Did you see this in the news? True story...

A while ago, I took notes on every aspect of Channel 7's 11 o'clock news. Tonight, I have decided, as that horrible Emeril LeGasse would say, to kick it up a notch and go for one of the three hour-long 10 o'clock local news offerings. After much consideration, I've chosen KCAL 9's broadcast, as, unlike KTLA 5 (UPN) and KTTV 11 (FOX), KCAL 9 is an independent channel, and thus more likely to be really bad. We shall see...

Escaped inmate Downtown - 5 cops standing around, in case escapee tries to get on a bus. Believed to be running around in his thermal underwear after ditching his orange jumpsuit.

Scott Peterson - "Two year anniversary of Scott Peterson's monstrous plan--the day he bought the boat." Legal analyst Jim Hammer thinks the DA did a good job. Defense summarized as "Life without the possibility of parole isn't a picnic."

Sexy Stacey Butler reports Wreckage of a JPL van has been hauled up a mountainside in the Angeles Forest. Grief counseling offered to JPL employees. Three women died, all of them extremely ugly, 7 people lived. JPL spokesperson Blaine Bladgett calls CHP officers heroes for finding the wreckage. No skidmarks at the scene... and no explanation of what JPL is.

17 year old black kid was attacked in Simi Valley by 4 white men who shouted racial slurs at him and beat him. It's being considered a hate crime.

Dimebag Darryl killing - Dumb guy thought it was part of the stage show. Other dumb guy believes the killing was personal. Killer wore giant glasses and had bad skin.

More details on use of taser on gang rape suspect, considered unnecessary force after inmate "threw a tantrum." Sleazy lawyer with sleazier mustache said there was no provocation.

Criminal charges dropped against 4 officers previously convicted in the Rampart scandal. Too much time had passed for judge to decide on new findings, so they were freed. Hooray!

Coming up - Ugly woman disappears from cruise ship, Mike Tyson arrested for the billionth time, follow up on escapee, Mexican women dance with pineapples on their shoulders in honor of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and seriously hot, ditzy weathergirl has weather for us!

Police found the orange jumpsuit!

Driver ran a red light in S. LA, drove into someone's house, where a woman was sleeping.

Tyson "known for putting quite a few dents in his opponent. Now, he's beat up a car."

Wisc. woman disappears on cruise ship. Family believes she was thrown into the ocean. Her retarded husband believes a child might have seen something.

No sign of 6 people missing after helicopter crash in the Bering Sea. 4 have been rescued, but hope is running out for the other six. (I, for one, am keeping my fingers crossed.)

Coming up: Food crisis in space! Plus tense moments for 12 year old skier when he finds himself dangling dozens of feet in the air. Plus sexy weather with Jackie Johnson. (Soldier sends unintelligible holiday greetings from Qatar.)

--commercial note: Carl's Jr. now offers something called "The Double Pastrami Burger."--

12-year-old's backpack got stuck on a chair lift in Utah. Fell 20 fit without incident.

Giggly valley girl Jackie Johnson tells us the weather's gonna be so nice, we can go to the beach, but we can still look at holiday lights! If you want your decorated house on tv, go to KCAL9.com. Live look outside at clear skies, but there may be PATCHY FOG by morning. Oh my God, who cares about weather? I seriously want to fuck this girl. So hot, so dumb. High pressure acting like a shield, so we don't have to worry about rain, even into the extended forecast. Goddamn, I would rim this bitch, that's how fucking sexy she is. Record highs on Saturday? Forecast of 81. Hot, but not half as hot as you, Jackie Johnson.

"A native of Plymouth, Michigan, Johnson attended the
University of Southern Alabama, concentrating on meteorology,
and then went on to Middle Tennessee State University
to get her degree in broadcast journalism."

NOTE - Photo does not fully convey subject's fuckability

Coming up: A dog is wandering around looking for that escapee. Live report from new Las Vegas-style casino. Women refuse to work out with men. Some airline is returning to a country it hasn't flown to in THIRTY YEARS!

--commercial note: Big Lots has a poker table on sale for 29.99 (reg. 39.99). Sadly, it's not available in Alabama. I guess poker tables are illegal in Alabama.--

Escapee - Bus stop was cordoned off because they wanted to find that jumpsuit, which turned up in a trash can. Inmate believed to be headed back home to Altadena. Black male believed to be running around in his underwear. Dogs trying to get his scent on Alameda Ave.

Smiley robot Greg Mills reports: New casino right here in California. Casino Morongo opened near Palm Springs. Destiny's Child just finished up a great performance. Goal is to be a 4 star, 4 diamond property. Beautiful, Las Vegas-style resort. "Growth potential is somewhat unlimited" says spokesman. No one points out that the place has the word 'moron' in its name.

United becomes 1st US carrier to offer daily fares to Vietnam since fall of Saigon.

Dozens of women who joined Linda Evans Fitness Centers are angry because most locations have closed. Long term contracts can be transferred to coed facilities, though many women joined that club because they didn't want to work out in front of sweaty, leering men.

Cybil Sheppard is speaking out for Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Unclear whether she's for it or against it. I wonder how Linda Evans's bowels are doing...

2 astronauts aboard space station are running out of food-- "No 7-11s out there." Cannibalism in the cards? Sorry, that's just me editorializing.

Florida family has moved into the backyard because they're tired of their kids not helping out around the house. Lead anchors feel this is "drastic."

New clothing line with a religious theme. Jewish reporter Lisa Siegel tells us that 3 sisters, daughters of a rabbi, started a clothing line with mildly whimsical sayings on their clothing "You had me at Shalom." "Oy Vey." Segment mostly shows the four family members explaining familiar Yiddish expressions, while aprrox. 1000 babies cry in the background. Fun! WASPy anchor David Jackson says he's verklempt, as self-consciously unfunny as anyone has ever been.

David Jackson: Not a real jew

Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels - "Indigenous folk dancers" from Mexico dance sluggishly with pineapples on their shoulders, plus, there's a cloak on which an image of the Virgin Mary once appeared!

Sports Central with Alan Massengale is next, but I think I'll pass. This has been surprisingly taxing.

The Rest Stop Story

The following fills in the blanks from the end of yesterday's entry. It's a fictionalized account of what really happened, and the only thing that makes it fiction is that it's told in 3rd person, and that the character's name is not the same as mine. Beyond that, it's true. Not that's it's so crazy a story that you'd assume I made it up, but I figured I should tell you. Read it and learn from the mistakes I didn't make.
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It was two PM on a clear and mild Midwest day, and it surprised Prescott a little that so few cars were in the parking lot; every other rest area at which he'd stopped thus far had been fairly packed with travelers. Too worn down to bother being apprehensive, Prescott got himself together and walked down to the men's room.

The men's room was even emptier than the parking lot; that is to say, it was empty save for Prescott. As he relieved himself in a urinal, though, he heard people come in, which, in addition to his now empty bladder, made him feel more at ease. He finished up and went to the sink to wash his hands. As he did so, another guy, probably somewhere close to Prescott's age, began to wash his hands at the adjacent sink. Prescott paid him no mind. Then, as he rinsed off the latherless pink soap, Prescott felt a tiny drop of water hit his chin. He glanced sidewise in time to see the kid at the next sink flicking an index finger through the stream of water, in Prescott's direction. Prescott kept his half-glance on the guy just long enough for the guy to see that he was aware of what was going on. "Damn flies," responded the guy. "Always going where they're not wanted."

"I hear ya," said Prescott, not sure if he was supposed to be scared. He continued to rinse his hands and gave the restroom a quick, surreptitious scan. Standing by the door, his back to Prescott and his front facing nothing that was worth facing, was another guy. The guy by the door's arms were in front of him, and Prescott now began to get nervous. "There's no reason," he quickly thought, "for someone to be in that position unless he's preparing to spin around and grab someone. These two are a team, and for some reason they don't care much for me." Pretending that nothing out of the ordinary was going on, Prescott calmly dried his hands, threw the damp paper towel in the trash, and made his way leisurely to the door. He pushed it open and began to step back out into safety.

"Watch yourself, now," urged the guy at the sink. Prescott just kept walking until the door swung shut. Then, seeing that the rest area was still all but deserted, he dashed to his car, got in, and locked the doors. He caught his breath and drove off, shaking.

The end.

The Five Worst Jobs - #5 - The Factory

Because I was feeling ill yesterday and was unable to provide you with entertainment, I've decided to make up for it with the first in a new series of informative pieces describing some of my more unpleasant jobs. I'm starting now with the fifth worst, counting them down 'til we reach number one., like I'm the Casey Kasem of anecdotal essayists or something. Anyway, without further ado, here's ...

#5

In my life, I've visited four different factories: one that made toothbrushes, two that made candy, and one that made razor blades. Three of those four were in foreign countries. I've only worked in one factory, and that was a factory only by the strictest definition. In reality, it was some guy's living room.

I was spending the summer with my cousin and his then girlfriend (and now wife) in the foothills of Santa Fe. I won't go into the details of my time there, other than to say things got mildly ugly, and came to a head that fall, when I was back at school and some snide comment I'd made in a letter to him was taken more seriously than I'd intended it, and garnered the classic response (in the body of his return letter) that, "maybe great, smart Rob isn't so smart after all." Which, of course, is true, but then I hadn't been the one making such claims. Not that I hadn't believed them. Not that, when the wind is right and the shadows are low, I still don't,,,

Anyway, the real root of the ugliness (which, for the record, is under the bridge--albeit still polluting the waters a bit) was my typical inability to find a job. I'd been living comfortably off of Daddy's credit card, which my parents made no real effort to take away from me. To my credit, I was not a prodigal spender that summer; my extravagences were limited to two or three CDs (I believe they were "A Quick One" and "The Who Sell Out" by the Who, and Ween's "12 Golden Country Greats." Just so you know), and, well, what my cousin referred to as "Gucci food." Which is to say, prepared items and Odwalla juices purchased at the local Whole Foods (or whatever the 1996-or was it '95?--Santa Fe equvalent was). I can see now how this might have been seen as an affront to a young couple working hard for their money, but at the time it seemed like the right thing to do. At least, it seemed like a thing I was able to do, and so I did it. In retrospect, it was an act of amorality rather than immorality, and undoubtedly not my vilest transgression that magical summer.

I did actually try to find work. I'm sure it took me a while to get going, and when I did, I probably only filled out about five applications and made no effort to follow up on any of them, but that should count for something, right? Right? Anyway, it ended up not mattering, as my friend Graciela, who lived in nearby Espanola (aka, the Low Rider Capital of the World) hooked me up with a job at a place where she was about to start working. She'd met this guy, see, who'd started a business out of his home, designing and manufacturing hash pipes. They were awful looking things. At the core, they were your garden variety pipe, but instead of a simple, colorful rubber sheath encasing the stem to protect to the delicate fingers of the modern doper, these were all emballished with thick, gaudy, platicine figurines, most of the space alien motif. The only one I remember specifically was one of a large breasted alien chick with pale green glow-in-the-dark nipples.

The guy who ran the place was, needless to say, a geek, it was a long commute from my cousin's house, and the pay was horrible, as it was piece-work, and I was by no means a fast hand at it. Still, I after a couple days, I started to get the hang of it, and expected to continue my improvement. Besides, I really didn't need to make much money at all, as far as I was concerned. And it was an okay place to work; the other workers were nice, we could pretty much show up when we wanted, we could listen to whatever music we wanted, and we were free to get high at our leisure. On top of that, Graciela was always fun to be around. On the whole, I was content.

On the fourth day, the work switched from molding the plastic pieces to painting them. I was very bad at it, slow and not very precise. The guy who ran the place seemed to be around more than usual that day, and I kept catching him checking out Graciela and giving me the evil eye when she and I were talking. Later in the day, she and I went to my car to smoke a joint. I'm not sure why we didn't do it right out in the open, but we didn't. As some point, I saw the boss staring at us through a window. It made me uneasy, but I didn't think much of it. The day finished up and I drove back to Santa Fe. The phone started ringing almost as soon as I stepped in the door. It was the bossman, calling to fire me. He didn't give me much reason beyond saying I wasn't good at detail work, and I told him I understood. For some reason, this stunned him, and after a silent moment he thanked me enthusiastically for taking it so well. He told me I could pick up the money owed to me the next day, which I did. It couldn't have been more than fifteen dollars.

Not long after that, my cousin woke me at around 8 one morning, asking me if he'd done something to make me mad. I didn't know what he was talking about. He proceeded to scold me for sleeping so late, and after similar one-sided conversation, asked me to leave. He was friendly enough about it, and I was in no position to put up a fight. A week or so later, I packed my bags and drove back east. Apart from one very unsettling incident in an Indiana rest stop men's room, the trip was without adventure.

The Philadelphia Story (pt. 7 - Jellyfish Heaven)

May I be completely candid with you? Please? I'll buy you one of those shiny mylar balloons you like so well. Thanks. Here goes:

Call me a bigot, if you will, but I've never really understood the allure of Chinese food. I like dumplings at least as much as the next guy; steamed, fried, I'll eat 'em until I've eaten several too many. And cold sesame noodles? There was a time, in college, when I'd have gladly eaten nothing but. I'm sure there are a dozen other Chinese dishes that delight my finicky palate, too, but there are many, many more that, at best, do nothing for me, quite a number of which make me ill to even consider. The problem, you see, is that uniquely Chinese mania of submerging a high percentage of their menu items beneath a shimmering sea of viscous brown slime. Maybe I was conditioned early in life by that public service cartoon they ran on Saturday mornings with the lifeguad (I believe his name was Louie) who rescued a potato from drowning in a pool of sauce. I'm still not entirely sure why oversaucing one's food was considered a great enough peril to America's youth for it to merit its own PSA, and, for that matter, nor I am sure why we needed that other PSA with the cartoon cowboy who suggested we eat more cheese, but I do know that I am a product of my upbringing, sure as I know that Scrappy Doo's plucky bravado always helped save the day, lame a character as he may have been. Which is all to say, once again, that I'm not crazy about Chinese food, and thus it was that I held my optimism in abeyance that cold, shitty night, as we stepped out of the van and bolted throgh the rain across the street to the North Sea Seafood Restaurant*.

And here, I think, is as good a place as any to end this chapter of our story, as nothing all that interesting happened that night. Perhaps the tea ceremony was interesting, but I cannot rightly say, as I didn't bother to weave my way to the front of the big room and watch it. Some of the food was noteworthy, I guess, like the surprisingly tasty jellyfish, or the shark fin soup, which was essentially a bowlful of that glutinous brown sauce of which I'm so fond, but most of it was just food, ranging in likeability from great to my being unable to even look at it, which I think is all one can hope for in a traditional, family-style, thirteen course Chinese banquet. The conversation at our table was all very lively and very enjoyable, which hardly makes for a good story. I guess the only slightly funny thing that happened was when, at some point fairly late in evening, Erik and Noriko's giant baby was plunked into my arms, and I sat for a while making faces at it, much to the surprise of certain women in attendence. When the novelty of me holding a baby wore off and everyone looked away, I drilled a knuckle into his fat little arm, raising a nice little red wheal, just to prove to myself that I hadn't gone soft in my old age.

Eventually, we went back to the hotel and I drank in the lounge with strangers until they closed up for the night.
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(Coming soon: another entry that brings us closer to the end.)

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* I think that's what it was called. Do you really care? I don't.