Chase? This Isn’t Manhattan.

In lieu of a real blog post today, I am going to use my lunch hour to go to Bank of America and open an account. Apparently, California has not discovered Chase, and that saddens me. I really like the blue atm card that Chase offers. It is a pleasing sight when the wallet is opened (although there is not often much money attached to said blue atm card). Anyway, I’m going to the bank.

 

 

The Nature of a Good Compromise…

…is that both side are equally dissatisfied. 

There has long been a joke about Martin Luther King’s eponymous avenues/streets/boulevards, across this great land, often being epicenters of gang violence and other negative social activity. Having driven about the megalopolis that is Los Angeles, I can safely apply this rule to any street named after a famous person. Even Buddy Holly has some nasty swath of asphalt running underneath the 101 at Cohuanga.

 

Last minute deliveries set us in the van at 7 PM last night, just in time to listen to the 21st/22nd/40th Democratic debate on NPR. I appreciate having listened to it on the radio if only because sight may have multiplied the revulsion I feel for both candidates at this point. I am so bored of watching Barack Obama, elite in every sense of the word, try to pretend he is some normal dude. Didn’t we elect a normal dude/idiot? He messed up real good.

 

I don’t see what is so wrong about electing someone who doesn’t bowl, but rather goes to law school. I like Hill drinking whisky, but Crown Royal? What ever happened to Jameson’s? I think Obama should give up on the racist, stupid white folk, move to California, get his Marijuana grower’s license, and win the popular vote on the back of stoner, non-voters. There are more than a few holes in this plan, but in this election, every plan looks like swiss cheese.

 

Thanks to some generous benefactors, I was able to put gas in Scott’s car this morning. It was $3.94/gal. Ouch. 

Stimulus or Bailout?

Although I do owe each a phone call, I’d like to thank my mother and grandmother for approving MY economic stimulus plan. In the current political climate, I don’t think anyone can blame a young brother for thinking he deserves a solid handout, paid for by nothing but what said brother perceives to be inherent charm and good will. I also look forward to the $600 from Uncle Sammy for which I have not even been required to be charming (I’m not pleased with the ultimate sentence of this paragraph).

 

And why are we in need of economic stimulus, you may be asking? Well, the downturn in the economy has really messed with my real estate investments. And I’ve been eating a lot. And I haven’t received what might be called a legitimate paycheck since before I graduated from college (June 07).

 

In four profound days, I have become an expert at eating while driving. Pizza, hamburgers, chicken, you name it, I can eat it while piloting the sketchy white van. In case anyone is keeping score, pizza is by far the favorite choice.

Do What You Gotta Do.

Writing from work. Apparently we have a slow day, which may be the undoing of me. See, in a job such as this one, constant action is required to create the illusion of some sort of worthwhile enterprise. My father would say that anything they pay you for is called work; he was also a representative of a generation who had reached drinking age by end of WWII. Sitting and doing nothing, even for $10/hr, begins to seem depressing. 

 

I seem to have developed some sort of thunderous cough, which yesterday was nothing more than a gentle hack. There is nothing like driving a sketchy white van on the 101, coughing every 22 seconds. As I write this, and listen to the conversations of “management” in the next room, I begin to see this business as something of a ship without a captain. More on this later, as details become more clear. As long as I can maintain the firing of at least 4 brain synapses, I should be alright.

 

This should be watched and enjoyed. It is a succinct history of the Pennsylvania primary from last night’s Colbert Report.

 

 

Drive Me Crazy.

An odd mid-workday post. I have been placed on the insurance at Capital Audio Rental, which means I can apply my significant driving talents to our delivery schedule. I was a little saddened to read Mr. Kristol’s piece this morning about Barack Obama in the NYT. I’m all about free speech and whatnot, but not when it comes to bashing people I personally like.

The Brotherhood of the Sketchy White Van.

There is a certain sense of camaraderie felt between men forced to drive around in sketchy white vans all day long. We drive the kind of van favored by serial killers and kidnappers the world over. Take for instance Gary Hilton, the guy who killed the hiker in Appalachia some time back. It surprises me not that he drove a sketchy white (Astro) van. I found this itemized list of stuff found in his car, and number 163 I find particularly disturbing.

 

Our day got really long yesterday. Christina Milian, a songstress of questionable talent, was having serious trouble with a rented G5. So we sat around the studio for a few hours, watching a real tech guy work, and drinking water. Overtime is a beautiful thing. We have to work early today, so we need to get going. Sepulveda, 101, 134, Burbank. Not too much traffic when you work at 10/11 AM. 

The Dignity of Labor.

 

In about an hour, I will begin applying my two degrees and considerable brawn to a new job; hopefully there is nothing over eighty pounds to be carried solo. I am starting work at Capitol Audio Rental in Burbank. Jay’s brother (Scott) and I will be delivering fancy new audio equipment to various studios in town. Apparently this is a constant transaction, as it merits two full-time delivery people.

 

After not holding what many may (not) call “actual employment” for some time, I am excited at the prospect of nine hours of the day disappearing. Kudos to Papa, master of the sedentary lifestyle, for not going crazy every single day. I have learned in the last month that I cannot be left alone with my thoughts for longer than twenty minutes.

 

I sat next to a violinist named Chelsea on the plane to LAX yesterday. After some conversation, I ventured to ask whether the strange contortion of the neck (to place chin on violin) required, keeping the instrument in place, ever left her real sore. She took that as “all violinists look stupid while playing.” I spent the next thirty minutes claiming a love for the violin I do not really hold. I don’t think she likes me very much.