Ol' Chems there left a comment regarding Mormons, which got me to thinking about Jehovah's Witnesses, which got me to thinking about a conversation I had with G-man the other day about Googling* yourself. Do other people who show up in your Google searches share your name? Greg's got two online doppelgangers—what I like to think of as googlegangers. There's the football-playing Greg Stafford, the vocally anti-Jehovah's Witness Greg, and the cuddly, salad-fixin' game designer Greg. Nobody's ever mistaken my G-man for the jock, but at conventions people occasionally ask him what he's got against J-Dubs.
I've only got one googleganger, a Superior Court judge in Quebec. You'd probably guess, if you were looking for me, that I didn't move to Canada to study law. Too dang cold. But the other hits, the valid ones, might be just as puzzling to someone who knew me in high school, or hell, to the folks where I currently work.
So, you got any?
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*For those of you who like neologisms, I was in the back room of the Market St Safeway earlier this week and heard the inventory control clerk tell his minion to "big joe that stack of pallets." Big Joe is a make of hand-driven forklift. Now Big Joe, the brand, like Google, goes from being a noun to a verb. I love it.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Friday, November 25, 2005
The season's first bowl of jook—the chives, the sesame oil. So divine.
Three pies and a cake are two desserts too many.
Who'm I kidding? There can never be too many desserts.
The cat really digs meat fudge.
The line stretching down the block, in the rain, outside the Office Max at a quarter to seven this morning was just wrong. I happened to catch the light at the corner, so I rolled down the window and shouted, "What are you guys in line for?"
Some guy in a dark blue parka and no hat shouted back, "For whatever's on sale!"
Three pies and a cake are two desserts too many.
Who'm I kidding? There can never be too many desserts.
The cat really digs meat fudge.
The line stretching down the block, in the rain, outside the Office Max at a quarter to seven this morning was just wrong. I happened to catch the light at the corner, so I rolled down the window and shouted, "What are you guys in line for?"
Some guy in a dark blue parka and no hat shouted back, "For whatever's on sale!"
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Tomorrow was a holiday, and while everyone around him was bustling and running and sometimes screaming from the driver seat of their car, he was walking down a neighborhood street in the sunshine. His wife was doing all the cooking; all he had to do was fetch the few things she had forgotten or couldn't find during the big shopping expedition over the weekend. Even though it meant walking into Berkeley Bowl on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. It wasn't snowing, they weren't traveling, no family feuds to fret over. He didn't even have to pretend to like football as the only person who cared to watch the game would be in the kitchen. Just an easy day of playing with the kids and killing time until dinner.
He walked the long way home from the store with a bag of fruit in one hand, his groceries in the other, going down the street he usually saw the homeless people on, the panhandlers, the men and women with their milk crates and street sheets, the Reaganized insane. The down and out the university students and soccer moms bumped between on their daily rounds.
He saw a woman digging through a garbage can, real down-and-out-looking, dirty, disheveled. "Would you like an apple and a banana?"
She pulled her arm out of the trash but didn't reach for the fruit. "No thank you. I made a vow to only eat what I find in dumpsters." Her skin had the leathery look of long exposure to the elements.
He started to put the paper bag on top of the trash, but she interrupted him, "No, I won't take that."
"It all comes from Him." He still held the bag out. She didn't smell much.
She smiled but still shook her head no. "You can tell me where Trinity Church is. They give donuts out on Wednesday and I'd rather dumpster dive there than behind the donut shop."
He smiled. "I don't go to church–He doesn't live in churches."
"I know." Now she took her arm away from the garbage can and touched her chest. "He lives in the heart."
Didn't he know it. "Good luck to you, sister."
"Thank you. Any wisdom for me?"
He thought about all his time on the road, looking for nirvana and seeing the human condition, beautiful and ugly. The saved and the damned. About how he stopped and got out of that car one day and knew he was home. About his grand-baby and his children.
"Just remember, it all comes from Him."
She went back to digging through the trash as he turned and walked home.
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Sorry it sounds stilted, but I wrote it from notes. That one's true, and I love my husband for being that kind of man. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
He walked the long way home from the store with a bag of fruit in one hand, his groceries in the other, going down the street he usually saw the homeless people on, the panhandlers, the men and women with their milk crates and street sheets, the Reaganized insane. The down and out the university students and soccer moms bumped between on their daily rounds.
He saw a woman digging through a garbage can, real down-and-out-looking, dirty, disheveled. "Would you like an apple and a banana?"
She pulled her arm out of the trash but didn't reach for the fruit. "No thank you. I made a vow to only eat what I find in dumpsters." Her skin had the leathery look of long exposure to the elements.
He started to put the paper bag on top of the trash, but she interrupted him, "No, I won't take that."
"It all comes from Him." He still held the bag out. She didn't smell much.
She smiled but still shook her head no. "You can tell me where Trinity Church is. They give donuts out on Wednesday and I'd rather dumpster dive there than behind the donut shop."
He smiled. "I don't go to church–He doesn't live in churches."
"I know." Now she took her arm away from the garbage can and touched her chest. "He lives in the heart."
Didn't he know it. "Good luck to you, sister."
"Thank you. Any wisdom for me?"
He thought about all his time on the road, looking for nirvana and seeing the human condition, beautiful and ugly. The saved and the damned. About how he stopped and got out of that car one day and knew he was home. About his grand-baby and his children.
"Just remember, it all comes from Him."
She went back to digging through the trash as he turned and walked home.
---------------------
Sorry it sounds stilted, but I wrote it from notes. That one's true, and I love my husband for being that kind of man. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Blade Runner, contd.
"Hey, Sherlock. What theater are you in today?"
"Hey, Russ. Five. I am so tired of Chicken Little." Aimee pulled her head out of the storage cabinet, a Mormon family-size tub of mustard clutched to her chest. Russ was leaning over the counter looking down. She glanced down herself to make sure nothing was showing, then stood up.
"Oh, wow, that is so excellent!" Russ didn't move, and the couple behind him moved over to the self-serve candy display. He grinned at Aimee like a man who just found a vorpal sword, no traps. "Did you make those, or did you find them in a theater?"
Aimee gave her head a little shake. The two little water bombs she'd attached to ear wires bobbed wildly, silently, between her jaw and her hair. "We're experiencing a huge upsurge in Blade Runner leavings, right? So I figured we should take advantage of the last two days of the long weekend. Good idea, huh?" She shook her head again, grooving to her origami coup.
"It's effin' brilliant, Aimee." "I can trade with you if you want, and work theater five if you want to do concessions. He won't see your earrings if you're in the projection booth."
"Ugh, concessions. But yeah, sure. Anything for the investigation, right?" She put the mustard in the dispenser.
"So, hey, ah, speaking of investigations," Aimee looked back at Russ, who was now rocking back on his heels, holding onto the edge of the counter and studiously examining something on the ground by his feet. "We're–my roommates and I, Jeff and Dean and his girlfriend Carol–we're having a Basil Rathbone retrospective at our apartment Saturday night after work. If you wanted to come by that'd be cool." He was still looking at the floor. "We'll probably order a pizza."
Aimee smiled a crooked smile. "Wow, thanks, Russ. I know you take these retrospectives seriously. But usually when I'm off work I don't feel like watching a bunch of movies." She reached down for a tub of ketchup, and looked up into his face. "I guess it's another reason this job sucks. But thanks."
Russ's eyes darted briefly into contact with hers before slamming to the floor again. "Oh, hey, you know I just thought of you because I've been calling you Sherlock. Hey, some other time, maybe."
"Yeah, maybe some other time."
"I gotta go screen Doom." Russ swung away from the counter and hurried across the lobby. He tilted his head back and shouted, "Lemme know if you find him!"
"Hey, Sherlock. What theater are you in today?"
"Hey, Russ. Five. I am so tired of Chicken Little." Aimee pulled her head out of the storage cabinet, a Mormon family-size tub of mustard clutched to her chest. Russ was leaning over the counter looking down. She glanced down herself to make sure nothing was showing, then stood up.
"Oh, wow, that is so excellent!" Russ didn't move, and the couple behind him moved over to the self-serve candy display. He grinned at Aimee like a man who just found a vorpal sword, no traps. "Did you make those, or did you find them in a theater?"
Aimee gave her head a little shake. The two little water bombs she'd attached to ear wires bobbed wildly, silently, between her jaw and her hair. "We're experiencing a huge upsurge in Blade Runner leavings, right? So I figured we should take advantage of the last two days of the long weekend. Good idea, huh?" She shook her head again, grooving to her origami coup.
"It's effin' brilliant, Aimee." "I can trade with you if you want, and work theater five if you want to do concessions. He won't see your earrings if you're in the projection booth."
"Ugh, concessions. But yeah, sure. Anything for the investigation, right?" She put the mustard in the dispenser.
"So, hey, ah, speaking of investigations," Aimee looked back at Russ, who was now rocking back on his heels, holding onto the edge of the counter and studiously examining something on the ground by his feet. "We're–my roommates and I, Jeff and Dean and his girlfriend Carol–we're having a Basil Rathbone retrospective at our apartment Saturday night after work. If you wanted to come by that'd be cool." He was still looking at the floor. "We'll probably order a pizza."
Aimee smiled a crooked smile. "Wow, thanks, Russ. I know you take these retrospectives seriously. But usually when I'm off work I don't feel like watching a bunch of movies." She reached down for a tub of ketchup, and looked up into his face. "I guess it's another reason this job sucks. But thanks."
Russ's eyes darted briefly into contact with hers before slamming to the floor again. "Oh, hey, you know I just thought of you because I've been calling you Sherlock. Hey, some other time, maybe."
"Yeah, maybe some other time."
"I gotta go screen Doom." Russ swung away from the counter and hurried across the lobby. He tilted his head back and shouted, "Lemme know if you find him!"
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Blade Runner, contd.
She stood behind the counter, standing on one leg like the grumpy ponies on her aunt's farm, just waiting for someone to come within reach so she could bite their extended hand, hard. How could a job suck so hard? Her happy memories of trips to the big downtown theaters were turning rancid in her mind as she began to loathe the smell of butter-flavored topping mixed with the smell of industrial carpeting.
The doors down the hall banged open, the sound rolling through the nearly-empty lobby. A skinny streak in white and black rushed across the carpets toward her. She didn't move, only raising her eyes from the washrag she twirled on the glass countertop.
"Aimee, check it out!" Russ grabbed her hand off the rag, turned it over and placed a small paper figure in her upturned palm.
"Huh, a pinwheel. Mystery man's branching out."
Russ took the origami out of her hand and held it up, examining it in the buttery light. "Not a great job; I mean, it's pretty crooked, but I guess when you're making them out of pieces of receipts you can't expect precision perfection." He gave it a twirl between his pinched fingers. "How do you think I should display it? It won't stand up without me bending it, which I don't want to do, and if I lay it flat you won't be able to see it." He rested his butt against the counter as he pondered the line of origami cranes marching across the top of the popcorn maker.
"Give it here." Aimee held out her hand, knowing that Russ wouldn't pass up another opportunity to touch her hand in handing the pinwheel back to her. "Since it's not a crane, and since Blade Runner–we surmise–left this in place of the canoe I left on the seats this morning, I've got a better idea for displaying it." Now Aimee gave the crooked little pinwheel a spin.
"What have you got in mind, Miss Sherlock?"
"Oh, just taking our inquiry up a notch." She slipped the pinwheel into her uniform pocket. "Ugh, here they come. The 4:40 crowd. Ready?" Her voice was perky, but she didn't really smile. Russ gave her a goofy grin, though, and said he was ready. "For anything, Aimee."
She stood behind the counter, standing on one leg like the grumpy ponies on her aunt's farm, just waiting for someone to come within reach so she could bite their extended hand, hard. How could a job suck so hard? Her happy memories of trips to the big downtown theaters were turning rancid in her mind as she began to loathe the smell of butter-flavored topping mixed with the smell of industrial carpeting.
The doors down the hall banged open, the sound rolling through the nearly-empty lobby. A skinny streak in white and black rushed across the carpets toward her. She didn't move, only raising her eyes from the washrag she twirled on the glass countertop.
"Aimee, check it out!" Russ grabbed her hand off the rag, turned it over and placed a small paper figure in her upturned palm.
"Huh, a pinwheel. Mystery man's branching out."
Russ took the origami out of her hand and held it up, examining it in the buttery light. "Not a great job; I mean, it's pretty crooked, but I guess when you're making them out of pieces of receipts you can't expect precision perfection." He gave it a twirl between his pinched fingers. "How do you think I should display it? It won't stand up without me bending it, which I don't want to do, and if I lay it flat you won't be able to see it." He rested his butt against the counter as he pondered the line of origami cranes marching across the top of the popcorn maker.
"Give it here." Aimee held out her hand, knowing that Russ wouldn't pass up another opportunity to touch her hand in handing the pinwheel back to her. "Since it's not a crane, and since Blade Runner–we surmise–left this in place of the canoe I left on the seats this morning, I've got a better idea for displaying it." Now Aimee gave the crooked little pinwheel a spin.
"What have you got in mind, Miss Sherlock?"
"Oh, just taking our inquiry up a notch." She slipped the pinwheel into her uniform pocket. "Ugh, here they come. The 4:40 crowd. Ready?" Her voice was perky, but she didn't really smile. Russ gave her a goofy grin, though, and said he was ready. "For anything, Aimee."
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Suzanne or Bones?
I know some people don't like their name, but I have always loved mine. So French. So, for east LA, unusual. Even when I could never find a miniature license plate or key-chain fob or shotglass with my name on it whenever I was at Disneyland, I always liked being a Suzanne.
But now, here in this little corner of Blogland devoted to scratch fiction, enough Suzannes have congregated that people are confused as to who's posting what. Isn't that weird? Like finding three or four Maudes working as tellers at your local branch. Or three or four coworkers all into killifish.
So I'm going back to using my nickname, which I also love, and which came about because there were two too many Suzannes at a place I used to work.—Bones
But now, here in this little corner of Blogland devoted to scratch fiction, enough Suzannes have congregated that people are confused as to who's posting what. Isn't that weird? Like finding three or four Maudes working as tellers at your local branch. Or three or four coworkers all into killifish.
So I'm going back to using my nickname, which I also love, and which came about because there were two too many Suzannes at a place I used to work.—Bones
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