I'm Over Contract Work, Thanks

I have been working on-contract since 2006, when Cingular bought AT&T and handed me over to a boss who was "passionate about delivering quality metrics." I had no upward mobility in that organization, and was so angry about the jackload who was managing me at the time being allowed to manage at all that I took off. I said "Later days, better lays" and went the contract route. It's been good and bad and not great ever since then. Sometimes it's been a clusterfist. It has all been about making money, and that's not always a good thing. When you're making money, more than some folks you work with, you can still be on the shit-end of the butt-wiping stick.
Here "why" is.

Apropos of nothing, I can NOT get a good cup of coffee today. It's thrown my day off-center. Usually I get 2 cups of coffee in over the day, with 2 cups of green tea in there, but ride my ears if I find a decent cup in this dump. MultiBILLION dollar comp'ny, zip-point shit for coffoise. BALLS.

Contract work allows one the freedom to move from company to company as soon as you screw up a project. If you're good at what you do, like I am with building requirements, determining requirement-design gaps, project management, business intelligence, interviewing, and redirecting fart-blame, your contract runs out close to the time you achieve Full Immersion and Momentum! on a project. Kinda like being in the act of coitus and the interruptus happens right about the time you realize you're setting some new stamina record, but OH HERE COMES THE FANTASY SYRUP and then BLAP...
you're cleaning out your desk with a loin-heat unlike any you've ever felt, and you're out of work again.

But if you're under 30, unmarried (or financially secure with your partner's money), and without children, Contracting is a great way to build a resumé. Otherwise you wanna get in a place and put down roots. Here's why:

Contractors are treated like rent-a-Cops at concerts. Necessary, sure. Doing a job some folks could not do, or are just too busy for. You are good enough to work AT, but not FOR, that company. Don't forget that.
Contractors get scraps. If your company has an all-day off-site meeting with guest speaker Alfonso Ribeiro, that's EMPLOYEES ONLY, mmkay? So you sit tight and finish working while the Employees go nuts watching The Carlton Dance up-close.
Benefits aren't great. 3rd-tier health care. Little/no retirement investing. You're on your own to drop $ into a Roth IRA or 401k, and don't expect the consulting company you're with to match it.

So I am 100% thankful for, but now totally over, my Contracting experience. I am actively pursuing full-time, in-house positions with a number of companies, but I think a lot of it is going to be contacting my friends at these places. Which I'm happy to do. I interview a lot so I'm comfortable widdit. I just hope the coffee doesn't taste like trucker underwear.

Not that I have perspective.
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Conference Calls - The Townsquare of Corporate Life

If you have ever had a corporate lifestyle, this video will resonate in a painfully funny way.
* late-joiners
* non-mutes
* roll-call
* miskeyed re-joiners
* screaming babies
* screaming parents (my favorite in the past includes a budget-planning meeting interrupted by an irate co-worker/dad reminding his kids that they were to "TAKE THAT SHIT INTO THE GARAGE, DAMMIT!")

Enjoy!



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The Super Beyond

The painful illness of my friend's father has cut-loose enough of an emotional oil-slick in me to devote some time to a Life piece. My blast on Justin Bieber's ridiculable haircut shall wait for another day.

Having lost my dad in November of 2008, and later becoming a father, I have a much greater appreciation for life, babies, mommies, and the duties of parenting. I see how much influence I may have on my son some day. And how difficult it can be to live with integrity and coolheadedness when you haven't slept much and can play 183 arrangements of "Old MacDonald" on a 1-octave plastic piano. And this is WITH technological advancements as outlets of frustration and socializing.

As I'm wont to do, time to time, I pray to God about my life. Usually I am thanking Him for keeping me alive after a litany of moves equivalent to Justin Bieber's haircut (it seemed cool at the time, but then we went on two wheels, and the gas can tipped over, and my cigarette...). Seriously close calls in my life that would have given my parents synchronized cardiac arrest had they known about it. And for some reason I am here with a beautiful wife, wonderful baby guy, awesome friends, and a bright future in a number of careers. And I have to Thank God for a lot of it.

Some people love to jump off their Agnosticar or Atheistar Van long enough to bash and/or ridicule my choice of spiritual pursuit. I pray for them, too. I don't point a finger back and tell them they're wrong for believing - or not believing - the way they do. I accept them as people, and move on. But all the same, I don't condone nor defend the Crusades, the Catholic Priest scandals, nor any other atrocity committed by a person wrapping themselves in the gossamer layers of Christianity, Religion, Islam, or Professional Wrestling. Every group's got their shit-heads.

And for every shit-head there are 1,000 fantastic people. And knowing that everybody, great and not-so, good and bad, weird and conformist, will all biologically die some day just makes me realize that our relationships to one another are the MOST IMPORTANT thing we can have in life. Especially if they are good, healthy, self-actualizing, loving, and mutually beneficial. We don't have to be close to step on toes. And we don't have to step on toes just because we're close. And I only ever wear close-toe shoes.

So if you're gonna live a long time, have some stories to tell when you get there. If you're not gonna live a long time, give everyone else a story about how you went out big. But for the sake of dead rockstars, don't just muddle about doing squat in hopes you'll just make it to 90 with a full tread on your tires. Nobody wants to hear about how you never swam the rapids or farted in your hand to smother your friend's face when camping. Especially God. No time for it.

Go live. Do one thing today that scares you or somebody else.

Justin Bieber's hair is really stupid, though. I'm happy my dad isn't alive to see it. And if I'm a "hater," I include Bieberfolliclegate among my other instances of "hating," including "Dane Cook's Act," "Fans of Insane Clown Posse," "Guys Who Make That KissyFace To The Camera," and "Misquoting PseudoJournalists Obsessed With MurderCases."

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What're You Doing?

Found this by wormhole'ing around the 'net at my friend Joe Vespaziani's untouched MySpace site... don't ask... Joe is an influence, a friend, and a brilliant comedian, bee tee dub.

I watched the entire 4:30 of this video, and realized that I really have to do more in life.

It's past time. But this is a great one.

This guy just dances all around the world. WHAT?

Yeah. Not well, does he dance. That's not the point. Watch it.

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2010 - The Year I Told You So

Why are we making resolutions?
A recent study by the American Institute of Studies & Results resulted in a study that showed Resolutions aren't as valuable as PRINCIPLES. My principles can't be broken. I have exhibited a certain "Principle Flexibility" from time to time, but NEVER have I gone so far as to call the police when it was something I could handle myself. Which is why I invested time and money into learning non-lethal trapping techniques.

But there are goals I do have for the year. Broken down to a smaller basis, it's more of a week-to-week thing for me. Listing them here would be silly, narcissistic, and dissipating of their energy. But when you see my new hairstyle, oh... you'll know we're on the Path, friends.

I see a change happening, however. It may be that I'm entrenched in my mid-30s with a warehouse of possibilities in front of me. But I do see more people extending small courtesies to each other. After a year in Los Angeles the opening of a door for a stranger there was met with a moment of pause as if their exit was to be met with a "LOOK AT MY SCRIPT!" Nothing seemed Free. Everybody expected somebody to want something from them. And guess what? KINDNESS IS FREE. Merging without a blinker, however, is for animal abusers.

2010 is going to be whatever you want it to be. Stop listening to reports of Economic Anemia, Stolen Organs, and Terror, Terror!, TERROR! Be the kind of Person you'd want to hang out with. Show Compassion. Let the Poo River flow under your Serenity Bridge. And stop reading "The Secret."



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My Book About Corporate Life, DONE

For those who don't know, haven't read this very often, or just need to be caught-up...
1) I'm going to be a dad in about 2 weeks.
1a) Yes, I'm a little freaked. I choked from rapidly drinking WATER 2 nights ago.
2) I spent a decade of my adult life in cubicles for a few of the Giants Of Industry, and laughed to tell about it. Some on-stage, much of it over drinks I shouldn't have pounded in the parking lot.

3) I decided to write a book about the experiences of #2. Poop joke? Not exactly. And "yes." But not exactly.

The book is about my experiences as both a Full Time employee - sardonically labeled "permanent employee" if you're dumb enough to believe that - AND as a contracted/temp/consulting employee.

There is a class war, a caste system in place among those cubicles and hallways, all based on the color of a person's access badge.

COULD IT BE? Can a person be JUDGED based on the color of their badge, designating their worth, place, input, salary, and attractiveness to a company?

HELLZ YEAH

And THAT is what this book is all about.

The daily work situations of every employee of every major corporation, and how it affects them based on something so small, yet so big... the color of their access badge.

Send me a note, I'll send you a sample chapter, you tell me what you think. Please?

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Bus, STOP!

Riding on public transportation, one is bound to see a number of abnormal happenings.

Guy staring at the floor while mindlessly sipping from the largest-you-can-legally-buy can o’ Iced Tea? Check.

Woman eating a single Reese’s PB Cup, though it’s been squished near-flat and she’s scrapin’ at it with her bottom tooth-stumps to get the what’s-left out of the cup? DING.

Black guy rollin’ his head and finger-pointing to the beat of music only he can hear… though he’s not wearing earphones? PO PO ZAO.

Mexicans? AY AY AAAAY!

Blacks? Unh. (na-na-na-nAAAA)

Asians? Hai.

White(s)? Yeah.

The Journey of Life is much like dealing with public transportation. Not everybody has to share the same journey, getting in and out, off and on here and 3 stops ago. See, what happened to me a few times the past 2 weeks is this. There’s a schedule drivers are s’posed to keep, from stop to stop. It keeps them from being a giant bus train all over the city, and keeps people from congregating for an hour until their bus comes… or doesn’t.

I was about 3 minutes behind schedule leaving work on foot a couple weeks ago. I walk a quarter-mile to the bus stop at Fairfax & Beverly, home of CBS TV Studios and the occasional transvestite slap-fight. At the corner I get to, I have bus option 1, the 217 that takes about 25 minutes in rush traffic to get to my home-stop. Option 2 is the 780, the Express that takes about 19 minutes and has fewer stops on the way to my destination. They arrive, usually, 7 or 11 minutes apart, then NOTHING for about 15minutes. So if you miss ‘em both, you got 15minutes to contemplate why you left work 3 minutes late. 780, 7 minutes, 217, 11 minutes, 780, etc. Miss one, and your evening drinkin skej goes pear-shaped.

Today, walking home from the store, with a schedule in my head to e-send something to My Wife!, I decided to make it faster and catch the bus. This time it’s a 3minute bus ride or a 20min walk. Bus runs every 12minutes, usually, so even if I miss one, I’m gonna make up the time. Well I hit the stop and wait. 8minutes past when it should’ve come, not bad. Took me 5min to walk to the stop and no bus passed me, so the bus is running late. I waited a few more, then realized, hey, by now, I could be WAY the hell closer to home and further from what botanists call “probably a hobo’s drying pee.”

The bus is late, way late. And things to be done are waiting. Where da bus is, yo?

And I said “well I can’t wait for this power trip, I gotsta GO,” but to myself. In a very H&R Block-friendly voice. And I started walking. I cross the street, parallel to the bus lane o’ travel. The bus stop, not 1minute behind me, is empty. Just me, a bit East of ‘er. Walking.

And then That Bus blazes by. I’m 100 feet from the bus stop. The bus, now 8minutes behind on the day before damn-near ever’bawdow has a day off and traffic is lighter than Heidi Montag’s “Thought Book,” rips by me. RIPS. 50 in a 35. Ain’t my fault.

And a theory of Life hit me as the wind rolled up my back while I said, “Mother ASS BITCH POO STAIN.” It may have gotten racial. Sorry. Public Transit is piloted by some WEIRD people. Would YOU wanna drive strangers up & down the street all day? No. You’re too busy thinking of ways to cook loin of venison with a red wine-cocoa nib reduction. So what was I talking about? LIFE.

We have stops in life. Moments. Milestones. Wait points. Who knows when you’ll get off at one. When another bus comes around, it may not be y’all’s. But those stops are there. As you wait at your stop, some may think, “Look, that sex-diesel is waiting for a bus!” or “If I were at that bus stop, I’d keep my distance from that one. But then again, my raw food diet means I rabbit-fart day long.” But there you are. Bus Stop Waiting.

Because you could just start walking, too. You could up and go. Sun on you. Wind at you. Rain soak you. Breeze cool you. Tiring you out. Because you cannot wait. You can’t. And That Bus isn’t coming around, or hasn’t, and if you walk, you’ll be closer to your destination, and can likely pick up a bus at another stop down the way there.

Or you could wait a bit more. Because when it does arrive, you’re then speeding along at a much faster rate than you can walk (no offense), and back to reading “The Outliers,” ironically, for your present sitch.

Do you know when it will arrive?

Or do you just Know it will, and when it does, you’ll be ready for the ride?

Sometimes it’s better to just hoof it and get there.

Sometimes you miss it by a second and your effort closes the distance.

You may wait much longer than you want.

You may hit it at the right time.

You must know it will come for you. Have Faith. You’re on your way, even if you aren’t moving. But… You can walk and get tired. Or!!! You can wait while others think you’re lazy for not just walkin’. Your faith that it will arrive can save you the effort of “doing it yourself.” And just a bit-more waiting as you read your hot book gets you to where you’re going much, much faster.

Or you can walk and see where a homeless guy OBVIOUSLY took a shit in a Von’s bag and didn’t seal it in front of what was once Culver Nissan.

And no, I’m not saying God is a Bus Driver, nor Black, Mexican, or Multi-ethnic. But he doesn’t have all day. Pay up, get on, and shut your taco-catch. If you can't enjoy the ride, at least enjoy your read.

And some. Well. Some never get on that bus.

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What The Fat?

After my dear Dad passed away, I had what some people would call "weight gain." In fact, it jumped about 12 pounds between November and New Year's. I've never put on that much weight in such a short period of time. Throw in Thanksgiving, 10 Days in Vegas (NOT a crappy Martin Lawrence movie), and the Holidays and you can see why there may have been some el-beez smacked on to the rack.

But the past 3 months now I have altered my diet about every way possible. That may be a problem. Tried the low-carb thing, lost 3lbs in one week. Then flat-lined. South Beach, 2-lb fluctuation for 2 weeks. Flat-lined. This past week I've eaten mostly veggies and lean, lean, lean protein, and worked out harder than I have in a while (jumping rope, stair sprints mixed in with my normal circuits). Today I was 2 pounds heavier than I was on Monday.

So whatever you wanna say about whatever is popular for eating programs, save it. I'm done. I honestly eat better, smarter, cleaner than 75% of the people I know. And it's just not coming off, the fatness. And therefore, no more worry over it. I'll eat and exercise and go on with life.

Enjoy the cake.

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The Road Less Traveled May Be Full Of Holes

Last night I worked a road gig in the SoCal area, driving 144miles round trip. The money was bad, the room was great, my set was a bit sloppy, but I did 30minutes (IN A ROW), and worked out a couple of new bits I'd been meaning to lay upon the friendly confines of comedy shows. This is the equivalent of running 7 miles every morning a few weeks out from a big fight. You gotta stay sharp when your boss calls you in and wants to account for the sticky-notes you seem to be Criss Angel'ing into your hatchback. Funky roadgig. Always a good time. This is unlike most shows, wherein the gig is not only in a bar or restaurant, but the booker of the show tags along. And usually needs a ride.

The booker is in his early 50's, from the sound of it, and not robustly into that decade. Decisions, Life, and Women ain't been kind. Nor have the cigarettes that go down in 4 drags. The booker tags along for a few reasons:
1) It's his show, and he wants to make sure it goes smoothly so he doesn't lose the room, nor the income.
2) At the show, he gets to drink and eat for free.
3) There are some control issues at play that start with...
*Where to pick him up, and end with
*Never giving too much credit to a good comic for a good set (keeps 'em working hard!).

I don't fear him reading this post, because he neither has a car nor any solid grips on his current living quarters. Nearly got evicted again, was his story last night.

I wish no ill upon anybody, truly. That always works in reverse. These are just facts of the story. Facts that, perhaps, need not be shared, but facts none-the-less.

Okay, so we drive the 70 miles TO the show. I was moved from the Opening spot of 20minutes to the Middle/Feature spot of 30minutes. Great! It's been a while since I ran 30, and had a lot of newer material to hone, needing some live fire to do it with. First guy goes up, does a good job, riffing with the audience and what-not. The crowd liked him a lot.

Then I go up, and get going, and let's just skip around:
1) I do some opinionated stuff that is backed up by crazy accusations and falsified facts to bolster my case. But the crowd gets it and laughs a LOT at it. For example, The Elderly (62 and older) should be relegated to shop in grocery stores only between the hours of 9:15am and 11:30am, Monday-Thursday. If you've ever run into one of them going the wrong way in a Trader Joe's (yes, there's a shopping perimeter pattern), you know what I'm talking about. This is to protect THEM, too.

2) The tried & true works greatly, including tag lines on the bit about Women's chest tattoos, and a new format of the JagerBomb joke. I totally forgot to do the joke about giving Good People extra rights, but still filled the time. That was encouraging.

3) Hit the closer, THANK YOU I'm Geoff Lott, Be Good To Each Other, good night. DONE. Accolades in numerous forms, even from the other comics and the bar staff. Felt good, but I slipped here and there and wasn't 100% happy with it. I'd give it a solid A- to a B+.

Fast Foward to the drive home. We leave the gig at 11:45. It's an hour back into Hollywood, where I have to drop El Bookerio off before I get to go home. It's late-ish, I'm tired, and he's half-drunk on free beers. And has a steak sandwich in the car, which will make cameo appearances as we get out of Orange County.

Now, the volume level of the average drunk grows exponentionally in a Civic. This is smoker's breath + Michelob Ultra + Hot Steak Sandwich (extra grilled onions) + Self unAwareness-kind of Loud. And I was doing all the work. The whole way home I hear about a few things for my career. These came AFTER... AFTER.... AFTER... he mentioned that he didn't really watch my set because he was busy doing other things. "Other Things" likely means Free Beer Guzzling, and Outdoor Chain Smoking.

The things I need to do to help my career, from a guy who left my car with 4 plastic shopping bags full of food, drinks, or bottles.
1) I need to stay hungry for time and gigs (I took THAT one, on my birthday, on LOST night, didn't I?)
2) I need to, you know, work on, you know, uh... (drunken pause)... the aspect... (pause to bite sandwich)... of delivery (smacking licks of the smoke-odored fingers).
3) The delivery... has to... match the material. (Like what bit in my act has a bad delivery?) Well, (he) didn't watch most of (my) set, but (I) want to hit different words with varied emphasis.

So, he can't pinpoint the advice, because he didn't watch my set.
He talked time and again about how he can't book guys more than 18 hours in advance because it always allows them time to cancel on him (thus putting the blame/guilt on the comic).
He gave me driving tips, yet has no car.
He ate loudly and stunk up my car.
I dropped him off in a non-descript section of Hollywood, far from where I picked him up.
I got home at 1:35am, with better material and a ringing in my right ear, a better comic for having taken the gig and worked the time on stage with the Intent of bettering my skillz.

There are no quarterly reviews in comedy. What you do is judged NOW. Funny or Not, you know immediately. Life is much like that, if you stop and see how it can go from moment to moment. Otherwise, you end up giving life and career and driving advice from one side of your mouth, while complaining about evictions, carlessness, and free steak sandwiches out the other.

Choose Funny. Stay on the High Ground.

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It's Part Of The Gig

I just heard a great line from Matt Furey, who may have heard it elsewhere, but...
"Nothing bad ever happens to a Writer. It's all just more Material." So very true. The more I've embraced my Purpose of putting all the hot, joke-on-joke humor I can into the world, the less stress I've had in life. It's all part of the gig, Life. Job goes weird, c0-worker drives you nuts, club-owner shorts your money, hotel's not expecting you, hooker dies in your tub (not your hooker), cat craps in the tub, buddy has no clue of their own narcissism and toxicity, it's all Soul Food.



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Lotts Angeles II

Absolute craziness.

We quit jobs, rented our condo out, and moved. 2 states and 1400 miles away. The only thing that’s the same is the time zone. It’s safe to say that cultures are clashing outside our door in Culver City.

Moving to Los Angeles is about energy, opportunity, and adventure. I had this feeling hit me when we really thought about this move, a feeling while sitting at my desk at my job that felt like a comfortable jacket. A jacket I could wear daily. Even when it went out of style. And that feeling of comfort drove our decisions. That Seattle is a place of finite opportunity for a writer/comic/actor to make a living as any of those is an understatement. I know only a couple of comics in Seattle who only do stand-up, but they are well-known, well-respected, and could close any room in the country. But it will be years before I’m there, and I don’t have years to make things come true. I have what feels like a few months.

And that’s what I need. Drive. Deadline. Accleration. I had coffee with a friend yesterday who has been here 5 years. He’s connected. He’s knowledgeable. He’s funny. He’s sincere, and sincerely a great guy. Two hours with him put me probably 18 months ahead of schedule in LA. Irons are just going into the fire, but I cannot wait to start pounding for the craft, whatever it is.

But why do it? Why shake up my comfort level, and that of my wife, especially? I have never felt more selfish, more unhinged, nor less in-control than through all of this. But what I think I’ve lost control of is “Life.” I know that Life, to progress on a larger level, a more evolved level, is about taking care of others. But this, this seems like it's squirming in my grasp.

CHECK OUT MY BIG THROBBING EGO.

Like I have any control over that? Ten years ago I was, on this day, getting released from Harborview, a week after getting admitted, a few hours after getting slammed into by a drug addict on a financed Harley-Davidson. My left leg in bandages and stitches, wrapped around bruises and shattered bones, encasing a titanium rod, 9 screws, and a small plate. That’s what I get for crossing the street at 10 in the morning on a clear, gorgeous September day.

What I feel I’ve lost control of I haven’t ever had in my grasp. Life is that fishbowl we don’t know we’re in. Life is just part of the gig. But what I DO have control over, I’m figuring out and really trying to apply, are the following things:

• My reactions to situations in Life
• How I treat people, all people, in any situation
• What I do with my free time
• What I do with my Gifts
• What I say to people, and how I say it
• How I treat myself in the wake of disappointment, or achievements
• When and where and how loudly I break wind (I don’t “pass gas,” I blow heartily)
• How I give thanks and praise and worship the God that put me here with these Gifts

That’s all mine. I can only control that. I can’t control the guy with the attitude at the Culver City Target. Hell, if I were 38 and working there, I wouldn’t want to see ANYBODY, let alone some white boy returning an unused camping mattress.

I can’t control the people whistling at my wife as we walk down the street. I deplore their decorum, though I appreciate their taste in women. Still, they should be sat down and given a stern talking to with a ball-peen hammer and a socket wrench.

And those things all constitute My Piece of Life. A dear friend and Mentor told me that in LA, “It’s not that they think you’re not a fish in the pond; they don’t even want you to think you’re a fish!” Funny thing is…

I didn’t move to LA to “make it” in LA.
I moved to LA to “make it” everywhere else. And I can’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing with my life.

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Lessons In Being An A-Pipe

The Brett Favre saga continues, as he tells the Packers earlier this year that he's leaving them, then tells 'em, "Hey... daddy's thinking he may wanna hit that sweet Green & Gold ass a little more, whaddya say?"

In the meantime, the Packers decided to move on, like any healthy dumpee in a relationship, and go with a younger, thinner, QB who may need some development but is surely the way of the future.

So Brett needs attention. And he's had it for a month now. A lot of it. Overshadowing the entirety of the kickoff of the NFL season. It's not about the Packers, it's about Brett Favre. This is showing a side of Favre I don't like, which is too bad because he's a Hall of Fame lock for sure. But now he will also be remembered for waffling like this.


Another case in point, some Fart-in-Human-Form that I work with. Gawd, this guy...

Sure, he's under pressure from his boss to handle things. We all are. It's called WORK. I have some. I'm not doing it right NOW, but I have some.


See, when a guy decides that his work is of the utmost importance, he narrows his view of the world and sees only his target. And once he begins to swing wildly the arms of panic because somebody said "Uh... we need that sooner," then everyone not in his view gets hit. And until the hitting stops, the work done by everyone else suffers.


The past week has been a suffering at the end of the flail. Every email leads to a 45 minute call across 4 schedules. Every voicemail leads to a 90minute call across 15 schedules. And now... now this fella sends a round of emails to 10 people, and in the amount of time it would take one of above-normal intelligence (and twice-above-normal Handsomeness) to read the thread and make sense of something with a subject line of "Support For Group,"

The DiaperLoad calls me to reiterate what was in his email...
Because I guess I have nothing else to do...
And work only to serve him...
Which means, likely...
He's not married.


So yeah, if you wanna be an A-hole, that's a phenomenal way to do it. Demand, demand, demand, and then when your turn comes up, act like you deserve it.


Oh, and double-clicking your pen (tk-tk... tk-tk-tk-tk...) and bouncing your leg all day are not "activity," they are nervous habits for which you should have a crayon taped to your hand and your ankles duct-taped together. For crying out loud, WHY CAN'T I JUST COME OUT AND SAY THIS???


=0=0=0=0=0=
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Who Watches The Watchers?

Just read an article about how our society and communities, more and more, are becoming "Big Brother-ized." Cameras everywhere, paranoia-induced lawfulness!

Cameras are there to get the rulebreakers, right? The thugs and thieves and jay-walkers.
Why do we need this?

Because for too long, our society has taken it too easy on crime. We watch something happen, unarmed, and then call the po-leece. They show up, sometimes too late, and get their questioning on. Statements be droppin', y'all. Witness with eyes and all 'at.

And because we, as a society, didn't exact a little vigilante justice and drill some purse-snatcher in the legs with a bat or a bullet or a Dodge Hemi Crew-Cab. Purse gets returned, guy gets the corn kicked outta that wasted vessel of a reality-tv-addled carcass, dragged behind a dumpster, peed-upon, then the cops get called.

And for good reason. Lot of psychos out there, gotta make sure they aren't gettin' away with nothin'.

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