Furthering my list of factual information stating that the middle names "Lee" and "Ray" only cause problems in the life of the middly-named...
http://geofflottrules.blogspot.com/2008/06/lee-or-ray-part-2.html
I submit THIS STORY, wherein Major LEE Ray, 51, was killed in a homeless encampment near I-5 in Seattle. Terrible news.
Keep 'em coming, folks.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Geoff Lott: Comedian, Writer, Philosoteur. I am here to amuse you, not entertain you. If not now, later. If not you, somebody else. If you can't laugh at yourself, that's just fine, too. I will do it for you.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
That's What Friends are (meta)For
Solid carriage. Decent shape. Front tube, randomly disconnected and hanging downward.
Loses fluids frequently, causing to overheat. Not good for long trips. Runs hotter than it should. When hot, needs longer than usual to cool down.
Direction-signals need new covers. Somebody took them a while ago. There may be a blinker out, because a light comes on to say one is out, but they all work. False alarms on what's working and what's not. If you stop too quickly, the front bumper may fall off.
Massive chunk-shot to the windshield, causing a blindspot to the left. Gotta lean over to see around it. Out of windshield washer fluid. Wipers could use a replacement, but cleaning the windshield hits a major divot in the chunk-shot, causing more smearing than smoothing. The sun visor has been removed, forcefully, from the look of the shards.
Can't tell how much gas is in it, just gotta fuel up when you can, especially if the light comes on. No idea how the fuel efficiency measures up.
The interior windows are hazily bonded with a sheer coat of nicotine. All external viewing is through a slightly-distorted glaze of chain-puffed smokes. Ash-blown back seats and upholstery. Interior panel of the passenger side, which holds the handles for exit and window-dropping is off, stuffed into the trunk. Somebody else must open the door from outside to allow the passenger to leave. Unless the passenger can grip mightily enough to the one cable that opens the door. Wires bounce along, exposed to the elements.
Work needs to be done under the hood. The only person who knows how best to handle it is a man in a valley far away. But overall, it goes from point A to D to C, as long as you don't push it too hard.
A car, lent to me by a friend?
Or a friend?
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Loses fluids frequently, causing to overheat. Not good for long trips. Runs hotter than it should. When hot, needs longer than usual to cool down.
Direction-signals need new covers. Somebody took them a while ago. There may be a blinker out, because a light comes on to say one is out, but they all work. False alarms on what's working and what's not. If you stop too quickly, the front bumper may fall off.
Massive chunk-shot to the windshield, causing a blindspot to the left. Gotta lean over to see around it. Out of windshield washer fluid. Wipers could use a replacement, but cleaning the windshield hits a major divot in the chunk-shot, causing more smearing than smoothing. The sun visor has been removed, forcefully, from the look of the shards.
Can't tell how much gas is in it, just gotta fuel up when you can, especially if the light comes on. No idea how the fuel efficiency measures up.
The interior windows are hazily bonded with a sheer coat of nicotine. All external viewing is through a slightly-distorted glaze of chain-puffed smokes. Ash-blown back seats and upholstery. Interior panel of the passenger side, which holds the handles for exit and window-dropping is off, stuffed into the trunk. Somebody else must open the door from outside to allow the passenger to leave. Unless the passenger can grip mightily enough to the one cable that opens the door. Wires bounce along, exposed to the elements.
Work needs to be done under the hood. The only person who knows how best to handle it is a man in a valley far away. But overall, it goes from point A to D to C, as long as you don't push it too hard.
A car, lent to me by a friend?
Or a friend?
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, December 04, 2008
On Defining One's Self
I have a comedic spirit. I find humor in tragedy, and layers on the surface alone. I'm not saying I'm special, it's merely how I am wired. Were I wired for neurosurgerence, I'd be brain-poking with the same zeal and goopy fingers I phutz around with in my comedic pursuits. But I don't define myself as a Comedian.
I write a lot. I need to refocus my energy and focus on 2 projects more and write here less, but this is a comforting zen-like moment for me to write, as a Writer. What does that mean, anyway, to be a Writer? It's to translate what I see and think into visible words as well as possible so that reader's brains are flooded with pictures, emotions, or desires to send me money via PayPal.
The other day I was exiting a grocery store in Westwood, near UCLA. It was clean, well-lit, and not your typical LA-area grocer. On the way out, there was one double-automatic door, and three Asian guys, about mid-20's, were walking in. There was a cramped area near the front door, full of holiday florals and displays. One guy was text messaging on the phone his parents pay for, the others were making sure they were ribbing him for being a "fag" while they adjusted either their chain necklaces or their perfectly-flat-sticker-attached "LA" ball caps. In front of them, to my right, was a very disheveled, heavily-bearded, slightly odiferous man.
In one hand he held a bucket with cleaning supplies. In the other, two Ralph's bags filled with, from what I could tell, paper products and cereal. He stood there, looking out towards the doors, blank stare on his face. The youths were paying almost no attention to him, and nearly bumped into him. He grunted hard through his stare and they split around him, the one with the text session never looked up.
I paused as they passed, and glanced at the guy with the bucket. Thinking he was going to go first, I motioned with my hand towards the doors. Nothin'. Three seconds passed.
I then said "Pardon me sir" and made my way past him, about a foot of space between us. As I did, he took a step. To his left. Not forward. Directly into me. Not aggressively, just directly into me. I kept moving, and said "Excuse me, sorry," and he stopped, and flopped his carriage against his sides with a grunt. It was like he was trying to bump into me and then get angry. Odd, I thought, so I turned and said "Sorry, really," and he grunted again, blankly staring. So I said "oh, come on." Weird.
I made my way to the car, and headed out. But it's been with me all week for some reason. In the wake of my dad's passing it seems that every interaction I have actually has meaning. I have also not been sleeping too well. Everything seems heightened a bit. But hey, there's only so much I can do.
What I'm driving at is the fact that people define themselves, quite often, based on the efforts of others. Like showing off a tattoo on your calf in mid-January. Nice shorts, and what a great tribal seahorse. No, I'm not asking you about it. Or like blaring rap music to say "HEY PEOPLES! I AM BAD WITH MONEY AND DON'T GIVE A FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU*K!" Awesome. Giant flaming a-hole.
At this point in my life, I define myself a few ways, and will do so differently as I age, I am sure. But one thing I will never do is define myself on the output of others. Not their music, their clothing, their cars, nor their favorite color. Go with yourself. And shut up about it.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
I write a lot. I need to refocus my energy and focus on 2 projects more and write here less, but this is a comforting zen-like moment for me to write, as a Writer. What does that mean, anyway, to be a Writer? It's to translate what I see and think into visible words as well as possible so that reader's brains are flooded with pictures, emotions, or desires to send me money via PayPal.
The other day I was exiting a grocery store in Westwood, near UCLA. It was clean, well-lit, and not your typical LA-area grocer. On the way out, there was one double-automatic door, and three Asian guys, about mid-20's, were walking in. There was a cramped area near the front door, full of holiday florals and displays. One guy was text messaging on the phone his parents pay for, the others were making sure they were ribbing him for being a "fag" while they adjusted either their chain necklaces or their perfectly-flat-sticker-attached "LA" ball caps. In front of them, to my right, was a very disheveled, heavily-bearded, slightly odiferous man.
In one hand he held a bucket with cleaning supplies. In the other, two Ralph's bags filled with, from what I could tell, paper products and cereal. He stood there, looking out towards the doors, blank stare on his face. The youths were paying almost no attention to him, and nearly bumped into him. He grunted hard through his stare and they split around him, the one with the text session never looked up.
I paused as they passed, and glanced at the guy with the bucket. Thinking he was going to go first, I motioned with my hand towards the doors. Nothin'. Three seconds passed.
I then said "Pardon me sir" and made my way past him, about a foot of space between us. As I did, he took a step. To his left. Not forward. Directly into me. Not aggressively, just directly into me. I kept moving, and said "Excuse me, sorry," and he stopped, and flopped his carriage against his sides with a grunt. It was like he was trying to bump into me and then get angry. Odd, I thought, so I turned and said "Sorry, really," and he grunted again, blankly staring. So I said "oh, come on." Weird.
I made my way to the car, and headed out. But it's been with me all week for some reason. In the wake of my dad's passing it seems that every interaction I have actually has meaning. I have also not been sleeping too well. Everything seems heightened a bit. But hey, there's only so much I can do.
What I'm driving at is the fact that people define themselves, quite often, based on the efforts of others. Like showing off a tattoo on your calf in mid-January. Nice shorts, and what a great tribal seahorse. No, I'm not asking you about it. Or like blaring rap music to say "HEY PEOPLES! I AM BAD WITH MONEY AND DON'T GIVE A FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU*K!" Awesome. Giant flaming a-hole.
At this point in my life, I define myself a few ways, and will do so differently as I age, I am sure. But one thing I will never do is define myself on the output of others. Not their music, their clothing, their cars, nor their favorite color. Go with yourself. And shut up about it.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Dumb and Violent
I feel very bad for the situations of violence that have erupted in my hometown area of Seattle. In the past few months, Jet City was witness to:
1) The mugging and beating-death of The Tuba Man, Edward McMichael, a man who would play his tuba outside of sporting events for money. He was as regular as rain on a sunny day and self-righteous vegans staring at you for not bringing your reusable bags to Whole Foods. He was beaten by 4 or 5 teens. How sad. Those poor boys have been failed by the System. Those of them that were caught, gosh, probably have to go to jail for a good 10 years at least. Hopefully the will reap the benefits of that correctional facility. How terrible for them.
2) The shooting death of a 16 year-old at SouthCenter Mall last weekend. I have been to that mall hundreds of times. I, too, found myself on the brink of madness more than once per trip. But to shoot somebody!? Well, that takes a level of commitment that is to be commended. There were reports that the young men involved in the altercation leading to the shooting and death were "throwing gang signs" using their hands, as if to say, "My hand signal should be all you need to 'step off,' or 'back it up a piece, sir.' Look at my hands!" It's never a good idea to use your hands where a gun will suffice. Always shoot first, expect your friends to not rat you out later. How sad. Another victim of the System.
3) In Spokane, two men, 18 and 20, robbed a wheelchair-bound man of his groceries. The man in the wheelchair, aged 87 years, had just purchased the groceries. Jeez, what an idiot! Doesn't he know how dangerous it is out there!?!? It's one thing to be 87, but when you're in a wheelchair, you shouldn't expect anything from anybody. Somebody should arrest his family for not looking after him. Danger is everywhere. This is totally on him.
So as you can see, there's a lot of dumb people and bad planning leading to a lot of crime in the Northwest. I would like to applaud all the parents of kids who are commiting crimes for doing the best they could with those kids. Some kids, gosh, you just can't teach them, so the best you can do, is make sure they have clothes on their backs, and a safe place to sleep after a long night of "acting a fool" or "thugging out." Be it in the suburban havens of small-time pot dealing and pill trading, or the inner-city pressure of being respected for your hand signals, it's gotta be tough to have a job AND know what your kids are up to.
more to come...
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
1) The mugging and beating-death of The Tuba Man, Edward McMichael, a man who would play his tuba outside of sporting events for money. He was as regular as rain on a sunny day and self-righteous vegans staring at you for not bringing your reusable bags to Whole Foods. He was beaten by 4 or 5 teens. How sad. Those poor boys have been failed by the System. Those of them that were caught, gosh, probably have to go to jail for a good 10 years at least. Hopefully the will reap the benefits of that correctional facility. How terrible for them.
2) The shooting death of a 16 year-old at SouthCenter Mall last weekend. I have been to that mall hundreds of times. I, too, found myself on the brink of madness more than once per trip. But to shoot somebody!? Well, that takes a level of commitment that is to be commended. There were reports that the young men involved in the altercation leading to the shooting and death were "throwing gang signs" using their hands, as if to say, "My hand signal should be all you need to 'step off,' or 'back it up a piece, sir.' Look at my hands!" It's never a good idea to use your hands where a gun will suffice. Always shoot first, expect your friends to not rat you out later. How sad. Another victim of the System.
3) In Spokane, two men, 18 and 20, robbed a wheelchair-bound man of his groceries. The man in the wheelchair, aged 87 years, had just purchased the groceries. Jeez, what an idiot! Doesn't he know how dangerous it is out there!?!? It's one thing to be 87, but when you're in a wheelchair, you shouldn't expect anything from anybody. Somebody should arrest his family for not looking after him. Danger is everywhere. This is totally on him.
So as you can see, there's a lot of dumb people and bad planning leading to a lot of crime in the Northwest. I would like to applaud all the parents of kids who are commiting crimes for doing the best they could with those kids. Some kids, gosh, you just can't teach them, so the best you can do, is make sure they have clothes on their backs, and a safe place to sleep after a long night of "acting a fool" or "thugging out." Be it in the suburban havens of small-time pot dealing and pill trading, or the inner-city pressure of being respected for your hand signals, it's gotta be tough to have a job AND know what your kids are up to.
more to come...
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
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