Dr. Gloom

I have more in common with the pro-gun lobby than I thought. Someone on a UT fan message board tonight talked about a rival's players getting busted for shooting an AK-47 off. Then someone asked if firing an AK-47 was any worse than stupidly firing off any other gun.

This was my reply:

"I would tend to think Yeah, just because they can kill that many more
people, that much faster than a handgun, or a shotgun or whatever.... That said, I'm glad they exist because I want the people who need to have AK-47s, to have AK-47s."

I don't have a gun. I don't want a gun. And I sure as hell can't be trusted with an AK-47.

To boot, I'm not even sure AK-47's should exist. But they do. Touche', NRA.

If you ever knew me, you would know that sometimes I come off as a complete boob. Arguably there's an endearing quality to that, but still. Complete boob.

So every time I interact with my Uber-boss, the Big Boss, the Corner-Office-with-Remote-Controlled Door Boss... I act like a complete boob. It happened again yesterday. I don't know what compels me to behave that awkwardly.

Respect + Fear + Slight Resentment = What?

I don't know. But I've been picturing what the Uber-boss thinks of me, and I can describe it thusly: "If Cheech and Chong had a kid, it would be [Dr. Gloom]."

There could be worse things, right?

Anyway I was thinking of the name for this offspring, and "Ching" seemed right. You could go with "Choch" but that's too hard to pronounce, or "Cheeng" but that still sounds like "Ching."

So no more, "I, boob." From now on it's, "I, Ching."

I've got a friend with whom I share a sense of humor and a certain set of vices. He says far too many funny things that I could share here, and I can't keep up with all of them, but there are a few memorable stories that I just can't resist re-telling. And this is one.

To protect my friend's identity, I will refer to him as "Harvey."

Harvey has a daughter who is now a teenager. She is very gifted, intelligence-wise, and although she is a teenager now and thus hates everything to do with anything not related to her burgeoning sense of adolescent self-centricity, she should turn out to be quite an extraordinary adult.

For example, this anecdote of her as a child:

Harvey took his daughter to Disneyland. She was, I think he said, 4 or 5 years old? At any rate she was just beginning to read things. And she was endlessly curious.

So they're in line for a Disneyland ride. You know the drill, snaking through the circuitous rope line, doubling back again and again, passing the same people every ten minutes, trying to avoid eye contact (OK, that's my inference - I'm not sure they did that, but I certainly do) with their fellow riders.

Then Harvey's daughter espies an "Exit" sign, off to the side.

She asks: "What does that sign say, Daddy?"

Harvey says: "Oh, that's an Exit sign, sweetie."

She must have been contemplating this answer, as they again snaked through the line. When they reached the same sign again, she finally asked:

"What does that exit sign SAY, daddy?"

And then Harvey realized that he had not answered her question. What is an "Exit sign" to someone who is just learning to read?

The answer: It's a metal pole with a metal square affixed to it, and the metal square contains letters of the alphabet, usually backlit by an orange-ish light. It's not an idea, or a concept, or an instruction (well, the word is, but not the sign itself). It's a physical object. That the letters happen to form the word "EXIT" doesn't mean anything to her, yet. She may have heard the word, and may indeed know something of what it means, but has never read it. So it's just a symbol, like the "Wahine" on women's bathrooms at Polynesian restaurants, or "Caballeros" at a Mexican mensroom. I only speak English, but I get by choosing the door with the male-looking logo on it, and hoping for the best. I was never so intrepid or courageous as to ask anyone about it.

But Harvey's daughter is. She was trying to learn about the world, trying to process how it works. She knew something about language, and obviously wanted to know more. In that context, Harvey's initial explanation that it was an "Exit sign" meant nothing.

"What does that Exit sign SAY, daddy?"

Bill Cosby's onto something. Kids say the darndest things.

I have under-accomplished so much over the last two weeks.

I have not done my taxes. I am behind my deadlines at work. I am wearing jockey-style underwear because I have not aggressively attacked the task of doing laundry.

Now I find myself Febreze-ing a pair of boxers. Disenfecting a couple pairs of socks with Lysol (liquid).

Is this dignity? I think not.

But I understand there's really no dignity in doing my taxes, my work, or my laundry.

And then I get it. Dignity, I think, is for losers.