Every now and then, my head fills up with disconnected observations that don't go anywhere. What it looks like is rather akin to the "bargain bin" outside your local Thrifty Dollar shop, something like this:

Just Kill Me

When I'm getting dental work done, I find that I really miss the human contact I used to get when the dentist's hands would brush against my face. This latex glove thing is awful and dehumanizing. Look, if they're there to protect me, I'd rather take my chances and go back to the old way. If they're there to protect him, I'm willing to swear on a stack of Good Housekeeping magazines (which is all they ever keep in stock in the waiting lounge) that I'm non-contagious. How about it, docs? Can we negotiate here?

Time Is Sweet

When it's my time, that is. The Raven is both impatient and passive-agressive, which means that if I'm in line behind you at the market, and you're just buying a Luna bar you had better not take out that checkbook, missy. Yes, I'm talking to you, the person who writes a check for a dollar nineteen. But even if you have the cash and the exact change in hand and breeze through, I was watching and counting the seconds until My Turn. Ah, is it my turn now? Well then, you'll regret it if you're behind me, I promise. First, I've got to put this copy of the National Enquirer I was reading back into the funny rack with two metal things on the sides and, oh dear, it's gone in crooked—we'll just start over then... And we're off to the bank, where I notice the tellers aren't moving spritely enough to suit my taste and I'm in a hurry, doncha know? So after the line creeps forward and I've read everything there is to read in the bank which takes—what? a minute?—oh halleluja, oh happy day, it's My Turn. First, I never skip up to the window as that would suggest that I am eager. I wait for you, the teller, to summon me. Then, I look up, as if awoken from a pleasant reverie and begin to slowly amble my way forward to the window. By the way, if you were behind me at the market and by some stroke of bad luck you're behind me now, you have my sympathies. Finally, I've reached the teller's ledge, and I look up, slowly, avoiding eye contact for as long as possible:

"Can I help you, Sir?"
"Mm? What?"
"What I can do for you today, Sir?"
"Who, me?"
"Yes, Sir. This is a bank. Are you here to perform a transaction?"
"Ah, yes. You mean, like, a withdrawal or a deposit, stuff like that, right?"

Southern Bells

Down here in the Deep South, you have to make all sorts of accomodations for the locals, who have a million ways to drive you crazy—before lunch. F'rinstance, the Southern Gal can't leave her house until she's performed the following steps with her cell phone: 1. Select the most annoying ring tone known to mankind. 2. Turn it up to maximum volume. 3. Bury the phone in her handbag.

Now she's sitting behind you in class. When the 1812 Overture goes off in her purse, you discover that she's into the passive-agressive thing, too. "What? A call? For me?" Multiply that times 25 women who average two incoming calls per hour each and you get some idea of what I'm talking about.

The Friendly Skies

I see in my paper this morning that the FAA has approved legislation that allows our nation's airline pilots to carry firearms in the cockpit. Why, I ask myself, was this ever an issue? These guys are pilots, not priests fer gawdsake. It's like people saw the pilot as some kind of religious holy man who values life more than most, the type who's expected to offer you the last parachute before the plane goes down. Where did this idea come from? In fact, most pilots have military experience and I'd like to know that if some wacked out freak is trying to get through the cockit door, a Russian handshake awaits him on the other side.

Downsizing

Nobody else has commented on this to my knowledge, so I'm taking the plunge. You ever go to Starbucks or Joe Muggs and try to order a Small coffee? They don't have 'em. Your choices are something like, "Grande," "El Biggo," and "Mucho Gulpo." So you've got to extrapolate that whereas "Grande" doesn't look much like Small in your mind's referential system, the fact that it's on the left on the wall chart indicates that Grande might be smaller than the "Gulpo" but you aren't really sure until you check the prices. They're already throwing Spanish at you up there, what other stunt are they gonna pull?

Punctuation Punks

Doncha hate trying to read something online where some schmendrick has opted to lowercase everything?

i don't like video games. i am a poet. i roll in fields of flower and animals love me because i'm so sensitive.

Glad That's Gone

Nobody seems to be using "stoked" anymore, as in, "I'm really stoked, dude." Good work, people. Now we've got to get to work on that "-izzle" thing, you know, the "P-Diddy Vizzle Dizzle," and "dawg," and "boyz" and "gettin' jiggie with it," because these things don't deserve to live.

More Stuff to Ditch

If, by any chance, your Weblog has some items on the sidebar like the "My Mood Today" thing that has the little face graphic, or the "Music I'm listening to!" box with a list of obscure albums that show how hip and cool you are, just stop it, all right? Nobody cares and you know why? Because we can guess your mood from your writing and we can't hear what you're listening to. Thank you for your cooperation.

The Red Army

I see that the Salvation Army dudes are out already at the markets and the malls. Ring ring ring. First, what's with the red tripod thing? They're fishing for pocket change and yet there's this slick custom display with a sign and a red box with their logo an' everything. That's a lot of wastage right there. Second, have you ever had to do official business with these people? I had to work on a publishing job for 'em once, and lemme tell you, they're cheap. First they order a job, and then when they get the bill they start up with the "Let's just make this a donation for the Lord, shall we?" bit. Also, they have this weird military army thing going, you know, some of them are captains, they've got majors, commanders, the whole deal. Can you imagine these guys at dinnertime? "Sergeant! Bring me a cup of milk double-time! Too slow—give me twenty!" The whole operation seems very Dickensian and isn't there something satisfying about that? You know that if someone opts out of the Rat Race we call American Capitalism, they aren't gonna starve, but they're going to get a mighty weird-looking wardrobe and have to listen to long-winded sermons before they get that free soup. Seems about right.

Homeward Bound

We're doing something crazy and trying to fly cross-country today. This should be a ton of laughs. By the time we get to Berkeley, we're going to need serious sedation. As you can see, I've been psyching myself up for the trip all morning.

As always, I appreciate the reads and comments from all you guys. (Sillydog and Harald are two of the best, aren't they?) I'm also looking forward to a break, so we go offline now and aren't getting back until late Sunday. I'll be roaming the comment boards and soaking up inspiration in my hometown. See you next week.

9:45:01 AM