Worst Job Screening Ever

Most of us work with somebody who seems to have gotten a job without having an interview.  The person who must have a job because they're related to the boss, slept with the president, or was offered a job as part of a settlement.  Usually these employees are relative unknowns.  This is what makes Tony Kornheiser's presence on Monday Night Football so mind-boggling.  He seriously almost makes me want to miss MNF.  Nobody likes him.  Everybody knew they didn't like him.  He's had a radio show since 1992, and has been part of the most annoying show on ESPN (Pardon the Interruption) since 2001.  That's effectively a five year television interview before he joined MNF in 2006.  There has to be an explanation.  Admittedly, he gained fame as a writer/journalist, but being a successful writer does not qualify you to sneak your way into living rooms across America every Monday night.  It makes me nostalgic for the days of Al, Dan and Frank.

Speed Limits

The trouble with speed limits is that they only have an upper limit.  We need lower limits as well.  Many signs list the maximum speed, which admittedly seems like a suggestion, but we need to come to an understanding about the implied minimum speed limit.  Conditions being what they may, this would often be unenforceable, but the greatest unpunished freeway offense is driving too slow.  There is a rule about impeding traffic, which supposedly is punishable, but tell me how many people you know who have been ticketed for driving too slow.  This total and complete disregard for the flow of traffic will raise blood pressure as well as middle fingers, and trigger road rage more than waiting too long at a traffic light.  Living in one of the greatest freeway clusterf*@ks in the country, I might be more sensitive to this than most.  But this also begs an explanation of fast and slow lanes.  If we are to believe that the words are license to drive fast in the fast lane, then it is reasonable to believe that the slow lanes are for driving slow.  But the fact of the matter is that if you drive fast in the fast lane (any lane for that matter), you'll get a ticket.  The naming system has lost credibility, and is no longer to be considered reliable.  Granted, the very idea of having one speed for up to four lanes is laughable.  The spirit of the fast/slow lane system is commendable, but for the sake of efficiency and safety, something must be done about the super slab slow pokes.  They say it never rains in Southern California, which is almost true, so other than sheer volume of automobiles, there are few excuses to drive so slowly.  My closing words are the reminder that if you are not part of the solution, you are part of the problem.  Get some lead in your foot.

The Dream

Recently someone was asking me if I knew about interpreting symbols in dreams.  Of course I don't, but the internet sure does, so I decided to look up some symbols from my own dreams.  I'm not convinced that I dream often, but I'm quite sure that I remember very little.  But there is one dream that took place some twenty years ago, that after the second or third time, stuck in my memory.  

I find myself on the deck of a pirate ship, near the bow.  Lined up across the deck are all the pirates.  At the cabin door is the captain, complete with a peg for a leg, a hook for a hand, and patch over his eye (seems a little over the top, but he was like a super-pirate).  The entire crew is laughing at me as the captain opens the door.  Out of the door comes a herd of buffalo, stampeding toward me.  The next thing I know, I'm treading water next to the ship, surrounded by buffalo, swimming around me.  These giant buffalo, having just imitated tiny lemmings, are circling like sharks, but are no longer threatening, but probably circle because they cannot tread water.  Perhaps if they were water buffalo, they would be more adept in the water, but they are American Bison--plains animals.

With the help from a quick Google search, I learn that pirates can either represent chaos in one's emotional life, or may symbolize freedom and defiance of authority.  A herd of buffalo signifies tranquility and plentitude.  Neither of these seem to have any particular significance to a happy ten year old, but with these symbols having about as much reliability as the horoscope in the local paper, I have decided to forgo any further research, and just enjoy the memory as an amusing conversation piece.

Encouragement in a Civic

For the last eight years I've been talking about moving away from Southern California. I've made very loose lists of places I would like to go, but it never really mattered how they were ranked. Now I'm reaching the point where I almost have a date set, and while it's still over a year away, it somehow seems real. I still need to research some more, but a phone call from the cuz (barrettbenson.blogspot.com) moved Portland, OR from a nice idea cracking the top ten to the top of the list. I've only spent two weekends in Portland, but it rubs me right. I have more acquaintances than friends there, but it has loads of potential. I am encouraged that I can handle the rain by it's inclusion on frequent Best Places to Live lists, as well as the testimonials from past and present residents. A couple of weeks ago I got to put a mark in the plus column that is not open to the subjective interpretation of others. Driving on the 215 I see an Oregon license plate gracing a Honda Civic, the frame from Beaverton, which is essentially Portland. As I pass, I am pleased to see that the female behind the wheel is attractive, lacking all of the traits of the stereotyped Portland Granola Girl. I am not concerned that she was not in Portland. I am not concerned that there was a dude in the passenger seat. I am perfectly content to rationalize my desire to move to a place I know little about, whether the reasons are legitimate or imagined. I see the glass as half full. I don't have a lot marks in the minus column for Portland, but the one that most people point out first is the rain. But there is a silver lining on even that cloud -- I like wet girls. Viva Portland!

The Glory of Karaoke

Currently many people are debating John McCain's choice of running mate, Sarah Palin. The general consensus is that it will be boom or bust. The same boom or bust decisions are made all over the world in karaoke bars every night, only with smaller consequences. There are a number of factors that determine what is a good karaoke song. Of course, you have to be able to pull it off on the technical level. If I stood up to sing a Mariah Carey song, that's a bad choice. I'd never pull it off. This is amongst the most basic and elementary decision making steps in song selection. I suppose knowing your audience should also be mentioned, as busting out some N.W.A. at a country bar would probably be met with some resistance. But my biggest disappointment is when your local American Idol goes straight for the Top 40. In my mind, this minstrel is so pretentious that he or she thinks they can perform this song, which is already pounding the airwaves, that the audience will appreciate hearing this even newer and improved version. On the other hand, maybe they are only uninspired. Harmless creatures that just don't know any better and are just trying to participate. The real glory of karaoke comes from the forgotten songs, the hidden gems. And before you get any great ideas about singing Don't Worry Be Happy by Bobby McFerrin, Top 40 from 20 years ago can still be dangerous. Helping the Baja Men let the dogs out ten years later is also a bad idea. Going back 30 years, you can sing almost anything you want without the same danger, but go back 40 years, and you have to be reverent of the songs that nobody deserves to sing. Yes, you are allowed to sing Dock Of The Bay, but nobody is allowed to cover Sinatra singing My Way - show some respect. (Props to karaoke bars in the Philippines for removing it from their play lists)
So sing your Tom Jones and your Neil Diamond. Bring Elvis back in the building. Rock some Queen if you can. Explore some Bobby Bare for some real fun. But above all, remember this quote from the Karaoke King, "It's not about the voice, it's about the choice."

Gypsy Love/Hate

I have a love/hate relationship with gypsies. Specifically the Gitanos of Southern Spain. On one hand they have given Spain and the world Flamenco, which of course, is amazing. If I had way more time on my hands, Flamenco is why I would play the guitar. Some of my favorite travel memories were watching Flamenco performances. Thank you Gypsies.

On the other hand, you have the common hustling Gypsy. I'm walking between the cathedral and the Alcázar in Seville, when I am approached by a young Gypsy woman offering me a small branch. I refuse. "Gratis, gratis," she says. Naively thinking she will leave, I accept her branch and turn to leave. But my hand is anchored in her grip, and suddenly my palm is being read. In my limited Spanish, even though she may be speaking Caló, I can tell she is saying I am awesome, and my future is at least above average. Even so, I'm still looking for her little Gypsy friend who might try and pick my pocket. When she finishes, she shows me her palm, asking for money. It's been a couple of years, and I honestly don't remember if I gave her any money or not, but I'll tell you what I do remember. I stuffed that little branch in my back pocket, and every time I saw a Gypsy approaching I whipped out that branch like a crucifix towards a vampire.

So thank you, Gypsies, for your Flamenco, and next time I go to Spain, I'm bringing my own branch.

Olympic Sized Problem

I am thoroughly enjoying the 2008 Beijing Games.  The chance to play expert viewer in obscure sports that nobody has cared about since four years ago, automatic conversation pieces for just about anyone you will run into and thoughts of joining the band wagon and jumping into the pool to be a swimmer.  This also a time to be proud your country, for national pride and patriotism.  As an American this can be exciting.  As a man, this can be more problematic.  The Olympic Games are testing whether I am a better man or countryman.  The patriot wants to cheer for the Americans.  The man wants to cheer for the hot chicks.  Granted, there are events that are void of good looking athletes, but the dilemma lurks around every smoggy Beijing corner.  I try to rise above my more basic instincts and root for a purer cause, which is much easier in the men's events.  Maybe I'll grow up someday.  Maybe not.

Equal Opportunity Enjoyer, But...

I hate it when people ask me what "my type" is. I don't really have one. I like a lot of different "types." I've been accused of having different persuasions, Asian, Latin, Black, White, etc. Good is good. Hot is hot. Nice is nice. You get the idea. I'm not particular with"plain" vs. "cute" vs. "gorgeous," or anything like that. Some things kind of freak me out, such as violent fetishes, tattoos on breasts, armpit hair and such. But there is apparently a less obvious deal breaker that knows no bounds. It is found anywhere from trailer parks to Orange County. You don't always see it coming, and might not see it at all until it's an inconvenient complication. It's simple to bring up as a joke before it's actually discovered, but awkward to talk about once it's there. It's easily remedied, yet it's presence speaks to me of a woman's inner soul and identity. It is... toe hair! You're already shaving your legs, what's an extra couple of seconds to finish the job? I've had some ladies tell me that women don't grow hair on their toes, but I've seen it way to many times to believe I'm seeing the exceptions to the rule. Once it's there, I can't get it out of my head. I've probably just lost interest all together. It might be my way of finding fault with people to rationalize my bigger issues. No--on second thought, it's just gross.

Picking Her Poison

So last week I am leaving work, heading out to the parking lot, and I see a woman walking ahead of me with a black umbrella.  I figure she must be using this to block the sun, as it's 95 degrees outside.  I figure she's not the fancy type, substituting a black rain umbrella for a nice summer parasol, if one is so inclined, but to each her own.  Whatever keeps her from getting her inevitable skin cancer, I suppose.  A couple of seconds later I see the umbrella flopping around, and to my surprise, she is lighting a cigarette.  So now I'm confused, how she can fear the sun and it's potentially damaging rays, but welcome much more certain carcinogens voluntarily.  I did not care enough to ask her, so I will never know.  

This brings me to another point.  Who really gets sunburned anymore, anyway?  People do.  Friends of mine.  And it's funny every time.  I'm so pale I respect the sun, but do not fear it.  I don't intentionally stay indoors between 10 and 4.  I've been burned in the past, but kind of think I've got this whole thing figured out.  This is why I think it's so funny when people get burned.  It's always a surprise--like it's their first time.  Especially my brown friends.  "Dude, I don't need sunscreen, look at me, I'm Mexican!"  Whatever.  You burn.  Watching you squeal and peel was extra satisfying for this pale face.

If you get skin cancer, it's probably your own fault.  If you get lung cancer, it's probably your own fault.  But it will probably be a surprise.  But not to me.

No close-ups

Name a famous flutist.  You probably can't.  But while you think about that, think about this.  A couple of weeks ago I went to one of those big churches with half a dozen huge video screens above the stage.  Everything goes pretty well, nice service, interesting change of pace, whatever.  Then comes special music.  A flutist.  A male flutist.  Big deal.  Until the AV guys, against better judgement take these big screens and plaster this dudes face up on all the screens.  This was probably not a bad looking guy, but the sad fact was, that we only saw his face in flute-playing mode, which is not the most flattering of faces.  The positive:  a big, salt-and-pepper mustache (got to respect the 'stache).  The negative:  a voluntary overbite.  People have those surgically repaired.  Because they look funny.  Even before you do that funny thing with your lips.  

There are many wind instruments that can distort the face a bit, but with varying results.  Trumpet players, with Dizzie Gillespie's iconic cheeks or the intensity of Miles Davis are nothing to be ashamed of.  Saxophone players vary a bit.  Candy Dulfer would look good doing anything, but don't ever disgrace John Coltrane by comparing him to that no-talent hack Kenny G (he bothers me something fierce).  I cannot say all flutist look silly, as Ivana Zahirovic looks alright, and Ron Burgundy rocked the jazz flute to rave reviews.  

In summary, I would suggest to performing flutists that they not take themselves too seriously.  You're already fighting an uphill battle in the style department, so take a lesson from your brother, Ron Burgundy, and goof off a little and have fun with it, because it's hard to pull off the serious flutist.