metal, the machines were manned by no-nonsense, steel-jawed law officers, who stood in stark contrast to the lackadaisical TSA agents I had recently encountered on last night’s flight back to San Diego. These latter officers carried guns and appeared to be looking for any excuse to use them.

Once past security, I was herded into the inappropriately-titled Jury Lounge. A blatant misnomer, as there would certainly be hours of sitting in uncomfortable chairs with hundreds of strangers, but definitely no lounging. After 15 minutes or so of non-lounging, we were greeted by William H. Macy’s character from Sea Biscuit. There was a striking similarity that extended as far as his slicked-back hair, animated gestures and over-enthusiastic voice. However, the clip of his voice was much slower, more akin to someone speaking to children or foreign tourists.

As part of the orientation, the mock Macy gave us an 8th grade civics lesson on how the government was divided into executive, legislative and judicial branches, and that the judicial branch was the only one that relied predominantly on public citizens. He then broke out in a song and dance routine that centered on a lonely bill on Capitol Hill. Okay, that last bit didn’t happen, but it wouldn’t have seemed too out of place if it had.

We were then informed that we should be prepared to serve for at least two weeks, and if that wasn’t possible, we should see "Jury Services" right away in order to reschedule for another time. They were pushing this really hard, so I was really surprised when only a small percentage of people got up. I suppose that, like me, people just wanted to get it over with.

According to Mr. Happy, if we weren’t picked right away, we would most likely be waiting in the "lounge" until mid-afternoon. I felt sorry for the unfortunate individuals who hadn’t brought anything along to pass the time. Myself, I had brought a newspaper, book, and laptop. If I exhausted all those divertissements, I was going to take a stab at drafting my own Middle East peace plan. Heck, anything I came up would be just as likely to succeed as the latest round of efforts.

Finally, I was given my opportunity to serve. My name was called to report to Courtroom 53 in the adjacent County Court House building. I packed up my things, exited the Hall of Justice, crossed over to the Court House, proceeded through the metal detectors and ventured out in search of number 53. Two escalators and an elevator later, I found it – only to be told by the bailiff that the two litigants were still in pre-jury negotiations, and that it was best to report back to the lounge.

This news was met with a mixture of annoyance and elation. The annoyance with being turned away after successfully navigating the elaborate courthouse labyrinth quickly mutated into joy fueled by the hope of a possible dismissal.

I quickly made my way out of the building and back through security to the coveted Jury Lounge in the Super Friendless Hall of Justice. Luckily, with all these trips through security, the metal detectors weren’t set to airline-level sensitively, which can be set off by the amount of iron digested in a 12 oz. can of V-8. I thoroughly enjoyed walking through the detectors with both my shoes AND belt on…scandalous! Only my cell phone, Palm Pilot and laptop were subject to X-ray quality scrutiny.

After an hour or more of waiting, the courtroom 53 vagabonds were called into Jury Services and honorably discharged from service. Apparently, our assigned litigants had hashed it out without our help – maybe after peaking out the window to see in whose hands their fate would lie. Regardless, I left the courthouse with a keen eye for any opportunity to bum a ride home in the Batmobile.

Now With Comments!

For all the loyal readers who have been moved by the sweet nectar of my words, Randombanter.com is now New and Improved with comments! Yes, that's right, comments are now available for expressing your visceral and immediate reaction to the poetry of my eloquently expressed thoughts.

If you are one of the miniscule minority that might not be so affected by my winsome words, remember that creative types like myself often have very fragile egos. Thus, any discontent should be saved for your own private murmurings, expressed safely outside the dangerous - and public - realms of cyberspace.

My Life With a Dog

Having a dog affects the way you interact with the world. For some reason, a furry, four-legged beast tethered to your wrist transforms you into an entirely different category of person. After experiencing the dramatic social shift that occurs when accompanied by my dog, I now understand the true meaning behind the term “man’s best friend.”

First of all, let me clear up a common misconception. When you look at the facts, ‘man’ must refer to all of mankind. For all genders and variations thereof act like they are my dog’s best friend. Why else would they come up to her and start putting their hands all over her like they were intimate acquaintances?

During this process, they also feel like they need to make small talk with me. Being such good friends with my dog, they must also want to get better acquainted with her legal guardian – perhaps to make sure I am a good provider, companion, etc. Regardless, my faithful companion somehow breaks the code of silence that usually exists between complete strangers.

With Katy at my side, I have had many conversations with people I would normally pass by on the street as we both safely averted our gazes down and to the side. Of course, Katy does encourage it. She likes meeting people – all kinds of people. And she is pretty non-discriminating – from well-to-do old ladies to a homeless man sleeping in the park.

It also doesn’t hurt that she looks friendly. All dog’s start out friendly looking – how more friendly can you get than a puppy? However, the attitude towards some breeds changes dramatically once the puppy stage is over. No matter how friendly an adult Pit Bull, Rottweiler or Doberman really is, they still give me pause. Katy has no such trouble. Goofy-looking dogs usually don’t generate a lot of fear, and as a Border Collie – Greyhound mix, she easily defines the category.

The effect that dogs have on people goes both ways – not just towards the complete strangers, but also towards the owner. As I dedicate the time to write this piece, I am beginning to wonder if this act makes me a dog freak. I would rather be a freak with a dog, than a dog freak. Dog freaks are usually weird, fanatical and a bit scary.

If you want to understand what I mean by scary, try visiting a local dog park. The dog park I frequent is host to a cornucopia of interesting characters. There is the egotistical east coaster dog walker who yells profanities at the dogs when they misbehave. His short temper and foul mouth are equaled by an older Scottish lady, who vocally asserts her Scottish heritage as justification for her ill-mannered behavior – much to the chagrin of other Scots I imagine.

However, all the characters pale in comparison to the Poop Man. No kowtowing to the socially conditioned approvals of others, the Poop Man fulfills his moniker each day – barefoot, bare-chested and armed with a stick and common grocery store bag that is sagging under the weight of the park’s orphan poop.

Like some sort of twisted superhero, Poop Man is always there to save a shoe from smelly ruin. And I do mean always. I frequent two different dog parks, and more often that not, I see him at each one making the park safe for its two-footed patrons. Whether saint or insane, he faithfully goes about his duty each day.

Now, I don’t know what kind of person I expect would devote his life to aggregating canine excrement, but it’s not Poop Man. First of all, he doesn’t have good tools. A stick and flimsy plastic grocery bag? That seems like an ad hoc solution ill-suited for long-term application.

If I were Poop Man, I would have a stainless steel scooper and heavy-duty bag. I would also wear shoes and a shirt. Then again, I also wouldn’t be someone who spends his day cleaning up after careless dog owners. But that’s what Poop Man does daily, outfitted solely in bright red shorts and an orange visor.

Hanging around his waist are his only accoutrements: a cell phone and portable radio blaring Christian talk radio for all to hear. The richness of the spectacle is enhanced by the combination of so many disparate elements.

Any two alone would seem odd together: "shirtless man blaring Christian talk radio," "shoeless man picking up all the park’s poop," "seemingly homeless man being able to afford a cell phone but not a pooper scooper." I'd love to hear his story sometime, but until my dog and he meet, social rules forbid us from speaking.

The Day After Red Dawn

Actually, it's been several days after the red dawn and sunsets that Southern Californians were treated to as some sort of twisted consolation prize for enduring the area's recent devastating wildfires. Despite the known destruction, I couldn't help admiring the stunning oranges and reds made possible by the refracted rays of the sun as it rose and set behind the thick, lingering smoke.

That was the only beauty of the fire. Mostly, there was a heavy gloom in the air that hung as heavily as the smoke - as almost everyone in San Diego knew someone who lost a home. I didn't lose a home, so for me the fires were only a major source of inconvenience ... and creepiness.


The inconvenience amounted to the ubiquitous ash and being cooped up in the house for three days. The dumb ash was everywhere. Every time I tried to get rid of the sorry ash, more fell from the sky. I felt like the sky was opening a large can of whoop ash on me - and this was no half-ash attempt. Big ash piles were piling up all around my house. Call me a jack ash for trying to clean it up too soon, but it was asking for a thorough ash kicking. Okay, sorry. I'm done now.


Anyways ... In addition to the ash, the fire was also making things kind of creepy. Being a Gen-Xer (I like that youthful title now that I'm 32), I remember watching the groundbreaking and radiating film The Day After. I don't think many people would have actually watched this low-budget made-for-TV movie had it not been for all the controversy surrounding it. Apparently, it was too shocking for the minds of our susceptible youth.

Perhaps there was something to this concern, as the film's imagery quickly came to mind as I regarded the changed landscape around me. The first few days of the fire the daylight sky was completely white, and largish flakes of ash were falling peacefully from the sky. It was what I imagined a nuclear winter to be like. This eerie feeling of having somehow survived Armageddon was bolstered by a quick dash out to Vons for much needed groceries.

I hadn't yet ventured out of the house since being forcibly incarcerated by the unhealthy air, so I was quite taken aback by the scene that unraveled before me. The streets were empty. It was10 a.m. on a Monday - a time when our small-scale metropolis of North Park is usually humming with activity.

As I peered through the haze, I finally spotted a lone, surgical mask-clad individual walking slowly to the post office. After turning on to University Avenue, our city center's main thoroughfare, I soon encountered a few other people wandering aimlessly with mouths and noses covered by similar unflattering surgical masks that even Michael Jackson couldn't render fashionable.

Upon reaching Vons, I saw a few other sad-looking survivors pacing back and forth with large painted signs. I half expected them to read "The End is Near," but, instead, they said something about a strike and unfair policies, etc. The grocery strike was about a week old at this point, and I hadn't yet crossed the picket line, but I wasn't about to endanger my lungs by venturing further away from the apparent safety of my home.

The scene inside the store did nothing to ease the surreal setting outside. The store was largely empty, and as I navigated the aisles looking for the essentials, many of the shelves were bare. This effect was particularly pronounced in the produce and meat sections, where more than half of the bins were conspicuously empty. It was as if people had raided the store in anticipation of a Red Dawn or The Day After event - when in actuality it was directly related to the strike.

Luckily, there wasn't any looting in my area of town. While being an odious social phenomenon, such an event would also have added to the "end of the world" style drama that was unfolding all around. Other communities were not so lucky. The local news reported that two individuals were arrested for such a crime in a neighboring community - one woman and a 26 year-old man. Which made me wonder ... why didn't they report the woman's age too? But, I digress.

Despite all the seemingly obvious signs, Armageddon has yet to befall Southern California. Even if it did, there's really no point in worrying now that Ah-nold is looking out for us. He's already saved the world three times - in comparison, So Cal would be a piece of cake.

Beat the System

Given my previous reference to Ticketmaster as “The Beast,” I thought it fitting to continue the saga with further religious references – hence “Beat the System.” Yes, I did beat the system just as the legendary Christian rock band Petra urged me to do in my youth: “You can dare to win by losing all, you can face the heat - dare to Beat the System.”

For me, beating the system amounted to my attendance at a recent Radiohead concert without paying any Ticketmaster fees. However, I think Petra had something else in mind with that song and would have disapproved of my seeing a dangerous band like Radiohead. Nonetheless, I did beat the system – with a little help from Craig and his list.

More than just a dark enemy of Ticketmaster’s subversive plan to control the live music universe, Craiglist is a remarkable resource for just about anything you could possible want: garage sale listings, community events, activity partners, job lists, free moving boxes and, yes, concert tickets. It’s essentially a community bulletin board on steroids, and that’s pretty much how it started about eight years ago in San Francisco.

Now Craigslist is nationwide, with ‘lists’ serving most major metropolitan cities – including my fair hamlet of San Diego. The successful spread of Craiglist across the U.S. and even Canada gives me hope that people are once again realizing the importance and benefits of being part of a community. The Craiglist concept feeds off the same part of the brain that has enabled eBay to be so successful. It gives us an easy and convenient way to sidestep the limited, self-serving options offered by corporate America.


After completing the financial transaction for my Radiohead tickets, I felt like I had won. There was a certain euphoria that arose from my belief that I had beat the system. Even though I had to go through a fairly laborious process of exchanging several emails and arranging a meeting place and time to complete the transaction, I felt it was all worth it. Perhaps there is also a thrill in meeting a complete stranger for an exchange of goods. I almost expect to hear the individual ask for unmarked bills and to make sure that I am not followed.

This feeling of furtive excitement was heightened by my most recent experience securing tickets to see The Strokes perform at the Bill Graham civic auditorium in San Francisco. I had contacted “Kenneth” earlier in the day, and he said he had two tickets – below face value. Excellent. However, when I called at the prearranged time to come pick up the tickets, he said he couldn’t meet me as he was going out with a friend. This concerned me, as it was 5 p.m., and the concert was the next day. If he didn’t pull through, I wouldn’t have much time to come up with alternate plan. A failed attempt to arrange a successful exchange might force me into momentary Tickemaster servitude.

Thinking quickly, I suggested that we meet first thing in the morning, as I couldn’t meet him later in the evening due to my own plans to have dinner with friends. “Kenneth” seemed hesitant to meet in the morning, and would rather do it that night – he would be up late. At 11:30 p.m., I slowed my car to a stop outside the Mervyn’s in a particularly urban and gritty part of San Francisco’s Richmond district. As I turned off the engine and the lights, I could hear the howling of the wind as it coaxed the dense fog eastward from the ocean. The eerie setting and empty streets made me feel a little vulnerable. Who was this Kenneth? Why was he selling these tickets for $10 less than anyone else on Craiglist? Why did he want to meet in the middle of the night in a sketchy part of town?

Within five minutes, however, Kenneth appeared out of the fog with an envelope in hand. Not hidden in a folded-up newspaper or enclosed in an ominous briefcase handcuffed to his wrist, the white #8 business envelope was brandished clearly for all to see. As he handed it to me, I quickly inspected its contents. It looked official, had the right date and exhibited the nefarious Ticketmaster markings. I handed over the $50 in unmarked bills and shook his hand. On a whim (and to reassure my lingering doubts) I asked him why he was selling them. He replied that he had seen them twice already and decided a third time wasn’t necessary.

I would have liked a more plausible response, as I thought it unrealistic that he would have attended the prior tour dates in LA and New York. However, I accepted the explanation and completed the transaction with an awkward handshake. Either he was as ill at ease as I was, or he was a consummate trickster and it was all part of the act. Whichever it was, the truth would be had the next evening.

As I handed over the tickets to the ticket-taker, I was surprised that I did so with a little apprehension. Apparently, I wasn’t totally convinced that the prior evening’s exchange had been successful. Of course, the tickets were valid, and I proceeded to enjoy a great live performance that was subconsciously enhanced by the confirmed knowledge that I had beat the system.

Johnny Cash Went Home

I am not a country music fan, in fact, I have spent a good portion of my life ridiculing its languorous laments of lost trucks, lost jobs, lost dogs or lost women – with most songs assigning importance in that order. During my years in college, modern country music was enjoying growing popularity – spearheaded by the success of the damnable “song” Achey Breaky Heart by Billy Ray Cyrus.* I remember wanting to achey breaky the nearest radio every time it came on. The twang, the lyrics, the line dancing, it all had to go. However, my genuine and outward display of disaffection for country music was complicated by my affection for the music of Johnny Cash.

In order to justify this odd dichotomy, I have to go about mentally splitting country music into three distinct genres: 1) modern country, which I hate, 2) classic country, which I mostly hate, except for Johnny Cash, and MAYBE one or two others, 3) and alt-country, which I love – oddly enough. It might be confusing how I could hate country music and like Johnny Cash (and alt-country), but it should be noted that several of Johnny’s songs fared rather well on the pop charts too. Furthermore, I have read that Nashville didn’t exactly embrace him, which also sets him apart. Perhaps he wasn’t country enough for them, and perhaps that why I like his music so much. I listen to “Ring of Fire” or “I Walk the Line” and I don’t hear country, I hear Johnny Cash.

As for alt-country, respected bands like Wilco have earned respect in the world of alternate rock, but not in the trailer park of country music. See, it all makes sense, really. Oh, in case you’re wondering… no, I am not rationalizing too aggressively.

I am further comforted by the fact that on Friday, the day of his passing, San Diego’s local alternative rock radio station dedicated the entire day to Johnny Cash. It played tribute to The Man in Black by playing several classic standards, as well as the many collaborations and covers from his recent forays into the modern rock world. I remember the first time I heard “The Wanderer” on U2’s Zooropa album. There is something about Johnny’s voice that cuts you to the core. There is an honesty and earnestness there that I have heard in few other songs. I am obviously not alone, which is why other artists, like Bono, have wanted to collaborate with him. On Friday, Bono made a statement calling him an oak tree in a garden full of weeds.

As the pre-prepared retrospectives began playing on TV and radio after the announcement of his death, I was made aware of some of Johnny’s more recent projects. Critical acclaim was largely directed toward his cover of the song “Hurt” originally performed by hard rock band, Nine Inch Nails. I was familiar with the song and was very interested in hearing how Johnny would treat it. After listening to the song and seeing the video, I understood why it was getting so much attention. It was amazing to see how closely the song paralleled his life.

On Friday I had lunch with an old high school friend as previously planned earlier that week. As we met outside the local Mexican joint, I noticed that he was wearing a white T-shirt with the words “Johnny Cash Went Home” on the front – each word occupying its own line. At first, I thought someone was already capitalizing on Johnny’s passing to sell shirts, and then I noticed that it was drawn on with permanent marker. It was a quick improvisation to honor a great man - a man who transcended musical genres. I can say this with greater authority after seeing my friend, as I am pretty sure we spent some time together in high school mocking country music together.

*To my credit, I had to look up the name of the “artist” on the Internet.

Today is history in the making. I have spent many hours and tens of tens of dollars to accomplish something very exciting. Something that amounts to...well, six letters. From now on, I'll will be posting my riveting blog at my very own site: www.randombanter.com (and you thought all the good domains were taken).

This simple, beautiful URL will serve as the virtual nexus of my carefully selected and highly edited innermost thoughts. In addition to the beauty of having my very own www, instead of blogspot, I am also saving you all six keystrokes in the typing of the URL. Over the course of your lifetime, this is a significant benefit. I am in the process of assigning a worth to it and will subsequently set up a PayPal link so people can compensate me for the time I am able to save them.

In the meantime, point your browsers to www.randombanter.com for the most random banter on the Internet today.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

-Proprietor

Three Questions

While I was never on the debate team in high school, college or at a very progressive pre-school, informal training as a naturally curious individual provided me with adequate opportunities to hone my skills. I rather enjoyed taking the role of “devil’s advocate,” which was probably prompted by a repressed rebelliousness to my conservative religious upbringing. Not everyone has appreciated my inquisitive nature, however.

I still remember a traumatic experience in eighth grade, where my homeroom teacher, Mr. McEachran, publicly limited me (and me alone) to three questions per class. This created quite a bit of stress for me, as I then had to constantly evaluate whether each new question I pondered warranted being one of the sanctioned three. While I obviously still harbor some deep-seated resentment towards Mr. McEachran, I can now appreciate that having to make these hard choices was a valuable experience.

Fast forward 20 years, and I find I am using these same skills as a pubic relations professional. Okay, wait, before you start slamming down your misguided anvil of judgment, let me debate the innocuousness of my particular role in this dubious profession. I do not represent Exxon. Nor do I represent companies involved with logging, tobacco, pharmaceuticals, or things your mother would frown upon. Sometimes, do my efforts make large corporations buy software with more functionality than they’ll ever need? Yes. Of that I am guilty, but a nice kind of guilty that lets me sleep at night and happily cash my pay check to buy frivolous consumer items with more functionality then I’ll never need.

Now that I’ve hopefully coaxed you down from your horse of elevated stature, I will continue with some droll observations on how my adolescent years prepared me for my current position. The bulk of my days involve writing press releases – those wonderful 2 or 3 page documents that litter the email boxes of editors around the globe. Of course, the difference between my press releases and other ones out there, are that mine are the ones that editors should care about. This is an important distinction.

As I think about what makes a really good press release, it pains me to realize that Mr. McEachran’s questionable middle school injunction has most likely had a positive effect on my current press release writing capabilities. You see, with a press release you have to carefully choose 2 or 3 main points you want to get across. Forget the small stuff and quickly get to what’s important – for you have to get your point across in a span of time that is dictated by how long it takes an editor to maneuver the mouse to the delete button. If you’re lucky, the mouse’s roller ball might be gummed up with lint, dust and skin cells, which could buy you a fraction of a second more. However, if you’re unlucky, two words: optical mouse.

My experience providing metaphorical legal representation for the prince of darkness has also proved extremely valuable. Essentially, it’s better that I poke holes in overblown corporate marketing claims that were recklessly created during a binge drinking session with the company Kool-Aid(tm). If I don’t, editors will. They love that sort of thing. But really, don’t we all?

There’s something satisfying about letting someone know they got their facts wrong. Like the other day when someone claimed that it was late president Van Buren that tried to buy Cuba. Everyone knows it was Buchanan, and it was while he was Secretary of State under Polk. Despite the obviousness of this blunder, my innate graciousness led me to merely correct this person politely. But I digress, when really I should be wrapping this up.

The point being that you often learn valuable lessons from difficult experiences, and secondly, that not all PR people are evil. When it comes to professions with the worst reputation, I believe that lawyers have edged us out of the top spot, and I hope this little expose helps to keep PR out of the number one position. So in light of all this, someone might question whether it makes sense to still hold resentment towards Mr. McEarchran. Unfortunately, I believe that someone has already used up his three questions.

“Insides”


Truth be told, I love my dog. A lot of people are fanatical about their dogs, there’s nothing new about that. A lot of people would also say that they have the cutest dog ever. The difference between those “fanatics” and me is that my dog actually is the cutest ever. These other poor saps have been so emotionally manipulated that it’s impossible for them to see how inferior their dog would be to mine. It’s sad really, but a mixture of denial and fantasy world living works for some people.

To prove a point, I can make a quick analogy that will hopefully clear things up for any doubting Thomases. When it comes to beauty, humans have placed the highest value on the ideal represented by the latest batch of supermodels. (Before you start making a point about my leaving out male representation, first inform me of any male model that makes 10 million dollars a year on looks alone.)

So now that I’ve established an accepted standard for supreme attractiveness, it’s best to analyze the attributes that make supermodels successful. Based on media attention and lucrative contracts, I would say Gisele is a prime example for examination.


After conducting careful research, much to the chagrin of my wife, I have concluded that it mainly comes down to three factors: long legs, thin waist, big boobs. Now, examine a photo of my dog, Katy.


She has all of that going on: very long legs, super thin waist and an extremely large chest. If that weren’t enough, she also completes the comparison with her egotistical, prima donna personality. Furthermore, like most supermodels, she was discovered in a humble setting – in this case a local animal shelter.

So there you have some empirical evidence that establishes my dog as being the cutest ever. The next time someone else makes an erroneous comment about their dog being the cutest, please kindly correct them. Feel free to download a picture of Katy to prove your point.

Now as cute as my dog is on the outside, I never really wanted to see what she looked like inside. That’s a mystery that I’m happy to live with – just like the Loch Ness Monster, Area 51 or how Michael Jackson fathered his three children. In fact, I’m pretty content with not seeing the insides of any living thing. I think it stems from a traumatic experience in 4th grade where I almost fainted during a field trip to a blood bank. Of course, I was only 10, so it’s not too surprising. It would be another thing if I was 30 and fainted while getting a hemoglobin-style yellow fever shot. And luckily, that can’t be proven beyond hearsay and rumor.


I was actually fairly calm when I received the X-rays of my precious pooch. Not that I’m an expert – which, if there’s any truth to these fainting rumors, I never could be – but the black and white images seemed to be pretty normal. The veterinarian at the urgent care animal hospital agreed with me on this point, and also commented on the voluminous size of Katy’s bosom when mentioning the unique placement of her organs, which was dictated by her attainment of the feminine ideal of tiny waist and big chest. So now, I know what Katy looks like inside. It doesn’t really change the way I feel about her – except when I think of how I could have spent that $100 another way.

You may be wondering why my wife and I got X-rays of Katy at 11 p.m. at an after hours animal veterinary hospital. You can chalk that up to the inexperience of new puppy parents. To us, the odd looking puke that resembled the yellow and white insides of a Cadbury’s cream egg seemed very odd, and potentially life threatening. More experienced dog owners laugh at us when we tell the story.

We began to feel like we might be overreacting as we noticed the other dogs that were in the animal ER waiting room: the German shepherd who had suddenly lost all use of his limbs, the lab mix with a large splinter impaled through its paw and Yorkshire terrier with internal bleeding. These dogs stood, or laid down, in stark contrast to our dog, whose slight indigestation did not keep her from enthusiastically trying to jump up and kiss the other owners' faces. Regardless, now we know, and at least we had the sense not to opt for the $150 worth of lab work expertly promoted by the veterinarian by his subtle calls to our sense of compassion.


In the end, we did get something out of it beyond the macabre 11x17 glossies – professional validation of Katy’s striking waist to bust ratio. We didn’t set out looking for a supermodel dog, but I’m not so naïve to think that we weren't unduly and subconsciously influenced by the media’s relentless promotion of the feminine ideal.