Life is sometimes just like AOL

I was an AOL habitué from Christmas of 1995 up until about two or three years ago. I hope it was three years ago so i can respect myself just a bit more.

What AOL did was suck you into being part of a Community. You found your own level and became part of a family. And the less responsible members of the family behaved in often cruel fashion and never paid any penalties. I cringe now thinking about it. Hey, I didn't do the cruelties, but what I often did was criticize people who would let others hurt them, instead of treating it all as pixelated fun and games.

I hardly ever think about those days. But there is a story in the news now that brings it all back:

There's this woman, Tania Head. As in Head case. I'd never heard of her till today. But within the 9/11 survivor community she became a legend. Hers was a simple story: she was a high powered mergers & acquisition specialist, working for Merrill Lynch. She was in one of the towers when the first plane hit. She was trying to get out when the second plane hit her tower. Her entire Merrill Lynch team was wiped out. She was only saved because of an employee who was credited with saving a number of people that day. She had a sob-wrenching story about coming across a dying man who pressed his engraved wedding ring into her hands, asking that she deliver it to his wife, which she says she was finally able to do. She woke up in a hospital some days later with burns, but recovered.

Further hankies come into play when she related that her own fiancé died in the other tower, but at least they were able to have a week in Hawaii during which they held a commitment ceremony on the beach.

She started out online, telling these stories in chat rooms. If you've ever been in that milieu you know how it goes. Then word got around amongst the organizing survivors and she became a volunteer head honcho in one of the organizations. She never profited, money-wise, from all of this, but she got her picture in the paper a lot and a lot of attention was paid to her. Priceless stuff if you're Tania Head.

Now that she's been outed, she was ousted as President of the World Trade Center Survivors' Network. I went to their web site and there's no mention of her. But I pulled up the cached version of their web site and found this blurb, obviously written by Ms. Head:

"Tania Head, President

Tania Head is a Senior Vice-President for Strategic Alliances for an investment Think Tank. On September 11, she was working for a client whose offices where located on the upper floors of the South Tower. Her fiance worked across the plaza in the North Tower. Tania sustained life threatening injuries and barely escaped with her life. But her fiance was one of the many lost that day. Despite painful injuries, Tania has been a tireless advocate for survivors and family members, and also feels a special mission to help victims of other disasters. She went to Thailand to help after the tsunami and to Louisiana after Hurricane Katrina. She speaks to many groups across the country, and is an active supporter of emergency plans in the workplace. Tania also lends her time to serve as Chairman of the 9/11 Living Memorial Survivors' Committee, the board of a foundation set up in her fiancé's memory, and the board of the WTC Widows Social Group. In 2003 and 2004 Tania taught financial planning workshops for fellow September 11 widows, and last year was recognized by her Alma Mater with an Achievement Award for her contribution to her profession and community. She also collaborates with and leads numerous tours for the WTC Tribute Center. Tania is a co-founder of the World Trade Center Survivors' Network, and currently serves as its President."

How she pulled it off this long is an amazing tribute to the majority of mankind. First, look at her photo:


Me, I'm suspicious right away. America, being the way that it is, Merrill Lynch wouldn't have her on some high powered Mergers & Acquisitions team, unless it was to make coffee or provide massages. Cruel, unkind? Sure, but certainly realistic.

Then there's this: She said she took her BA from Harvard and her MBA from Stanford. Neither school has any record of her. Merrill Lynch has no record of her. Her fiancé's family never heard of her, nor had her fiancé's roommate, who is pretty sure that David, the dead fiancé, didn't spend a week in Hawaii any time in the two years before 9/11. There's no record of a foundation in her fiancé's memory. She doesn't work for a financial think tank.

Did you get all the hyperbole written into her biography? Sure, people have been doing this kind of ego-self inflation thing since people created vocal communication. As soon as we could yearn, we began doing so. The 'if you can dream it, you might as well pretend it happened' crowd. But when you take this kind of attitude out of your shower, it can become a problem.

Can you imagine what she's going through now? She has an attorney, and both of them are saying, "No comment."

This is why I always tell my kids, don't ever tell a lie that can be proven a lie. That's where she went wrong, so horribly wrong.

Doesn't end how you probably thought...

If you were asking my opinion about buying this car and using it to travel on SoCal freeways, I'd be all negative. Yes, I understand the importance of fuel economy and holding down carbon dioxide emissions, but I'd start meandering on about how there are too many old folks converting oxygen to CO₂, to no good end except that most of us would feel guilty about off'ing them just to save the Earth. But isn't the earth worth it?

Oh yeah, I know how these discussions about putting "useless" humans on ice floes always degenerate into not very helpful name-calling, but me personally, I'd rather waste good oxygen on such discussions rather than own/ride in one of these little portable coffins. One good whack from a semi and they can just bury you in your ride.

An Essay with no words; you will drool . . .

Marcel Marceau, The Mime who talked through not his mouth

So he mimed for a living. Ed Sullivan liked him and booked him fairly often.

Heard today upon his passing, "Marcel Marceau was the mime who inspired Michael Jackson to come up with the Moon Walk."

I hope they put that on his tomb stone, only in pictograph form.

Finally!

I've been busy.

I had two supervisors. One quit about a month ago. The other one quit last week. I've been totally bombed, doing my work and trying to do theirs. A losing battle.

Today I hired a replacement. She's going to work from home. She's good, so I feel like I'm coming out of a cave, into the light. She'll take a lot of weight off my shoulders and I can get back to being the carefree young buck whom I've grown to love and adore.

Like the guy at the right. You can't really tell, but he's got a very long skateboard; it's gotta be four feet long. A bit after I took this photo, he got on the board and skated off into the sunset, his hands behind his back, leaning back, looking very regal.

He probably doesn't have a job. Jobless people congregate at this location, the Orange County civic center in Santa Ana. Some homeless advocates feed the homeless here; it's a mad house around here at 4:00 p.m. when the people line up. I tried to eat here once, but they tricked me into admitting I wasn't homeless and I was escorted from the feeding line, with people heckling me, making me feel bad because I had a home and a job. Perspective is everything...

When it comes to Culture, Bert Bananas has all the best bacteria

If things are lining up correctly, the first photo is of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. My mom used to have season tickets to the summer presentations, either light opera or plays straight from Broadway. This place has been here a long time.

Fresh off my second marriage, and trying to get right with the world (meaning date more) I decided to acquire culture. I'd read about culture but just didn't have any. But it stood to reason that only a person with culture would pay money to be inside this place, so if I could carry around ticket stubs, I could prove that I had culture.

First thing I did was find a girl whom I thought would appreciate culture. But what with this being Los Angeles, how hard could that be? And as is probably the case everywhere, I found a female desperate enough... She was a lawyer girl, very pretty, petite and Jewish. (Why was she desperate enough to date me? Well, she had issues...) I figured I'd lucked out, because everyone knows Jewish girl didn't have all the moral issues that Christian women get hung up on. So I asked her out, having first checked to see that there was an upcoming Tchaikovsky performance. (Jeez, how did I ever exist without spell check!) How could anyone have any problem staying awake during Tchaikovsky? But it turned out that he wrote some slow, sonorous pieces and it was lights out for the Banana Boy during the first half. My date gently woke me for the intermission and we had white wine. (gag!) I did stay awake for the second half of the performance because I wanted to make sure the drool had a chance to dry from my suit jacket. (Cultured people wore suits back then.) And yes, she was an immoral minx and I paid dearly.

I took these two photos this afternoon, in good ol' downtown LA. They're basically across the street from each other.

What do you people think of this place? I'm sure you've seen other photos of it, and of course the Simpson's mocked the heck out of it. It's the Disney Opera House.

The odds of me ever being in the Dorothy Chandler again, or ever in the Disney Opera house are so slim as to be invisible, just like my culture, unless you'd like to talk about my toenail fungus. I got all kinds of culture there.

Hiding out in Oceanside

Dos Lagos ... It was a tale of two cities, in a manner of speaking; one city was fun, like Oshkosh, WI, if you're a flyer and it's the summer 'fly in,' and the other city wasn't fun, like Las Vegas after you've lost the money you embezzled from a Mafia loan shark.

Meaning I played decently on the front nine, but horribly on the back nine.

We had three teams of three players each. I was teamed up with George (his iconic counterpart bears his name on Big-T's blogger main page) and Parker.

We were the first group out. Big-T was behind us in the second group. Big-T had Jesus with him. Tito couldn't make it, but how can you complain, especially when Jesus's putter catches fire?

The first two photos are from a green my group was on, looking back at the green Big-T, Jesus and Parker's brother, Burz, were on. Maybe you can copy the image, blow it up fantastically big and figure out which one is Big-T and which was is Jesus...

The last photo is of the two lakes of Dos Lagos. But it's kind of a misnomer, because there's a third lake. Maybe Tres Lagos was already taken? Or maybe three lakes are unlucky?

As to the Oceanside reference in the title... I had to go to San Diego and I didn't finish in time so now I'm holed up in a Days Inn in Oceanside, eagerly awaiting the free breakfast. I have to be in Orange County in the morning, so it wasn't practical to go back to Apple Valley, just to have to turn around in the morning to fight traffic back down the hill.

Dos Lagos

Not the beer, the golf course.

It's new. I don't know when it opened, but it'll be our first time playing it. Big T booked the times there for the Wednesday group. He's not a Senior, so he has to pay a lot more than everyone else. We mock and ridicule him, but deep down in our heart of hearts, we envy him his youth; he's a young Nureyev, to our Abe Vigodas. I weep...

Playing a new course for the first time is like choosing a new girl at Madam Harriet's Bridal Palace, where for the current price of a 1974 Gremlin you can practice making a baby. Which is what golf's all about, making babies. I give you as my first bit of evidence Mr. Tiger Woods, baby maker extraordinary. My niece, the little hottie, is now a nanny and she has great hopes of landing herself a man of wealth and charming vigor, just like the girl who landed Tiger Woods.

Yes, I know it's almost sacriloyal to be thinking about golf and making babies on 9/11, but 9/11 or not, the world, especially Old White Europe, needs babies. Remember to give at the office.

Din and ought in Beverly's Hills

The Irish are a great people. Take my friend Beverly O'top O'themorning. Bright, pretty, healthy, well endowed, with a bubbly, outgoing personality that helps her compete successfully with the ruthless salesmen at Mercedes of Pacoima, which is just around the corner from Our Lady of Arleta Cathedral and house of wax.

She called yesterday morning, asking for help. No one can say no to Beverly, mostly because she can't say no, either. (You realize this is all a daydream, right? No actual sperm were injured during the filming of this daydream...) So there I was, driving down to her townhouse, in morning rush hour traffic. I don't think any of you have ever talked about your commutes. My normal commute is exactly one mile, from the house to the office. Occasionally I'll walk. Okay, once I walked, but then called my wife to come get me at lunch.

I don't mind rush hour traffic, probably because it's such a rare "treat" for me, and I pass the time studying the drivers around me. Very seldom do I see a truly happy driver, other than when I'm checking my hair in the mirror.

Anyway, when I got to Beverly's, the hills were alive with the sound of music. She'd gotten one of those iPod bras, where you plug the iPod into it's connection and music comes out the cups. The larger the cups, the fuller the base. My wisdom teeth were even resonating, such was the power of her bass appeal.

The problem she'd called me over to address had to do with painting. I took care of the problem while she did her yoga. I think she was always naturally limber. I was back at the office by 2:00 p.m. I went home earlier than usual, and because we're 'empty-nesters' now, I worked out some issues left over from the morning commute with my wife.

So in November of 2008, remember to vote for happiness, not revenge.

Thank you.

Ladies, tell it like it is ...

My 21 year old is having female problems. ...somewhere near his pubic bone.

Oh man, that reminds me! 7th grade, Fifth St. Elementary School, Las Vegas, Nevada (Fifth St. is the Strip. How weird is that?) It's health class and Mrs. Graham asks some innocent question about the human skeleton. Winston Allen pipes up and asks is it true that only women have breast bones? Much hilarity ensues.

Back to my boy. He has a 22 year girl friend, still in college. His college. The details of his heartache aren't important. What's important is that my female readers, who are of superior intelligence, remarkable grace, fierce loyalty, unsurpassed creativity, majestically noble, as well as brave, clean and funny, tell my son what they were like when they were 22. See what I'm driving at? It's my point that somewhere out there is a girl who is 22 now, but when he meets her in, oh, three or four years, she will THEN be of superior intelligence, remarkable grace, fierce loyalty, unsurpassed creativity, majestically noble, as well as brave, clean and funny.

Or am I off my rocker?

Oh, the ignominy!

Ignominy has smashed its way into my life, upsetting two apple carts, a watermelon wagon and several fruit baskets.

Plus I think I have a pimple that bothers me when I sit down.

The ignominy of it all is that the Disney Company, with whom I have a contract to paint address numbers on the curbs of houses on movie sets, has discovered that in a fit of aggravated revenge, Paula Bunker has put a picture of me, naked from the toes up, on the internet. At first I thought it was funny, because the camera's perspective makes me look, you know, ...nice. I've been hearing from people with whom I'd totally lost contact years ago!

But then some of the honchos at the Disney company were contacted by a fundamentalist group of morality freaks who were demanding that Disney contract with me be severed. At first, because there is no morality clause in my contract, they simply refused these entreaties because the liquidated damages clause would have allowed me to play golf every day for two years! But then, because the pressure was building, the Disney cabal of totally immoral attorneys came up a way out. They've scheduled me for work on Wednesday, golf day with Big T and the gang. It was ALWAYS understood that I wouldn't have to work on Wednesdays!

So they have me over a barrel. No way do I dare let Big T and the gang down! And all because of a "little" picture on the internet. What kind of a world has this become, where closeted sexual freaks need to impose their artificial values on a helpless world?

The time is Ripe...

The time is ripe and the time is right could almost be used interchangeably. I chose 'time is ripe' because I think it portends more...

You know how when you click on your link to the DrudgeReport and the page opens and you usually see a small teaser headline to the left, and then the major, MAJOR, headline is in the middle, screaming at you from the monitor? Wouldn't it be SOOO COOOOOL if you could hijack a friend or loved one's computer so that the next time they went to Drudge, that big central headline was something only they would see?

For instance, if I could hijack Big T's computer, his headline would read:

Big T has sex with Wait Staff of Myrtle Beach Hooters Restaurant on long par 5

But of course the real headline I'd write would be muc more visceral and pornographic. But that's just me. After all, wouldn't the whole point be that your victim's first thought is that this is a headline that the entire WORLD is reading? Can you imagine the traumatizing effect on me if I read:

Bert Bananas video: Deflowering very large nuns!

Okay, maybe not traumatized, but terribly embarrassed... okay, somewhat chagrined.

And what if you could hijack the actual DrudgeReport servers and put up a fake headline that all the world DID read!! Suppose you could, and it was a one time deal... Is your first thought, like me, to put up a headline like:

Bert Loves Liz

Or would you lash out at someone, seeking to cause pain and humiliation? Like:

JESSE JACKSON, AL SHARPTON & KWEISI MFUME CAUGHT UP IN MESSY HOMOSEXUAL LOVE TRIANGLE!

or something closer to home, to avenge a wrong:

Rayetta Kay Kanel & Paula Bunker in double suicide because they could have had Bert Bananas, but dumped his ass. "Remorse killed them," says county coroner spokesperson.

This is why people talk about power corrupting... Imagine if you could hijack the DrudgeReport headline any time you wanted to, without ever having to worry about getting caught. Breathtaking!

Laztheism and Football

I had no idea that today was the opening day for the 2007-2008 NFL season. I was flipping through channels and came upon an activity that rivaled the arrival of the Pope in your typical Mexican cathedral.

Yes, I'm saying that the NFL is now a religion and will soon probably file for religious tax exemption with the IRS. And if the IRS has any sense, tax exempt status will be granted.

As a Laztheist I have no quarrel with the NFL. If they leave me alone, I'll leave them alone. But eventually they'll get around to sending out "missionaries" and the sanctity of my home will be invaded by one or another team trying to convert me.

Maybe what this all means is that I am in a tiny minority of people born without a 'religious' gene?

"I circulatory pump the windows to your soul."

In literature, and songs, which are strings of literature set to music, the human heart is an emotional organ. In real life it's a pump. Just a pump. When it fails as a pump, the bearer of tat heart dies, with or without a song on his or her lips. Such is the power of suggestion that there have been times when you felt an "emotion" in your cardiac cavity. But it was just auto-suggestive behavior; there are no emotional nerve ends in your heart, not like there are in your wallet.

As for the 'windows to the soul,' otherwise known as your eyes, they NEVER reveal anything other than that they are dry, moist, moistening or leaking like a sieve. Eyes don't tell us that the person looking at us adores us, hates us, feels sympathy, etc. When people say someone's eyes 'said it all,' it was not the eyes, it was the set of the facial muscles.

But generations, GENERATIONS, of lazy ass writers have taken the easy way out and used phrases like, "I could see the hate in her eyes...," or "Her eyes told me she had to have me..." A set of human eyes cannot glow, they can't radiate love or hatred, eyes don't have any way to say, "I'm hiding something..." Our eyes just sit there in our faces, incapable of making any kind of voluntary changes. Eye lids, eye brows, facial muscles, the lips... These are what change and allow us to read emotions.

Will you join me in encouraging writers to clean up their acts?

Thank you.

I Never Planned on Being a Freakin' Genius . . .

By any measure of genius, except perhaps intelligence, I am totally a rock solid genius. Take for example my plan for ... Nope, I can't mention that one as I haven't yet patented it. Of course I totally trust 'the gang' but there are strangers who read blogs not for the entertainment, but for profit. Those Dastards!(sic)

But here's an example of my genius that can be shared simply because it's just a new usage of already existing items.

Waste disposal is a necessity. Humans make waste. So does haste. Combining the two, as promoted by our modern technology, means mountains of trash. You can see this in your very own home!

The answer? Mini-Black Holes. They'd have to be held in suspension, and fed within a vacuum, which would require some break throughs in technology, but imagine putting all your trash down a chute and never, NEVER having to worry about it again. You'd never have to trundle the garbage cans out to the curb. Landfills would be things of the past. Portable Black Hole trucks would scurry about the landscape suckng up trash and debris, and never having to be emptied. Eventually we'll have Black Hole toilets, so sewage disposal will no longer be a problem.

Amazing, aren't I?

Fraudulentology Under Attack in Europe!

According to Drudge, the favored religion of KirstiTomJohn AllieCruiseTravolta hasn't had smooth sailing in Belgium and Germany.

Here's an interesting sentence I boldly copied from Drudge's copying: "Belgium, Germany and other European countries have been criticized by the State Department for labeling Scientology as a cult or sect and enacting laws to restrict its operations."

I assume that the "State Department" in question is the U.S. State Department. I had no idea the U.S. Government was fostering the spread of Fraudulentology. The notion that the government I pay taxes to is spending time, money and effort complaining about sovereign governments inhibiting the spread of Fraudulentology is annoying to me. I wonder if the Mormons get this kind of support?

But here's the jewel of the story: "The German government considers Scientology a commercial enterprise that takes advantage of vulnerable people."

And yes, this at times defines a number of projects undertaken by any number of religions, but in this regard I thought it was totally spot on. After all when's the last time you went to a Fraudulentology wedding or funeral? Are there favored casserole recipes for when a member of the congregation ceases existing? Hey, anyone know if there's a Fraudulentology Heaven?

Images

I took this first photo in August of 2006, when they announced that a Super Target was going in across the street from our office... All there is in this photo is the bowling alley, at the left, and the UCB bank on the right. This is at the intersection of US Highway 18 and Dale Evans. (Yes, THAT Dale Evans, behind whom I once stood in line at the market and I looked over her shoulder and noted that her personalized checks identified her as Mrs. Roy Rogers. Of course, that was back when women knew their places...)

Then just now I took the next photo. You have to look closely... Behind the
bowling alley is the Super Target. The cement pre-cast walls in the center are the new Lowe's. There was no publicity about it. The local hardware stores are doomed. There's a big commercial plaza going in to the left of the bowling alley. The big rumor is that we're getting an In 'N Out! All hail progress!

Apple Valley used to be a very sleepy bedroom community. Now it's a bedroom community with more to do and our sales tax money stays at home.

Next we have a Black Widow and her prey. She came sliding down a strand of her web, right in front of my window. So I stepped outside and snapped off a few pics, one of which actually was in focus!

Nature is harsh. There's a lesson in this: It's better to bite than be bitten.



Finally we come to a photograph of your humble correspondent. For my age I'm enjoying very good health and have not too bad a physique. I thought I'd share it with you.

Roby, the 21 year old, was up to do laundry on Saturday, and I had him use my camera. He stood at the shallow end of the pool and I jumped in, let all my air out and sank to the bottom (12') and stood there waving at the camera. He snapped off some pics and I chose this one, because I like the twinkle in my trunks.

If any of you would like a framed, autographed copy, email me a crisp new (0r old) $100 bill and I'll give my wife $3.99 to go to Aaron Bros. to get a cheap ass frame and then I'll spend the rest at the golf course.

"God Is Not Great."

That's the name of a book written by Christopher Hitchens. The sub-title is "How Religion poisons everything." I've read a number of his essays and enjoyed his writing, even when I didn't agree with what he was opining. But how can I dislike what I'm learning about his views of religion? Here's a quote from a previous work that I'm amazed I missed, in which he had this to say about Mother Teresa:

"Terri was a corrupt, malignant dwarf who left people to die in agony because 'Christ loves suffering.'"

I don't know enough about Momma T to have an opinion but you gotta love how he beats around the bush.

He was interviewed on TV yesterday and I was enjoying it. He has some amusing personal habits that I'm sure his critics have probably attacked. He talked about his drinking. He says he'd not an alcoholic; he's just a guy who likes the buzz... Asked if he'd had a drink yet that day, (it was 3:00 p.m.) he said he hadn't, but only because of the scheduled interview. He further remarked that had he not had it not been for the interview, he would have had his first alcoholic libation before noon.

I would have watched more, but they let a caller on who rambled embarrassingly while trying to ask him to forgive her for having lost her faith, because is wasn't her fault. At least I think that's what she might have been getting at. The host interrupted her stuttering, repetitive attempt to communicate: "Caller, do you have a question?" Three seconds went by and I concluded that she didn't so I changed the channel...

Hitchens was asked this interesting question: "Are you happy?"

His response was that he was more interested in being satisfied.

Not me. In work and in golf, if you're satisfied, why would you continue? Unless he meant that he's satisfied to keep trying. Semantics...

As life drags on, what makes you feel best, happiness or satisfaction? Maybe they're the same? Why would Hitchens distinguish them? Maybe he doesn't think he deserves happiness?

I'm about to send it to the Publisher . . .

"The Era of the Extravagant Wedding" is a coffee table book I'm writing. Actually, it's not writing so much as it is going through my collection of wedding photographs and selecting those to be included. Most of the captions write themselves, if you get my drift.

What sets my book apart is the "Appendix of Pain", wherein, accompanied by a thumbnail of the happy couple, I explain in one short, pithy paragraph, in 8 point Times New Roman, how it all fell apart for them.

In the much shorter "Appendix of Limitied Success" the thumbnails are accompanied by longer explanations on how the couple is still managing to cope, despite ...

Look for my book at Narns &Boneable.

Culturally Accurate Fashion Design

Now remember: I speak to you, mostly, from across a vast divide of decades; I've seen more of the same things you see, heard more of the same sounds you hear and have been experiencing some of the things you experience for years and years longer. Okay, sure, I've never been drunk and haven't killed anyone, but don't think I have scratched these off my life's list of things to do...

But this post focuses on one theme: Women's fashions.

As a heterosexual male I am very aware of women. I like women. (There is a common Sci-Fi concept where humans meet sentient races with sexual 'halves,' with one 'half' being non-intelligent. Either the women are just brood mares or the men are just penises who just sit around eating and pooping when not needed. Do I think the human race would be better off this way? Laztheists don't play the 'what if...?" game.) I have an opinion about how women should 'look.'

Based on this opinion, I would like a rule established, to be a fashion designer, you must be:

1. Male
2. Over 40
3. Heterosexual
4. Married, with kids
5. A heavy beer drinker
6. A better than bogey golfer
7. Have a subscription to Playboy

Then once a year, in the late Fall, the world's 'registered' fashion designer would get together at Myrtle Beach, South Carolina for a week of, among things, designing what women will wear for the upcoming year.

The world would be a better place.