What is Real?

I Bought Some Hot Pockets: The Life Cycle of a Plastic Bag

Posted on May 3, 2011 by Hal

After a night of storms the sun rose bright on the lush fern forest. The sun’s rays streaked 93 million miles to reach a fern growing on the shores of a shallow lake. The fern used the energy to grow a bit more, just like it had every day of its life. But this morning its roots were in trouble. The heavy rains the night before had flooded the lake shore and loosened the soil. By mid-afternoon the water had saturated the soil and the fern tipped and fell, sliding into the lake. The fern was not alone and later in the day several other ferns fell into the lake, some landing on top of our fern.

The next day it rained again, with raining continuing the rest of the week. The rain drained into the lake, bringing dirt and silt. By the end of the week our fern was completely covered.

Over the next 150 million years more silt landed on our fern, pushing it to the bottom of the lake bed. As the millennia passed, earthquakes and volcanoes shifted the lake bed, pushing it deeper and deeper underground. Eventually, heat and pressure turned our fern into a mushy sludge and finally, oil.

About 15 years ago, the drill from an oil rig reached the oil deposit where what had been our fern now lay, almost 7,000 feet below the sands of the Arabian peninsula. A couple years ago it pumped up the oil that had been our fern.

The crude oil was pumped into a tanker truck and transported a few hundred miles across the desert to the coast where it was pumped into a containment tank. After a couple months it was pumped into a super tanker and began its sea voyage to China.
After traveling 4,000 miles it arrived in China and was pumped into another containment tank. A few weeks later it was pumped into a tanker truck and driven several hundred miles to a refinery. At the refinery it was broken down into the raw materials that make up plastic.

The raw materials that was our fern were pumped into another tanker truck and transported several hundred miles to a factory that took the raw materials and turned them into plastic. This turned the remains of our fern into a plastic bag. The factory dyed the bags white and printed them with “Thank You For Buying Stuff” in red letters. The bags were boxed up, placed on a truck, and transported several hundred miles back to the port.

The boxes of bags were placed on a container ship and transported 6,000 miles across the Pacific Ocean to the port in California, where the containers were removed. The boxes of plastic bags were put on a freight train and sent 3,000 miles across the southern half of the US to a distribution warehouse outside Atlanta, Georgia.

Three weeks ago a single box of 1,000 bags were placed in a delivery truck and transported 500 miles up the East Coast to Potomac Village, Virginia, where it was delivered to the Seven Comes Eleven convenience store.

This morning I got up and discovered that we were out of Hot Pockets. So I walked the four blocks down to Monticello Avenue, to the Seven Comes Eleven, and bought two boxes of Hot Pockets. Julio placed the boxes of the frozen perfection in the plastic bag that had once been our fern and handed it to me. I walked the four blocks home and put one of the boxes of Hot Pockets into the freezer. The other I opened and heated up for breakfast.

I try to remember to recycle, but the recycling box is full, and I can never remember if Potomac Village recycles plastic bags. And I’m feeling lazy. So I toss the plastic bag into the trash.

Next Tuesday I’ll put out the trash and on Wednesday morning a garbage truck from Potomac Village will pick up our trash with the plastic bag in it. They will transport it about eight miles to the transfer station off Reagan Blvd.

A few days after that the trash with our plastic bag in it will be scooped up by a huge bulldozer and pushed into a tractor trailer where it will be travel about 25 miles to a landfill that Potomac Village, along with many other communities in the suburbs of Washington DC, contract with to take our trash.

The tractor trailer will dump the trash with our plastic bag into the landfill. If our bag blows away and lands in a river and then washes into the Atlantic Ocean. It will join with other plastic debris in one of the trash islands where it will float around for 1,000 years or more until heat and the sun’s ultraviolet rays break the plastic down into tiny granules.

If our bag is buried under other trash in the landfill, it will slowly sink into the landfill. In about 30 years the landfill will reach its capacity and the company that operates it will cap it. Our plastic bag will remain in the landfill and not break down because the artificial conditions in the landfill do not allow water or other natural processes to occur.

In several thousand years an earthquake will crack the landfill, allowing water and microbes to enter it. After another few thousand years sunlight will reach our plastic bag and begin to degrade it. Eventually it will return to the earth.

This may sound like a lot of time, distance, and energy, but my Hot Pockets did not fall out of that bag once in the ten minutes I was using it. And the Hot Pockets were really tasty. I love Hot Pockets.

Posted in Hal, Hal's Mom's House, Monticello Avenue | Tagged business, Hal, Hal's Mom's House, Monticello Avenue, natural resources, recycling | Leave a comment

How to Save Polaroid: Make Instant Cameras

Posted on April 25, 2011 by Hal

Some of these topics are so obvious I shouldn’t even have to explain them. But I guess I do.

OK, first, forget about Polaroid and close your eyes. OK, don’t close your eyes because you have to read this. But, in your mind’s eye, imagine you are out with your friends. And you have a digital camera with you. And you’re goofing around or whatever and taking pictures of it. (I don’t actually do things like this, but I understand people do.)

And then you ask some stranger to take the picture of the four of you standing in front of the Washington Monument, or the Jefferson Memorial. And she hands it back to you and it’s a great picture and you all love it and want a copy.

So, you press a button and the camera instantly prints a copy. You press it again and then a third time and hand the photos to your three friends. Instant gratification, it’s what this generation is all about.

Then you spend the rest of the day taking pictures and printing off copies for the friends who want them.

Sure, when you get home you can download the digital images from the camera to your computer and upload them to Facebook or to a Website that will print all of them, or whatever. But the friends you were with already have copies. Wouldn’t that be awesome?

I’m no marketing genius, as you all know, and it’s probably clear because this blog is so obscure that almost no one reads it, but I know people want to easily print pictures they take with their digital cameras. Because all the printer companies are trying to make tiny, mobile printers.

Go look on Amazon or wherever and you’ll see they all keep trying to make one that is easy to use, connects to any camera, and is basically idiot proof. In fact, most people want to make prints. But we forget or don’t get around to it. If only we had a way to do it instantly. Well, why not go one step further and let your camera also be the printer?

I know, this sounds like a revolutionary product, and yet it was invented in 1947 and it was called the Polaroid Land Camera. I have no idea why the geniuses that came up with such an amazing invention back in the technological dark ages of the 1940s thought the advent of digital cameras would mean people wouldn’t want to instantly print their pictures.

Or imagine if the iPad had a printer that allowed you to have instant prints of any image you wanted, including stuff you found on the Internets, but most importantly, any pictures you took. If Apple had added not just a camera but a printer to the iPad 2 imagine how amazing that would be.

1947 people. Polaroid, I’m telling you. They already did it. And they should do it again.

I guess money is on my mind today because I don’t have any. I mean, I have about 19 dollars in my checking account. I think. I’ve been avoiding the ATM lately, meaning for months. The Green Grocer isn’t really making any money yet, so I’m not getting much of an income. And my mom expects me to help pay for food and stuff. (I mostly eat Hot Pockets, but she expects an actual meal now and then.) It’s a real struggle.

I get so annoyed that these giant corporations with so many resources keep doing such stupid things. If I had the patent on an instant camera my checking account would be bursting with money. Instead, I just have all these awesome ideas and no one listens to me. Even when I put them out on the Internet for free.

Even this stupid idea of closing the libraries to save money. How is that going to help Potomac Village in the long run? Reggie, and a lot of conservatives, seem to think it’s socialist to loan people books. I used to loan my friends my CDs, did that make me a socialist? We need to do something about this. I keep blogging about it, but no one listens. I wanted to stay in and comment on other people’s blogs all day, like I used to do. But Candace said I have to work if I want to get paid. What a poseur. She just doesn’t get how important this is.

So instead of doing something constructive, like ridiculing people on Redmeat Conservatives, I’m trying to advertise about the Green Grocer.

Since my grandfather refuses to spend money on advertising, Candace made a flyer herself. She had me write the copy, since I’m a writer. It’s got the words Green Grocer Internet Cafe at the top, then a bulleted list that says, “Internet. Email. Online Shopping. Instant Messaging. Facebook.” And then our address at the bottom.

This is the writing I get paid for.

Zoe and I met up with Neil after he got off work and we went into the apartment complex behind the Green Grocer. It’s right on The Mont and stretches back for several blocks. I guess it was built to house government workers during and immediately after World War Two. It’s all two and three brick story buildings and looks like a college campus or something.

And just like a dorm, we got in through a propped open door, and discovered that the halls go on forever, and every once in a while there’s a bulletin board. We forget to bring thumbtacks or tape or anything, so we just put it over the other papers.

We’d been putting up flyers and talking about video games for a while when Zoe said he had to go home.

“Why?” I asked.

“I have to use the bathroom,” he said.

“We just passed a men’s room,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Zoe. “I usually go at home.”

“Then it’s time for your next lesson,” said Neil. “Using the men’s room.”

“I’d rather not,” said Zoe, looking around. We were the only ones in the hallway.

“I agree with Zoe,” I said. “I actually downloaded a restroom simulation. I thought we could start with that.”

“A restroom simulation?” asked Neil.

“Yeah, it’s just like a real restroom, and you have to negotiate the urinals and stalls and everything.”

“That’s stupid,” said Neil.

“Well, they have men’s rooms and lady’s rooms in Second Life,” I said. “We could log into that, get Zoe an avatar, and find a men’s room.”

“Avatar’s are virtual,” said Neil, “they don’t need to eliminate.”

“I know,” I said, “but Second Life is full of restrooms. People just love using them, real or fake.”

“OK, neither of you are making any sense,” said Zoe.

“Second Life is a virtual, online world where you—” I tried to say, but Neil cut me off.

“We are all going in,” said Neil. “Hal and I will go in first, then you come in. Then we’ll evaluate how it went.”

“Evaluate?” said Zoe.

But Neil was already heading back down the hall. “I don’t actually have to go,” I said.

“Neither do I,” said Neil, “this is for educational purposes.”

“Well I do!” said Zoe.

Neil went into the men’s room first. “You’re going to be fine,” I said to Zoe. “If anyone else is in there I”ll come right back out.” Zoe looked unsure. I went in.

There were three sinks, then a row of five urinals. Opposite the urinals were three stalls. Neil was at the urinal at the far end of the room. I bent down and checked under the stall doors. They were all empty. I picked the urinal next the sinks. That put three urinals between Neil and I. A moment later Zoe entered.

As Zoe walked toward the stalls he said, “Hey guys.”

Neil and I stared at each other, then turned and headed over to Zoe. I grabbed one arm and Neil grabbed the other and we dragged him out. Zoe looked shocked and terrified as we got him safely down the hall.

“What was that?” asked Zoe.

“Exactly,” said Neil. “What was that?”

“I, what?” said Zoe.

“We had to get you out of there,” said Neil. “If you go saying something like to real guys, do you know what could happen?”

“What do you mean real guys?” I asked. “What are we?”

“What did I do wrong?” asked Zoe. “I didn’t even have time to do anything.”

“You talked to us,” said Neil. “And attempted to make eye contact.”

“That’s wrong?” said Zoe.

“If you speak with a guy in a men’s room it could mean you’re looking for a gay relationship,” I said.

“Gay relationship?” asked Zoe.

“You know what I mean,” I said. “I have to keep it clean; this is a family blog.”

“Then let’s just say hookup,” said Neil.

“Women talk to each other all the time in the lady’s room,” Zoe said.

“That’s because there are no men around, so they feel safe,” said Neil. “But in the men’s room there are only men around. Which means it’s totally not safe.”

“OK,” I said, “these are the things you don’t do in a men’s room. You don’t talk to anyone.”

“But why?” asked Zoe.

“The guys might think you’re looking to hook up,” said Neil.

“You don’t make eye contact,” I said.

“The guys might think you’re looking to hook up,” said Neil.

“You don’t even acknowledge anyone is even in there besides you,” I said.

“The guys might think you’re looking to hook up,” said Neil.

“If you’re at the urinal, you get as far from the other guys as possible,” I said.

“If you get too close to a guy he might think you’re looking to hook up,” said Neil.

“And you never look at another guy when he’s at the urinal,” I said.

“He might think you’re looking to hook up,” said Neil.

“Or you’re going to attack him,” I said.

“But why?” asked Zoe.

“When a man has his pants down he’s at his most vulnerable,” said Neil.

“Or when he has his thing out,” I said.

“Really?” said Neil, “his thing?”

“I keep telling, you this is a family blog!” I turned to Zoe, “It’s all ‘flight or fight’ in there.”

“OK, OK,” said Zoe, “but have either of you been attacked in a men’s room?”

“Oh sure,” I said.

“We got beat up all the time in middle school,” said Neil. “So we learned to hold it.”

“Or find bathrooms the bullies didn’t know about,” I said. “Like down in the sub-basement.”

Zoe looked like he was taking it all in, trying to understand it. “It’s just that women talk to each other, bond, share.”

“They have couches in there too,” said Neil. “Not the men’s room. It’s like some HBO show in there, like the Sopranos, or the Wire, or Oz. Kill or be killed.”

“Only the strong survive,” I said. “Only the weak eliminate.”

“OK, OK,” said Zoe, “but what if you are gay. I mean, you know, theoretically.”

Neil and I looked at each other. “Well,” said Neil. “If you, or someone, is gay, you don’t want to be looking for relationships in men’s rooms.”

Zoe was now dancing back and forth from one foot to the other. “OK, OK,” he said. “I just really have to go.”

“Then let’s do another test,” said Neil.

“No, I really can’t wait, or listen, or god, I have to go!”

“We’ll watch the door,” I said.

“Thanks,” said Zoe, as he ran into the men’s room.

“Most people seem to think being a guy is so easy,” said Neil.

“It’s confusing and bewildering for all of us,” I said.

Posted in Hal, Monticello Avenue, Neil, Zoe | Tagged Hal, Monticello Avenue, Neil, technology, Zoe | Leave a comment

The Truth About Conservatives: They Want To Regulate Personal Behavior

Posted on April 18, 2011 by Hal

Conservatives may claim they believe in states’ rights and oppose government regulation. Actually, they love regulation, as long as it regulates personal behavior.

Regulating corporate behavior to protect consumers, for example, is somehow unconstitutional in their worldview, but personal behavior, like who you marry and who you start a family with, they want to regulate.

Don’t believe me? Think they just want to cut government programs so we can have a balanced budget? Then how come Congress just banned Washington DC from spending its own money (not federal money) on abortion? The budget deal also forces DC to revive a private-school voucher program that the city had ended. The conservatives also tried to ban needle exchange programs that help curb the spread of HIV and other infectious diseases.

Seems like the Grand Old Party of the Republic believes in states’ rights only when it’s for a conservative cause, like gun control.

Think this is just about abortion? Au contraire, conservatives love to tell individuals how to live their lives. Let’s not forget the tragic case of Terri Schiavo, when Congress passed a law that applied to one person in an attempt to settle a dispute between family members. Is that what you want? Congress stepping into your life and making decisions for you?

And it’s not just on the federal level. Conservatives have been busy setting up family councils all around the country. Family councils that want to pass laws that make it illegal for you to choose your own husband or wife. Yes, that’s the conservative agenda, family councils to regulate personal behavior. Sounds pretty un-American to me.

How would you feel if, when you wanted to adopt a child, the conservatives convened a family council to decide if they would allow it? Or imagine if, when you found the love of your life, you had to petition a family council for approval to get married?

And it’s not just about homosexuality. The family council in Arkansas has been working to stop straight couples from adopting children if they aren’t married.

So there you go, conservatives love regulation.

I was at work, thinking about all the freedoms conservatives want to take away from me and not paying much attention to what Candace was talking about. Zoe and my Gramps were also there. Besides us, there were two customers; a guy on one of the computers and a woman studying.

“Don’t you think Hal?” asked Candace. I nodded in agreement, wondering what she was talking about. She turned a page in her book and glanced at her notes. “So, as you can see, well, you can’t see because I don’t have any slides and I’m not projecting this.”

She took a deep breath. “So, as I have explained, advertising is not about selling a product; it’s about selling a lifestyle. When you see someone driving an expensive sports car, it’s not the car they are selling, it’s the idea that you can be a successful person, just like the person driving the expensive car.”

“Sounds kind of subversive,” said Zoe. “Like you are selling them a dream or something.”

“The American dream,” said Candace. “Exactly.”

“Bah, advertising,” said Gramps. “In my day not everything needed a hawker out on the street yelling about how great it was.”

“Didn’t you grow up in the golden age of advertising?” I asked, even though I’m pretty sure there is no such thing as the golden age of advertising.

“When I was little they just had stuff in the store and if you needed it you went and bought it,” said Gramps.

“Times have changed,” said Candace. “Most people have everything they need.”

“So this is how you sell stuff to people that they don’t need,” said Zoe. “I get it now.”

“Well, that’s not really what I meant,” said Candace.

“But people need access to Internets,” said Gramps. “That’s what you told me.”

“They do,” I said.

“I don’t think we need slick, lifestyle advertising,” said Zoe. “I think we just need to let them know we are here.”

Before Candace could respond Reggie walked in. “Good afternoon,” he said, walking up to us. “Your finest latte, please.”

“It’s just coffee,” I said.

“Just coffee?” repeated Reggie.

“We don’t have an espresso machine, so no lattes or cappuccinos or anything like that.”

“Then your finest coffee.”

“We just have regular or decaf,” I said.

“No decaf today,” said Zoe, “we’re out.”

“Fascinating business plan,” said Reggie. “Then just a regular coffee. It is a day to celebrate.”

Zoe poured the coffee and I bit, “What are we celebrating?”

“Potomac Village is broke,” said Reggie.

“Hardly seems like a reason to celebrate,” I said.

“And they’re not broke,” said my grandfather. “It was in the paper, they just need to make some cutbacks. The mayor says we’ll be fine.”

“The mayor is an idiot,” said Reggie. “He thinks he can solve our budget crisis by cutting a bit here and a bit there. But it won’t work. The whole city government is going under.”

“How can you be so sure?” I asked.

“Well, nothing is a sure thing,” said Reggie. “But things are looking bleak for the government of our fair city. They just voted to close the public libraries.”

“The libraries canceled Internet service a while ago,” I said.

“Not just the Internet,” said Reggie. “Everything. The main building and the few branches left are closing.”

“How will people get books?” asked Candace.

“Oh, there’s some plan where you can use your library card at the high school or middle school,” said Reggie. “But really, that’s what book stores are for. The public library system has always been anti-American.”

“Anti-American?” said my grandfather. “People sharing things with each other? How is that anti-American?”

“Why should my money go to helping some poor person who can’t afford to buy a book?” asked Reggie. “It’s socialism.”

“Actually socialism is a political system where—” I said.

“Oh Hal, this isn’t your blog,” said Reggie. “This is the real world. And we all know that our forefathers didn’t leave the shores of their socialist European economies to come to America and have the government give their money to the poor.”

“Most of our forefathers, and foremothers, were poor when they got here,” I said.

“Yes,” said Reggie, “and they got jobs and worked hard.”

“And most of them left in the last century, when Europe was mostly monarchies,” I said. “Europe moved to more socialist policies in an effort to keep the population from leaving.”

“Such fairy stories you like to tell,” said Reggie, sipping his coffee. “I am telling you good news. All of our taxes are going to go down.”

“We do pay too much in taxes,” said my grandfather.

Reggie smiled, “Of course we do. And with each cut to the government, there’s less of a reason to tax you. This week, libraries. Next week, who knows.”

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” said Candace.

“What do you mean?” said Reggie. “You told me yourself your business is cashing in on the libraries closing their Internet services. Maybe you could start renting books.”

“Renting books?” I asked.

“Sure,” said Reggie, “why not? Let the free market provide. You buy the books and rent them for a small fee. If the book gets rented often enough it will pay for itself and give you a profit.”

“What about books that aren’t popular?” asked Zoe.

“You’d get rid of those to maximize your profits,” said Reggie.

“So we’d only have bestsellers,” said Zoe.

“That’s how business works,” said Reggie.

“But what if there are books that are important,” asked Zoe. “Important to the people who read them, even if it’s not that many.”

“Well, if you want to subsidize unpopular books with the popular ones that’s your choice,” said Reggie. “But it will cut into your profit margin. You’ll need to make sure you have plenty of best renters if you’re going to carry a lot of unpopular works.”

“Why are you giving us so much advice?” asked Candace. “I thought you were out to ruin us.”

Reggie looked at our two customers and took another sip of coffee. “It’s true, this is prime real estate and it’s very underutilized. I could make so much of this. But, I don’t think I need to work that hard to destroy your business. The free market will do that for me. The free market and your incompetence.”

“We’re not going to fail,” said Candace. I was unconvinced by her statement. In fact, her tone of voice made me wonder if she believed it. “I’m going to make this place a success. I’m going to be a success.”

Reggie stared at her as he took another sip. “I suppose anything is possible. Even after so many failures, success might still be in your grasp. But I doubt it. A tiger doesn’t change its spots.”

“That’s stripes,” I said. “Cheetahs have spots.”

“Yes, that’s the important part of what I’m saying,” said Reggie. “Besides, this is positive for all of us. Maybe with the government going under and our taxes going down, you’ll need smaller and smaller profits to be successful. And you might be able to support your amazing staff.”

“We’re going to get this place packed,” said Candace. “All of the time. Or, at least, some of the time.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Reggie. He finished his coffee. “As a successful businessman I do have the ear of the mayor. I am wondering what I should suggest he cut next. Maybe the parks department.”

“I lived in the libraries for a few days when I was homeless,” said Zoe defiantly.

“And many people use the libraries to dump their kids while they are working,” said Reggie. “But that’s not what they were meant for. I’m sure the free market will provide.”

“But I couldn’t afford anything then,” said Zoe.

“And look at you now, you got a job,” said Reggie. He put down his cup and headed to the door. “Just think, if this continues, maybe the entire city government will just, vanish.”

“That’d be awful,” said Gramps.

“Or paradise,” said Reggie, and he left.

“We’re going to have to come up with some ways to get more customers,” said Candace.

“I think we need to figure out how to save our city government,” I said.

“Let’s focus on saving ourselves first,” said Gramps.

Zoe nodded in agreement. I had a bad feeling about all of this.

Posted in Candace Kaine, Hal, Hal's grandfather, Reggie Wiggly, The Green Grocer, Zoe | Tagged adoption, business, Candace Kaine, Congress, conservatives, education, Grand Old Party of the Republic, Hal, Hal's grandfather, libraries, marriage, Reggie Wiggly, taxes, Zoe | Leave a comment

The Truth About Covert: Its Meaning Has Changed

Posted on April 4, 2011 by Hal

Yes, I’m talking about Libya this week. What do I know about Middle East politics? Nothing. But that isn’t stopping any of my fellow bloggers, so why should I let it stop me?

Well here’s what I do know, things keep getting weirder and weirder. Now the whole world is discussing if we should be conducting covert operations. In fact, ex-governor of New Mexico and former US ambassador to the U.N. Bill Richardson said we should “covertly arm the rebels.”

He’s not alone in his bizarre use of the term covert. Senator Marco Rubio (R-Fla.) said, “I think that the United States has plenty of capabilities, both covert and overt, to help along this process of getting rid of Muammar Gaddafi.”

There are even reports that Obama has authorized covert operations in Libya. While others report that Britain and America already have covert operatives in country.

Actually, it’s not covert if everyone knows about it.

The dictionary defines covert as, “Not openly acknowledged or displayed” with the example, “covert operations against the dictatorship.” I guess covert operations and dictators go hand in hand. (Weirdly enough, the second definition is, “Married and under the authority and protection of her husband.” Oh, words.)

But words do have meaning, and all this covert talk dilutes the meaning of covert. How can Obama have a covert war if we all know about it? It’s definitionaly impossible.

Take Ronald Reagan, since the Grand Old Party of the Republic holds him up as the great conservative president. His administration knew how to conduct covert operations. Back in 1986 they sold arms to Iran in an attempt to secure the release of hostages held by Hezbollah. Then they used the money from the arms sales to buy weapons and send them to the rebels in Nicaragua, which Congress had prohibited. Now that was a covert operation!

But no, the Obama administration steps up and says they have sent in CIA operatives.

How is this a covert operation? They could learn a lot about getting around the will of Congress and conducting illegal wars from the Reagan administration.

I was thinking about covert and overt actions when Neil and I decided to help teach Zoe about being a guy. We were all sitting on the couch in my room, playing video games, when he told us he was transgendered. After he told us he seemed pretty unhappy and told us he needed to go to the bathroom. I think because he needed a break from talking, but Neil was ready with his first lesson.

“Why are you going to the bathroom?” asked Neil.

Zoe looked confused, “Do I need a reason?”

“Guys always announce why they are going to the bathroom,” said Neil. “It’s not enough to just say you have to use it, you have to say why. And preferably use some weird euphemism, like dropping the kids off at the pool.”

“But that’s really disgusting,” said Zoe.

“It is,” said Neil, “but guys are disgusting.”

“It’s true,” I said. “I can barely stand them.”

“None of us can really,” said Neil. “But what can you do? Guys are the dominant gender, which apparently means they can be as disgusting as they want.”

“And farting,” I said.

“Guys do seem to fart a lot,” said Zoe. “Is it the testosterone?”

“Actually, they think it’s funny,” I said. “Fart, fart, fart, ha ha ha.”

“I have noticed most guys seem to make jokes about them,” said Zoe.

“OK,” said Neil, “your first lesson in being a guy, you need to fart for us.”

“That’s nasty,” said Zoe.

“None of us will enjoy this,” said Neil.

“After you fart we have to pretend like it’s really funny,” I said.

“Are you serious?” Zoe asked.

“Actually, the world’s oldest joke has recently been discovered to be about farts,” I said. “It’s from 1,900 BC. I have the reference here somewhere.”

“Hal, you don’t need to provide a link for everything,” said Neil.

“Fine,” I said. [But you do have to provide references, or else your just saying stuff. So here’s the reference for you at the BBC.]

Zoe looked at us suspiciously. “Do the two of you fart for each other?”

“Us? No,” said Neil. “We are different kinds of guys.”

“We don’t really fit in,” I said.

“Some would say we aren’t real guys,” said Neil.

“Who’d say that?” asked Zoe.

“Most of the guys we knew in high school,” I said.

“And middle school,” said Neil.

“And elementary school,” I added.

“But you are obviously guys,” said Zoe.

“We don’t fart enough,” said Neil.

“You can’t make me fart,” said Zoe.

“That’s true,” said Neil, “you have to want it.”

“Do it for yourself,” I said, and suddenly we were all laughing.

“OK, OK,” I said finally, “none of us want your stinky farts stinky up my room anyway.”

“Thank god,” said Zoe.

“Maybe just burp,” said Neil.

“No,” said Zoe, “burps too?”

“Guys are obsessed with air escaping the body,” said Neil.

“Whoopee cushions, armpit farts, it’s all hilarious,” I said.

“Armpit farts?” asked Zoe.

“Where you make a fart sound by putting your hand in your armpit,” said Neil.

“Oh, I’ve seen guys do that,” said Zoe. “I thought it was stupid.”

“It is stupid,” I said.

“But we’d be remiss if we didn’t cover this important topic,” I said.

“If you aren’t going to fart you at least need to laugh when someone else farts,” said Neil. “And you need to know how to talk about them.”

“Really?” said Zoe.

“There are many kinds of farts,” said Neil. “Apparently guys love to categorize them.”

“That’s weird,” said Zoe.

“It’s a weird, weird world you are entering,” I said.

“SBL,” said Neil.

“Huh?” asked Zoe.

“Silent but deadly,” I said.

“It’s a type of fart,” said Neil.

“You guys weren’t kidding,” said Zoe.

“No,” said Neil, “guys take their fart humor very seriously.”

“Dutch oven,” I said.

“What is that?” Zoe asked.

“When you fart under the sheets or in a sleeping bag,” said Neil.

“Why do they call it that?” asked Zoe.

“It’s because the fart is a hot gas that heats up the oven of the bed,” I said. “I assume. I mean, no one has ever explained it to us.”

“OK,” said Zoe, “SBL and Dutch oven. What others?”

Neil and I looked at each other, “I don’t know,” I said. “But there are probably more.”

“Well, that’s easy enough to remember,” said Zoe. “But I’m not sure I’ll ever find farts all that funny.”

“Just smile when someone makes a fart joke,” said Neil. “That should be enough to keep you from getting beat up.”

“Or accused of not being a guy,” I said.

“Have you been accused of not being a guy?” asked Zoe.

“Oh yeah,” said Neil, “all the time.”

“Part of being a guy involves trying to determine how much of a guy other guys are,” I said.

“And then comparing yourself to them, so you know where you stand,” said Neil.

“Guys do seem to do a lot of comparing,” said Zoe, “and trying to figure out who’s the best at something.”

“Actually, guys aren’t all trying to be the best at stuff,” I said. “It’s my observation that they are trying to determine where in the hierarchy everyone falls.”

“You could be the best, or the worst, or the most middling about something, doesn’t really matter,” said Neil. “What matters is that you know where you land in relation to all the other guys.”

“I thought guys were always trying to be the best at everything, to impress girls or something,” said Zoe.

“Hold on there fella,” said Neil. “We aren’t ready to talk about girls.”

“Guys with other guys just need to know where they stand,” I said. “Who’s tallest and shortest, fattest and skinniest, smartest and dumbest, best singer and worst, best with the ladies and worst, handsomest and ugliest.”

“But why?” asked Zoe.

“Being a guy is a mystery,” I said.

“And hard,” said Neil. “After all, we die about seven years before women.”

“It’s the stress of being a guy,” I said. “We’re all insecure. Totally unsure if we are manly enough. It eats us alive.”

“Until we have a heart attack,” said Neil.

“How manly is manly enough?” said Zoe.

“No one knows,” I said.

“It’s a mystery to all men,” said Neil. “That’s why it’s so stressful. We have to constantly compare ourselves to a standard we neither know nor understand.”

“That sounds awful,” said Zoe.

I put my arm around Zoe. “It is my friend, it is,” I said.

“But at least we have each other,” said Neil.

Zoe smiled.

Posted in Hal, Hal's Mom's House, Neil, Zoe | Tagged conservatives, gender, Grand Old Party of the Republic, Hal, Hal's Mom's House, international politics, Neil, Obama, Reagan, transgender, war, Zoe | Leave a comment

The Truth About iPads: The Criticism is Sexist

Posted on March 28, 2011 by Hal

Earlier this month, Apple released the iPad 2. They claim it is a big improvement. It weighs less, it’s thinner, and it’s whiter than the original. Way to reinforce the dominant paradigm.

A year ago, when the iPad first came out, one line of criticism was that there are only so many things people are willing to carry everywhere they go. They have their cell phone, a music player, and maybe they have something else, like a camera or GPS.

First of all, before I get to how sexist this is, it’s also historist. I mean, people ignoring history. How many things did someone carry in the 1950s to work? Keys, wallet, pack of cigarettes. Um, anything else in your pockets?

So suddenly there is some golden rule of the number of gagets people will stick in their pockets. I have no idea where this theory came from, or what research or experiential experiences back it up. But it’s also sexist.

Have you opened a woman’s purse lately? Three things? Many women pack their purses like they are going on a three week march in the desert. Phone, camera, make up, more make up, notebook, pencils, pens, small gifts to give to the natives, bottled water, snack bars, candy, tampons, condoms, pregnancy tests, hair brush, some more make up, little do-dads that hang off the cell phone but broke so they just ride around in the purse, sunglasses, reading glasses, contact lens case, contact lens solutions, pain reliever, allergy meds, band aids. I could go on by my blog host only gives me so much bandwidth.

I think I’ve made my point. In the typical woman’s purse, the addition of one more item would barely be noticed. So saying there’s a limit to how many gadgets people will carry is really saying there’s a limit to how many things guys will carry.

Hence, it’s sexist.

I couldn’t find any links for this post. I know people were saying this last year. Seems like the criticism of the iPad this year is changed. I know, it’s a fast moving world. Thankfully, you have me to help you keep up.

It’s the same with video games. They keep coming out with sequels faster than you can play the original. I swear, sometimes they call a game a sequel when there was no original.

The other night we were trying to remember if we’d played the original of the game Neil brought over, Call of Killing: Modern Killing III: The Rekilling II: Kill Kill Kill. (Surprisingly, it did not have as much killing as we’d hoped.) And given the name, I’m not even sure what the original would have been named.

Even so, the game was fun. But we had to show Zoe how to use the controller. He said he’d never used an Xbox before. He is a strange boy. He doesn’t seem to understand a lot of things. I’d invited him over because I figured it must get lonely living alone in my grandfather’s building. Also, we’d been working together for a while but I still didn’t know him very well. It seemed like the kind of thing a manager would do. Team building or something. Maybe, I don’t know, I’m not a manager. (Whatever, Gramps!)

Neil, Zoe, and I were sitting on the couch in my room, staring at the big screen. It did feel a bit weird playing a video game with people in the same room as me. Kind of reminded me of middle school.

Zoe kept getting killed

“Dude,” said Neil, “you’ve really never played video games?”

Zoe looked a bit embarrassed, “Not really.”

“Kind of blowing my mind,” said Neil. “You must be the first dude I’ve met who didn’t grow up on a constant diet of video games.”

“Did you play outside?” I asked, and Neil and I both laughed. I know people who played outside as kids, I just never trust them.

“Yeah, sometimes,” he said, like he didn’t want to talk about it.

Neil kept laughing but it seemed kind of mean. “Hey,” I said, “it’s cool. So you didn’t play video games.”

“And I suck at this,” he said. “I’ll see you later.” He got up to leave.

“Hey dude,” said Neil, “I was just joking. Nothing personal.”

“I got stuff to do anyway,” said Zoe, still standing. I could tell he was upset.

“Stay,” I said, “we’ll try the level again. It’s more fun with you here.”

Zoe sat down but didn’t say anything. Neil restarted the level. Neil is a great guy, but he often misses the subtleties of human emotion. He’s better at stuff like remembering the name of every character on Star Trek: The Next Generation. “Don’t mind us, that’s just how we play,” I said to Zoe. “We kind of trash talk.”

“You know,” said Neil, “just like regular guys.”

“Actually, I don’t know,” said Zoe.

“You don’t know what?” asked Neil. He’d decided to recustomize his character and was paging through the body armor options.

“I don’t know much about being a guy,” Zoe said.

“Tell me about it,” said Neil. He selected a bright pink Kevlar vest and applied it over a purple mesh, long sleeve shirt. “Colorful, huh?”

I laughed but Zoe looked concerned. “You’re going into battle in pink and purple?”

“Should make it easier to be seen on the battlefield,” he said.

“Reverse camo,” I said, though I wondered what Zoe was getting at.

“You see me as one of the guys, huh,” said Zoe.

Neil was now changing his primary weapon to a portable potato cannon. “Yeah,” he said, “a guy I’m going to kill with my flying potatoes.” In the world’s worst James Bond impersonation he said, “Mashed, or baked?”

“Cause I’m not a guy,” said Zoe.

“That really shoots mashed potatoes?” I asked.

“Fully loaded,” Neil said and we both laughed at his awful joke.

Zoe wasn’t laughing; he was staring at the Xbox controller like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

“Wait, what did you say?” I asked.

“Sour cream and chive attachment activated,” said Neil. “I’m going to mash you, oh, dammit, I already made a joke about mashing potatoes. Still, I can shoot sour cream with my potatoes!”

I jabbed my elbow into Neil’s side and he turned and saw Zoe looking like he was about to cry. “Hey, like Hal said, it’s just trash talk,” said Neil. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Zoe didn’t say anything.

Finally I broke the silence. “Did you say you aren’t a guy?”

Zoe nodded his head and started to move like he was going to get up again.

“Oh no you don’t,” said Neil. “You don’t say something like that and leave. You explain yourself, mister.”

“I was born a girl,” Zoe said.

It hung in the air between us. Zoe kept looking down. Neil and I looked at each other.

Finally Neil said, “Is that why you don’t need to shave?”

“Yeah,” said Zoe.

“Man I hate shaving,” said Neil. “I started when I was like 10.”

“I wish I had to shave,” said Zoe.

“You were born a girl,” I said, trying to get to the bottom of this. “But you’re a guy now?”

“I, yeah, I’ve always felt I’m a guy,” he said.

“A man trapped in a woman’s body,” said Neil.

“Something like that,” said Zoe.

“We’ve heard of transsexuals,” said Neil. “Transamerica, Boys Don’t Cry, Soren, a member of the J’naii in the Star Trek TNG episode The Outcast.”

“Brokeback Mountain,” I said.

“That’s about two gay men,” said Neil.

“I’m just trying to help,” I said.

Zoe was staring at both of us now. “When most people find out, it um, kind of bothers them.”

“Have you come out to geeks before?” asked Neil.

“I, well, I’m not sure,” said Zoe.

“Geeks don’t have a lot of options for friends,” he said.

“We also get beat up a lot,” I said, “just for being who we are.”

“Well, I know all about that,” said Zoe.

“So,” said Neil, “tell us.”

“Yeah?” said Zoe. We both nodded. “I was born Zoe. I mean, when I was a kid I pronounced it Zo-ee. That’s how my parents said it. That was probably the best part of being born a girl. If I’d been born a boy they’d have named me Emmanuel.”

“Ouch,” said Neil.

“Yeah,” said Zoe. “Anyway, I also felt like I had the wrong body, even when I was little. Probably as soon as I knew there were boys and girls. But I wasn’t like those kids you read about who just declared they were the other gender. I tried to hide it. I tried to be the best girl possible.”

“That must have sucked,” said Neil.

“It was really hard. Wearing dresses and trying to be girlie and all that,” said Zoe. “And then, well, I don’t know, but I couldn’t take it anymore and a couple years ago I finally cut my hair and changed my name. Well, I was going to change my name to something like Butch or Spike, but then I realized I could just pronounce my name differently, like Moe. That’s how I became Zoe, a boy.”

“It’s a cool name either way,” I said.

“Thanks,” said Zoe.

“How did people take it?” asked Neil.

“I got my hair cut on a Saturday, by a friend,” said Zoe. “On Sunday my parents asked what was going on. I told them I was really a boy. On Monday I was thrown out and living on the street.”

We both stared at Zoe. I couldn’t believe what he was telling us. “How could your parents just throw you out?”

“They said I was born their daughter and if I couldn’t be there daughter then to just get out,” said Zoe. “I was on the street about a week when I found your grandfather’s building. It was pretty easy to break in. Suddenly I had my own apartment.”

“You’ve been living there two years?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Zoe. “Just about.”

“And your parents?” asked Neil.

“They never came looking,” he said. “I haven’t seen them since.”

“That’s awful,” said Neil.

“Yeah,” said Zoe.

There was another long silence. Now that he’d told us I found myself staring at his face, trying to see the girl there. I tried to stop myself, but it was a weird curiosity. I wondered what I’d look like as a girl.

“I live in constant fear that someone will figure out I was born a girl. I mean, I’ve always felt like a guy, but I don’t really know how to be a guy. I don’t have any brothers and I was socialized as a girl.”

“Well now you have us,” said Neil.

“Yeah!” I said. I turned to Neil, “What do you mean?”

“I mean we’ll teach you how to be a guy,” Neil said.

“Yeah!” I said. “Wait, we will?”

“Sure,” said Neil. “I mean, we were born guys. We should know something about it.”

“That’d be awesome,” said Zoe.

“I have to warn you,” I said, “we aren’t exactly your typical guys.”

“Well, I know that,” said Zoe. “But geeks can’t be choosy, right?”

Posted in Hal, Hal's Mom's House, Neil, Zoe, Zoe's parents | Tagged gender, Hal, Hal's Mom's House, Neil, technology, transgender, video games, Zoe, Zoe's parents | Leave a comment

How to Save Newspapers: Advertise

Posted on March 21, 2011 by Hal

Next Monday the New York Times plans to start charging for online content. They started charging in Canada last week (I guess because the dollar is so strong against Canadian money). And I say, it’s about time.

Up till now, the fourth estate’s business model has been to guilt us into buying a subscription to the print edition. I’m sick and tired of being told that if I don’t buy a newspaper subscription they’ll go out of business and I’ll be responsible for destroying the free world.

First of all, I didn’t decide to put newspaper content on the Internet for free. The music industry was different. There were people who started ripping CDs and put music on the Internet. And then the music industry had to start suing people until Steve Jobs showed them how to make money online. (Steve got rich doing this, by the way. Ideas are worth a lot of money.)

But newspapers did this to themselves and Google doesn’t appear interested in saving the newspaper business. So why should we pay for it when they are giving it away?

Here, imagine you go to your favorite coffee shop and they tell you that you can go inside and pay for a cup of coffee (and get really dirty fingers) or you can go to the drive-through and get a cup for free. The same coffee! Which would you choose?

Yeah, maybe once a month you’d go in and sit down, but the rest of the time, if all you want is a cup of coffee, you’re going to hit the drive-through and get it for free. Even journalists would do that. Even editors!

But somehow it has taken newspapers ten years to figure this out. And yet they expect us to pay for their analysis of current events!

Yes, times have changed but that means you have to change too. I don’t mean give up. I mean is, this is America. If you want people to spend money on something you’ve got to make them want it. You’ve got to advertise.

Milk advertises. Milk! We all have the milk slogan memorized. Why? Are there really people out there considering not buying milk?

There’s a cheese council that churns out ads for cheese. (Get it? Churns? That’s how you can tell I’m a serious blogger; I use puns just like a real newspaper.)

Even gasoline companies have ads. Seriously, who isn’t going to buy gas? But you’ve got to spend money on it, so they have to make you want it.

So come on, National Association of Newspaper Publishers, or whatever your lobby is called, pony up some dough and get the ads out there. Since you are already about ten years back in the race, I’ll toss you an idea.

Here’s your message, “You can get it for free, or it can be accurate.”

And then for the tag line, “Free or Accurate?”

And for a double bonus, cause I’m a giver, here’s an ad idea. (But if you use this you have to credit me. I got to get some readers somehow. Maybe by giving away ideas, ha ha. We call that irony.)

The camera opens on the streets of a large city. We see a couple walking. The woman says to the guy, “Hey, what’s the latest in Libya?”

The guy says, “Oh, I’m not sure.” He sticks his head in the window of a cab stopped to let a passenger in. “Hey, what’s going on in Libya?” The cab driver says, “The rebels were victorious! Long live the revolution!”

The couple keeps walking and the guys says to a doorman, “What’s the latest in Libya?” The doorman says, “Gaddafi has beaten back the rebels. If only the UN had gotten it’s act together in time to do something.”

A bike messenger pauses on her route and says to them, “A coalition of the Arab League invaded yesterday. There’s been a media blackout. No one knows what’s happening.”

And a woman with her arms filled with packages says, “A massive earthquake rocked the region. Relief efforts are underway.”

Finally, the woman in our couple is exasperated and steers her man to a newspaper stand. She plunks down a couple bucks and picks up a newspaper. There, they can see the headline, “UN forces bomb Libyan airports.” She turns to him and says, “You can get it for free, I’d rather have it accurate.”

With a massive ad campaign like that we’d be distrusting blogs in about six months. Because we are all suckers for advertising. It’s just like Goebbels said, lie and lie often. Eventually, people will want to buy what you are selling.

Of course, that might put my blog out of business. And I should be your main source for information. But I am not worried. The newspapers seems intent on destroying themselves and screaming as loudly as possible as they go down.

Business has been on my mind since I’ve been working so much lately. Just about every day. It’s crazy.

Today Zoe and I were bolting a piece of plywood over one of the freezer cases. The case was in the middle of the room and was about three feet high. It was the kind you just reached into and had no lid or cover. Seemed like a giant waste of energy, but plenty of supermarkets still have them.

It was much to heavy to move and we didn’t have enough furniture anyway. So with the plywood cover we’d transformed it into a giant table. Around it we put a bunch of old chairs we’d found in the back and in the upstairs offices.

“It’ll be a great spot for people who have their own laptops, or just come in for coffee,” I said, admiring our handiwork.

Candace working behind the counter in the back. She’d gotten the old cash register to work and was now staring at the two coffee makers. They were the old tank percolators, like you’d find in a church basement or sometimes at your company Christmas potluck.

“Teachable moment!” she yelled. Zoe and I stared at each other. “That means come over here,” she said.

Funny, I thought come over here means come over here, but what do I know? I’m not a manager. We walked over to her.

“What’s wrong with this picture?” she asked us.

“The coffee makers are really old?” offered Zoe.

“That’s the small picture,” said Candace. “Big picture, no one is going to pay three dollars for a cup of coffee made in these. People want espresso, lattes, cappuccinos, all kinds of things. None of which you can make with these.”

“My grandfather doesn’t think we need new ones,” I said. “He’s trying to save money.”

“See,” said Candace, “sometimes you’ve got to spend money to make money.”

“Before she could explain the cliché with another cliché Reggie walked in.

“We aren’t open yet,” said Candace.

“And from the looks of things, it will be months,” said Reggie.

“Next week actually,” said Candace, straightening to her full height.

Reggie walked over to the computers in the refrigerator cabinets. “Next week? How ambitious,” he said. “You know you have all this trash to clean out yet.”

“Those are the workstations,” said Candace.

“Charming,” said Reggie, walking over to us. “And these are your, um, coffee machines?”

“They’re retro,” said Candace.

Reggie smirked. “Special,” he said.

“My grandfather told you he’s no longer selling the place,” I said

“Yes,” said Reggie. “He told me he’d decided to make a go of it. Shame, really, this place is worth a lot.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” asked Candace.

“This is Reggie, my grandfather’s real estate agent,” I said. “Only he couldn’t seem to find anyone to buy this place.”

“A building like this is unique,” said Reggie. “Retail on the first floor, commercial on the next two floor, and residential on the top two floors. You’re not going to get some young couple about to start a family and looking for more room. This is an investment property and requires someone who can appreciate its potential.”

Reggie was starting to annoy me. And by starting I mean it started the first time I met him. “Well, I guess you don’t know any of those people,” I said. “Because no one has looked at it in weeks. My grandfather just got tired of waiting for some cash.”

“On the contrary,” said Reggie, “I made your grandfather an offer. A very generous offer. He told me he wasn’t interested.”

“You?” I said.

“In addition to being the top real estate agent in Potomac Village, I’m a real estate investor as well. I own much of the property on this street in fact. And many of the apartment buildings in the area.” He ran his fingers down the counter, slowly. “I was hoping to add this one to my collection.

“Well, too bad,” I said, realizing it wasn’t my best retort.

“Oh Hal, so cute, but so naïve,” said Reggie.

I’m cute? Reggie gives me the willies, now more than ever.

“Your grandfather needs money. And he has no idea how to run a business. He’ll be back, knocking on my door soon enough.”

“That’s why he hired me,” said Candace. “I’m the manager here. And I’m going to make sure this place turns a profit.”

“A blogger, a squatter, and a failed middle manager walk into a coffee shop,” said Reggie. “There’s a joke in there somewhere.”

“Well it’s no joke!” I said, feeling more defiant.

“It’s a joke,” said Reggie, “we just don’t know the punch line yet. But I can see from the look in Candace’s eye that she, at least, is determined to make this succeed.”

“That’s right,” said Candace.

“Then I’ll just have to make sure you fail,” he said.

“Are you threatening us?” she asked.

“Violence?” asked Reggie, and he squished up his nose. “How quaint. This isn’t the nineteenth century. No, but I’m a powerful man in this town. A powerful businessman. And I will defeat your will little Internet coffee shop. I will defeat you with the power of business.”

He turned and walked to the front door.

“What the hell was all that about?” asked Zoe.

“I think he’s touched in the head,” I said.

At the front door Reggie turned and looked at us, “With the power of business!” he shouted, and then left.

“Boys,” said Candace, “you just met your first hyena.”

Posted in Candace Kaine, Hal, Reggie Wiggly, The Green Grocer, Zoe | Tagged business, Candace Kaine, newspapers, Reggie Wiggly, The Green Grocer, Zoe | Leave a comment

The Truth About the Space Program: It Still Captures Our Imagination

Posted on March 15, 2011 by Hal

Between the continuing pro-democracy movement in the Middle East, and Wisconsin, the possible meltdown at a Japanese nuclear power plant, and the continued meltdown of Charlie Sheen’s brain (no citation needed), a story has slipped through the cracks.

The space shuttle Discovery made it’s final flight.

Some would say this isn’t big news. There are still two more missions in the works, for Endeavour and Atlantis. But it does mark the beginning of the end for our planned manned space flights.

There’s been a lot of stuff out there about how the space program no longer captures our imagination. How, back in the 60s everyone was talking about flying to the moon. But now, no one cares.

This is typical main stream media totally missing reality. And they are all wrong. Actually, people are still fascinated with space exploration. How do I know? One word: Hubble (the space telescope, not the dude).

Kids don’t care about space exploration anymore? What happened when they tried to shut down Hubble? Children all across the country started a letter writing campaign to save Hubble.

See, after we made it to the moon it’s not that people were no longer fascinated with space, it’s just that we’d made it. So flying to Mars really isn’t all that much different. I don’t mean it’s not more difficult. I know it’s several orders of magnitude harder. It’s just that everyone assumes we can do it. There’s not much mystery about it. If we wanted to, we could do it.

It’s like the first time you drive, it’s exciting just to go to the supermarket and pick up milk for your mom. But after that driving gets pretty boring. Driving cross country, now that’s exciting. Or flying. But just another trip to the supermarket, or just another flight to a planet in our solar system? Been there, done that.

People don’t want to explore Mars. They want to explore the Crab Nebula. They want to go to Alpha Centauri. They want to get out of our solar system and see some stuff.

People still want to explore space. It’s just that the parts of space they want to explore we can’t get to, except with telescopes. Imagine if the next manned space flight was to a planet that we suspected might have life. Just see how much attention that would get!

My grandfather worked on the space program, so he knows about how exciting a time it was trying to get to the moon. He worked on the computers at Goddard Space Flight Center. He never talked about it; the excitement was long gone by the time I arrived. But I liked visiting his house because of all the weird computer parts he had lying around. I used to play with them like other kids play with trucks or dolls.

I guess I was thinking about space flight and his work when we started setting up the Internet cafe. With all the computers he’d ordered, I felt like we were setting up mission control.

He’s really cheap. He bought all the computers used and he didn’t think we needed any new furniture. Instead of putting the computers on tables we removed the doors to the refrigerator cases (from when the Green Grocer had been a grocery store) and put the computers on the shelves.

Zoe and I decided to replace all the broken fluorescent lights in the freezers (we found a case of bulbs in the basement), so each work station had a weird glow. It’d probably give you a good migraine since monitors and fluorescent lights have different flicker rates, but oh well, Zoe thought it looked great.

Gramps also refused to get a new sign. He said he’d blown all his money on the computer equipment. Zoe painted the words “Internet Cafe” on the front window. So we were the Green Grocer Internet Cafe. Kind of totally not catchy.

Most days it was just Zoe and I. Gramps was getting on in years and not so good with the heavy lifting. I didn’t mind, I was happy to have a job. It meant my mom was off my back. She actually smiled at me one morning. I couldn’t remember the last time she did that.

I also didn’t mind spending time with Zoe. He still gave me a weird feeling, something I couldn’t put my finger on, but I was starting to like him. First of all, he cleaned up pretty good. Gramps said he couldn’t have a ragamuffin working for him. And that meant I had to give him some soap and shampoo.

He wore his hair a bit long, I know he needed a haircut, kind of like Keanu Reeves in his early work. Sort of like one of those lean, lanky skater dudes you see sometimes. You could tell he cared what people thought of how he looked, but tried to hide it. He never seemed to shave. He had a couple of stray hairs on his chin, that he let grow out to a weird length, but that was about it. What? It’s not like I was staring at him all the time. We just were working together a lot.

He didn’t like to talk about himself and wouldn’t let me into his apartment, even though he had one of the few working toilets in the building. And when I asked him about all the artwork I saw in his apartment he changed the subject. I wondered what he was trying to hide, but I guess if I’d been a squatter I wouldn’t want to talk about it either.

Then my grandfather walked in with a woman. “There you boys are,” he said. “I want you to meet your new boss.”

“What?” I said. “I thought you were our boss.”

“Me?” said Gramps, “I’m too old. I need a manager here every day.”

I was surprised and blurted out, “I kinda thought I was the manager.”

My grandfather laughed, which I didn’t really appreciate it. “You? Hal, this isn’t some lark, like your blog. I need this to make money. I need someone with experience and leadership ability. Someone who commands respect. So I hired Candace Kaine.”

Candy Kaine, I thought. Seriously? That’s her real name? (OK, as you know, these are all fake names. But still, her name is Candace Kaine. What am I supposed to think?)

Candace smiled and reached out to shake my hand, “I’m sure you’ll make a great assistant manager one day.”

With only three employees, is that really a compliment? I shook her hand, but I didn’t enjoy actually meeting her. I sulked as she shook hands with Zoe.

“Great to meet you both,” said Candace. “My philosophy as a manager is simple. Business is the law of the jungle.”

I was pretty sure that didn’t make sense, even grammatically.

“I’m pretty instinctual,” she said. “I’m not one for degrees and self help books. That’s not me. I lead from the gut.” She shoved her fist into her stomach. “Yes, my bachelor’s degree is in business. Yes, I have my MBA. Yes, I subscribe to Management Visionaries Weekly and listen to several motivational podcasts, and I’m vice president of the Women’s Leadership Management Guild for Women, but it’s really what’s in here that counts.” She struck her head.

I wandered which part of her body we were supposed to listen to.

“It’s like I was just reading in this great book,” she said, and tossed a book out at us. The book fell on the floor and several of the pages fell out. “There’s um, usually a table there.”

I picked it up. It was entitled King of Beasts, CEO.

Candace pointed at me, “Who are the hyenas?”

“They’re an African carnivore,” I said. “About the size of a small dog.”

Candace paused. “Um, yes, that’s what a hyena is. But who are the hyenas?” Even my grandfather, who’d been smiling, now had a blank expression.

“The hyenas are the competition,” said Zoe.

“Exactly!” said Candace. She put her arms around Zoe and I and led us to the front window. My grandfather followed. “There are only two kinds of people in the world,” Candace told us. “Lions and hyenas. Hyenas and lions. Locked in a deadly battle for jungle supremacy. They come after us. In the night. When we least expect it,” she said. “Lions get very little sleep.””

We could see the cars and people out on Monticello Avenue. “Look at them, walking along, leading their normal lives. Sheep. They’re all sheep.”

“I thought they were all lions or hyenas,” I said.

“Exactly!” said Candace. “Question your paradigm. Know who you are.”

“’Cause if we don’t know who the hyenas are, it might be us,” I said.

“I’m no hyena Hal. I’m a lion. Are you a lion?”

“I guess so,” I answered.

“It’s rhetorical,” she said. “You can take notes if you want.”

I looked around for some paper.

“I’m taking notes right now,” said Zoe, “with my brain.”

“Excellent,” said Candace. My grandfather smiled. “The rest of the forest is made up of alpha and beta animals. And some are there to be eaten, like sheep or gazelles. They can get eaten by the hyenas or the lions.”

I looked back out the window. “Wait, are there gazelles in the pride with lions?”

“You have to think with the conceptual part of your brain. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure,” I said.

“You don’t sound so certain Hal. I need lions in my pack. We all need to be on guard against the hyenas.”

“Wouldn’t other lions challenge you for dominance in the pride?” I asked.

“That’s why you’re all lady lions,” she replied.

“Lionesses?”

“Business isn’t about gender,” she said.

“Actually, we don’t actually have any competition,” I said. “There are no Internet cafes on The Mont.”

“There is always competition,” said Candace. “For people’s time, money, attention. And, if we’re successful, the direct competition will come.”

“So we need to be ready to crush them,” said Zoe. “Lions kill hyenas.”

“Yes! And increase their market share,” said Candace. “Be the lion.”

Zoe put his hands up to his head and made little lion ears. My grandfather smiled and put his hands up to his head as well. I just stared at them. This was stupid. Putting your hands on your head wasn’t going to make your business more successful. But I wasn’t going to tell them that. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. Also, she hadn’t told me to do it.

“I want you boys to learn about lions and how they behave in the wild. That’s your homework.” And here I thought we should be learning about running a cash register. “Pride time is over, back to work, both of you,” she said.

Zoe and I headed to the back to unpack some more computers. As I was walking away I heard Candace say to my grandfather, “I see what you mean. I’ll keep my eye on him.”

“Don’t be afraid to fire him,” I heard my grandfather say. “Just because he’s family doesn’t mean I want dead weight around here.”

I turned around and looked at them, not believing what they were saying.

Candace looked at me. “Be the lion!” she said.

Posted in Candace Kaine, Hal, Hal's grandfather, The Green Grocer, Zoe | Tagged Candace Kaine, Hal's grandfather, space, technology, The Green Grocer, Zoe | 1 Comment

The Truth About America: We Are a Liberal Country

Posted on March 6, 2011 by Hal

That’s right, people, we are liberal! I know we just had an election and all the pundits are debating whether we are very conservative or extremely conservative Well, actually, we are liberal.

What?

Yeah, believe it.

Everywhere you look, the current generation wants to tear down what the previous generation created and make something better. Progress. Progressive. We are not a country that wants to lay around persevering the past. We are always looking for the next big thing. I’m not talking about some silly fad, I’m talking about something that will transform the way we live, like the automobile, the Internets, or pugdoodles.

No one wants to drive a car with 1945 engineering. Or watch a black and white, 13 inch TV. No, we want high def, flat screen, 3D. Sure, there are some people who are into classic video games or only listen to music on vinyl. And you know what we call those people? Poseurs. (Yeah, I’m linking to my own blog. Deal with it.)

Want to know how to lose a presidential election? Tell them you will build a bridge to the past. (I know you won’t click on that link. Who cares about past elections? Not Americans. History is for suckers, and Europeans.)

Still don’t believe me? Then tell me why are there new cartoons for kids?

Kids today have never seen the ones I saw, they weren’t born yet. Kids’ shows don’t need to change. They could still be showing Animaniacs, or Captain Kangeroo, or Howdy Doody. But they don’t. Kids shows change all the time. Every year. Every season.

It’s not cause kids change. Kids are the same. A ten-year-old today is about the same as a ten-year-old thirty years ago. It’s because they want to make better cartoons. They don’t want to conserve the cartoons from a generation ago.

Oh, it’s just the liberal elites on the coasts you say? No, even people living in the middle of the Grand Old Party of the Republicans’ country like to change things, tinker, improve. Football. Does it have the same rules it did 30 years ago? No, ‘cause they are not trying to conserve football, they are trying to improve it.

Or NASCAR. OK, I don’t watch NASCAR. My sister used to watch drag racing on Saturday afternoons. I have no idea why. Our dad wasn’t around a lot when we were little, so maybe she was trying to tap into some masculine essence that was missing in our house. We didn’t talk about it.

Actually, we didn’t talk about much. Even when our dad died. She was already in high school. Maybe it didn’t affect her like it did me. I don’t know, ‘cause we didn’t talk.

I wish I could get him back. Though I don’t know what I’d do with a dad. I’ve spent the last ten years of my life without one. I guess I’m used to it.

If that’s something you can ever get used to.

Wow. Maybe some of us want to go back to the past and hold on to something we thought we had.

I guess my dad was on my mind even though I was with my grandfather. He’s my mom’s father, so I guess I was just thinking about family.

But Gramps was thinking about security. “Damn hobos,” he said. He was carrying a hammer and handed it to me so he could unlock the back door of his building.

“Gramps, I don’t think they call them hobos anymore. They aren’t riding the rails with a handkerchief tied on a stick, holding their stuff,” I said.

“No,” said Gramps, “The train’s too good for them.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what that meant, but I followed him inside. The police had called again about squatters in the building and he wanted help securing it.

Gramps turned on the lights. The back was the old office for the green grocer. There was a massive wooden desk in one corner and one of those shelves full of mail slots, I guess for all the employees. The rest of the back room had been used for storage. I sat down in one of the old chairs.

“How do you think they’re getting in?” Gramps asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “A door? Window maybe?”

“You’re brilliant,” said my grandfather. “I can’t believe you didn’t finish college.”

“This was your idea,” I said. “I just wanted to get out of my mom’s hair.”

“She mad at you for something?” he asked. He started walking around the ground floor checking the windows so I followed him.

“She just thinks I should have a job,” I said.

“So do I,” he said.

What is it with everyone thinking I should have a job? Even on my blog, which is where I’m supposed to convince people of my point of view, people think I should get a job. How pathetic is that? The only comment I’ve received so far is from someone named Kayla who thinks it’s about time my mom demanded I find work. Well Kayla, if that is your fake name, there’s a recession on, in case you haven’t heard.

“No one is hiring,” I said. “And don’t tell me how there is always work for someone who’s willing to work.”

“Of course not, you already know everything.” Gramps checked another window. “How are they getting in?”

“Is there a basement?”

“Oh, maybe. I don’t remember.” He sat down and we looked at each other.

“What’s the hammer for?” I asked, putting it down on a table.

“To nail the windows shut, but they’re all locked.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. The walls were so thick you couldn’t hear any of the cars out on Monticello Avenue.

“I”m sorry Grampa” I said. “I’m really trying to find a job but I’m either over-qualified or under-qualified. It’s impossible.”

“I worked all my life, even during the Depression!” said Gramps.

“You grew up during the post-war boom! There were jobs everywhere.”

“Well, my parents lived through the depression and they always had jobs.”

“Yeah, they had this grocery store, I know.”

“The point is, they didn’t wait for someone to give them a job, they went out and made their own.”

“I don’t think anyone wants to buy vegetables here anymore,” I said, feeling like maybe I should have stayed home.

“Then do something else with this building.”

My grandfather and I both looked up. “It’s the hobos!” yelled my grandfather. He picked up the hammer and ran down the hall. I followed.

At the end of the hall was a door and then a stairway. I could see Zoe standing there, he must have been listening to us. As we got closer my grandfather waved his hammer in the air. Zoe turned and ran up the stars.

I ran behind my grandfather up to the first floor landing. Gramps was winded. He bent forward and put his hands on his knees. I stood next to him.

“Just think about it,” yelled Zoe. I looked up and saw him on the second floor landing. “You’ve got all this space, I’m sure you could use it for something.”

“Don’t you lecture me, you itinerant no-good-nick,” yelled my grandfather. He started running again, up another flight of stairs. I could hear Zoe running to stay ahead of us.

On the second floor landing my grandfather had to sit on the stairs. Zoe was now staring at us from the third floor landing. “Maybe a card shop. Or a comic book store. I don’t know, got to be something they need here,” he yelled down.

“I’m calling the police,” yelled my grandfather. “I’ve got my go-anywhere phone.”

“What’s a go-anywhere phone?” yelled Zoe.

“It’s what all you kids have,” said my grandfather, “let’s you go anywhere and yak the whole time.”

“I don’t think you really have one,” yelled Zoe.

“My grandson does, don’t you Hal,” said Gramps.

“I can’t afford a cell phone,” I said.

“You damn kids!” yelled Gramps, hitting me in the chest with his fist.

“What’d I do?” I asked, grabbing my chest.

“Too damn broke to get a go-anywhere phone,” he said to me as he ran up another flight of stairs. “Wait till I get my hands on you.” Zoe ran to stay ahead.

“I’m just trying to help,” Zoe yelled down at us. “Maybe you could sell go-anywhere phones!”

We ran up to the fourth floor and saw Zoe run down the hallway. Gramps was walking now. I’d never been up here. The floor was dirty and the doors were all open. Zoe disappeared through a door at the end of the hall.

The door was still open when we go there. It was an apartment and Zoe was obviously living there. It was fixed up with old furniture. The floors were bare but the walls were covered with artwork. There were paintings and drawings on almost every surface. We made our way through the apartment to the kitchen. Zoe was standing by the kitchen sink. My grandfather yelled and threw the hammer. We all watched the hammer sail past Zoe and smash threw the kitchen window. It landed on the sidewalk below. We heard somewhere swear at us from the street.

“Want some water?” asked Zoe. He looked better than I remembered. Maybe he’d had a shower. His hair kind of shown in the sunlight and he had the faintest of beards, like he’d just recently arrived at puberty. I wondered how old he really was.

My grandfather sat down in one of the kitchen chairs to catch his breath. He nodded and Zoe handed him a glass of water. Gramps drank it down and then said, “Thanks. Now get the hell out!”

“There’s got to be some kind of business they need around here. And you need the money. And Hal and I need jobs,” said Zoe. “It’s win-win-win.”

“Oh, now I’m supposed to give you a job?” asked my grandfather.

Zoe took my grandfather’s empty glass, filled it, and handed it back to him. My grandfather took it and said, “How’d you know I need money?”

“I overheard you last time you were here,” said Zoe, “you said you can’t afford the property taxes on this place.”

“A coffee shop,” I said.

“Really?” said Zoe. “That’s you’re brilliant idea? Another Starbucks?”

“You suggested a comic book shop,” I said. “Besides, there are no coffee shops on The Mont. You have to go all the way down to Old Town in Alexandria to get find one. So there’s no place to get Wi-Fi.”

“Have you seen this neighborhood?” aksed Zoe. “The people can’t afford laptops, they can barely afford food.”

“Then we supply the computers,” I said. “An Internet cafe, with coffee and free Wi-Fi. And if you need a computer, we charge like, a small amount per hour.”

“Who wants to use a computer around here?” asked my grandfather.

“The library used to have computers you could use for free, but they had to shut that down ‘cause of the budget crisis,” said Zoe.

“Listen to the two of you,” said Gramps. “Punks, both of you.”

“Then I’ll be able to pay you to live here,” said Zoe.

“Fine,” said my grandfather, “but you owe me back rent too!”

“Deal,” said Zoe, “but you have to get that window fixed first.”

“I think you just agreed to open a coffee shop,” I said to my grandfather.

“Couple of no-good-nicks,” said Gramps.

Posted in Hal, Hal's dad, Hal's grandfather, The Green Grocer, Zoe | Tagged Hal's dad, Hal's grandfather, liberalism, The Green Grocer, Zoe | Leave a comment

The Truth about Companies: They are Oppressive

Posted on February 27, 2011 by Hal

Companies exist to crush the individual. That’s the sole point of their existence. To turn you from a person into a “human resource” as if people are the same as corn or water or paper.

They only care about maximizing profit. Which means exploiting human resources and squeezing as much work out of you while giving you back as little as possible. You see this in all the statics about increases in productivity. Basically, you get someone to do more work per hour. Wall Street thinks this is great. In reality, in means you are working harder for less money.

How do companies do this? They wear you down. They crush you. They turn you into a cog in the wheel of capitalism; the mindless pursuit of the all mighty dollar. At least, that’s been my experience the few times I’ve had a job, like the paper route I had in middle school.

I like to think my life lies along another path. I am a chronicler of truth, a pursuer of the real, an illuminator of the obscure. But my mom is threatening to kick me out if I don’t bring home some greenbacks, so I have to join the pursuit of money.

I’ve been looking for a job online, sending out resumes and such. But mom said I have to get my butt out the door and talk to people. I disagree with this approach but she threatened to change the locks. So outward I go.

I read some of the job search blogs to learn the most up-to-the-minutes techniques for getting and acing an interview. And that’s how I found myself sitting across from a manager talking about a possible job. I had my resume, some letters of recommendation from my college professors, and a notepad filled with pointers.

“Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me,” I said. All the blogs say to thank the person for meeting you, their time is money. Later I’ll send a thank you card in the form of an actual card. I guess that’s why snail mail still exists.

The blogs also advise you to think up three things to describe yourself, so the person will better remember you. One of these things can be about your personal life, like a volunteer job you once held or an interesting hobby you enjoy.

“My name is Hal and you should hire me because I’m passionate about life, I’m a hard worker, and I enjoy reading science fiction that involves characters from classical literature who find themselves in alternate realities where the combustion engine was never invented and steam is the main source of power, such as the classic, ‘Jane Eyre, Zeppelin Aviatrix.’”

From there, you want to talk about your own vision for your future and explain how the company fits in. “In five years I see myself selling electric cars to members of the working class, helping provide low-cost transportation to those who really need it while reducing greenhouse gas emissions.”

It’s also good to have an amusing anecdote that explains a short coming but turns it into a strength. “I think I could do a better job not working so hard. This one time, when I was falling asleep—”

“Hold on,” said Julio, the manager interviewing me. He was staring at my resume, instead of maintaining eye contact, like you are supposed to do. “Have you ever used a cash register?”

“Um,” I said. I hadn’t anticipated this question. “In high school I was the culture editor for our school newspaper, The Jeff Davis Dispatch.”

“Did that involve using a cash register?” he asked.

“I um, not really,” I said.

“You do know I’m looking for a cashier,” he said.

“I know that,” I said. Did he think I was stupid? “I just wanted to give you a complete picture of who I am.”

“It’s great that you are so, um, well-rounded,” Julio said. “But the Seven Comes Eleven is a neighborhood convenience store, we don’t have much need for an editor or writer. People come in and need milk, diapers, gas up the car. You need to run the cash register, restock the shelves, call the cops when you get robbed, and not steal anything.”

“I can do that,” I said. “I’ve never stolen anything.”

“It also helps if you avoid getting shot,” he said. “We’ve had a bit of a problem with that lately.”

I started to understand why the position was open. “I’ve never been shot,” I offered.

“Well, that’s good. But I’m not going to hire you,” he said, handing my resume back to me.

“Oh,” I said. “Why not?”

“You’re over qualified.”

I checked my notes, “I um, I don’t seem to to have a response for that. Why is that a bad thing?”

Julio pointed at my resume, now laying on the desk between us. “You’re a college graduate,” he said. “You’ll be looking for a better job the whole time you’re working here. And as soon as you find one, you’ll be gone.”

“I only completed two years of college,” I said.

“Then you might go back to finish. Either way, this resume tells me you aren’t going to stick around very long,” he said. “This may not be the most exciting job but I need someone to stay here for a few years, assuming you don’t get shot. I can’t be rehiring all the time.”

“Well, what am I qualified for?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said, “but not this.”

I guess I’ll have to keep looking.

Posted in Hal, Monticello Avenue | Tagged interviews, Monticello Avenue, work | Leave a comment

The Truth About Doing Nothing All Day: It’s Boring

Posted on February 13, 2011 by Hal

Doing nothing all day is exhausting. It’s also really, really boring. I know, I’m an experienced blogger, but it’s still hard to describe how boring doing nothing is. I mean, how do you describe nothing?

Well first of all, the house is big and empty most of the time. Ever since my dad passed away and my sister moved out it’s been just my mom and I. I used to have a bedroom on the second floor, but I moved out long ago. I’m not sure what my mom did with it. Maybe it’s a sewing room. Ha ha, that is a cliché. I haven’t bothered to go back up there.

I’ve taken over the basement. There’s a utility room with a washer, dryer, furnace or heater or whatever it’s called. I guess. Who knows what’s in there. And some storage. But most of it is a big, open area that I’ve turned into my space.

In the old days we used the basement like a family room. On Friday and Saturday nights we’d watch movies down here. Now I get the whole place to myself. I have my bed in one corner and then a little sitting area and a TV that I don’t have to share with anyone. Actually, I have three TVs now, a nice flat screen and two old tube TVs. One for MSNBC, one for CNN, and one for Fox News.

The stairs to the basement are off the kitchen, and they take you down into the middle of the room, so I don’t have a door, per se, to my room. My mom mostly yells before she comes down. But I don’t really do anything I wouldn’t want her to see. I mean, I don’t have people over and I keep my pants on when I’m alone. Mostly I watch my TVs, usually all three at the same time. That’s why I am so informed about what’s going on in the world. And I keep up with the blogosphere.

And I play a lot of Xbox and work on my blog. There’s really not much else to do. My mom is kind of obsessive about cooking and cleaning, so she doesn’t really want me helping out that way. I can’t really cook anyway. I take out the trash and do stuff in the yard like mow the lawn. That’s about it.

Actually, my mom doesn’t really cook that much anyway. She works weird hours. Being a real estate agent means you have to be available when your clients are free, which means a lot of nights and weekends. So she buys prepared stuff at the supermarket or gets a lot of take out. I just check the fridge to see what’s edible, or make Hot Pockets.

I wasn’t planning to blog about nothing, or doing nothing, or whatever this post is about, but there is nothing happening to blog about. I mean, the only thing happening is the revolution in Egypt. OK, there has been a lot going on in the world the last couple weeks. Twice there have been snow storms that have slammed into the US, affecting one third of the country. The new Congress is getting ready to cut billions from the budget, mostly by eliminating programs that help poor people while maintaining support to giant corporations and rich people. But none of that has been in the news.

It’s Egypt, 24/7. Which is really important, but I’m not going to blog about it. Because I don’t really understand Middle East politics. I enjoy watching all the talking heads pretend to know about the situation, but they don’t really understand it either. The paid pundits are all poseurs and hypocrites anyway, but on this topic they really know nothing. Sometimes it’s best to just wait and see what happens.

So with nothing to do and nothing to blog about, I’ve been extra bored.

I went upstairs to get some dinner and my mom was there. This surprised me because I thought she was working.

The first thing she said to me was a criticism. “When was the last time you changed your clothes?”

See, it’s like I’m still five years old. “I don’t know mom,” I said. “With all the snow I haven’t been staying in. It’s safer.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” she asked.

“No need to dress up,” I said.

“Hal, we haven’t had snow in almost three weeks.”

I started poking around in the fridge, “I don’t think so mom, it’s been all over the news. Giant storms have been ravaging the Midwest and East Coast for weeks.”

“Yes, but the last couple storms missed DC,” she said. “You don’t need to watch TV to know that, just go outside.”

“I haven’t really been in the mood for going out,” I said.

“You haven’t been in the mood for doing anything,” my mom said. “It’s unhealthy. You need to go out.”

“I went out. I saw gramps a few times.”

“That was weeks ago,” she said.

“Yeah, I guess it was a while ago,” I said. There didn’t seem to be any food in the fridge so I started looking in the freezer. “Mom, did you pick up anything for dinner?”

“Maybe you could get dinner once in a while,” she said.

“You know I can’t cook,” I said. “And actually, you prefer to take care of that stuff.”

“I do?” she said.

“You have like all these rules about dinner. Like it should have a protein and vegetables and be balanced and stuff,” I said.

“Hal, you are more than welcome to fix dinner any time you want,” she said. “I assure you I’ll eat it.”

“It’s OK,” I said. I grabbed some popcorn and tossed the bag in the microwave. It’s my fall-back when there’s nothing better to eat.

“No, it’s really not,” she said. That’s when she kind of lost it. She got this look in her eye that she doesn’t get all that often. “You expect me to do all the cooking, all the cleaning, wash your clothes, and now it looks like I need to lay out clothes for you in the morning!”

“I’m sure whatever I made would be wrong, or I’d clean something the wrong way,” I said.

“Well yes, I’d rather clean the kitchen myself if you’re going to do it half-way and leave it more of a mess than when you started,” she said.

“Whatever,” I said, “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“I’m not your maid Hal. You’re 25 years old. You need to get a job.”

“A job? What does this have to do with me getting a job?” I asked. “There’s a recession on, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, I did notice,” she said. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a real estate agent, and sales have been pretty crappy for the past couple years. So you getting a free ride on my income just isn’t going to cut it any longer. You need to start bringing in some money.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “You’ve had plenty of sales. I’ve seen your sales figures online.”

“My sales have been way down. We don’t post that on our website; we want to look successful,” she said. “We need more money. And if you’re going to continue to live here then you need to contribute.”

“There are no jobs mom! Nobody’s hiring!”

“Well you better get your butt out of my basement and find a way to bring in some money!”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll have to move out,” she said. And she turned and walked out of the kitchen.

Did she really just say what I thought she said? “Mom,” I called after her, “what are you saying?”

She stared at me from the dining room, “You heard me Hal. Get a job and start paying me some rent, or get out. It’s your choice.” And with that, she was gone, upstairs to her room.

The microwave beeped. My popcorn was ready.

Posted in Hal, Hal's mom, Hal's Mom's House | Tagged Congress, Hal's mom, Hal's Mom's House, international politics, weather | 1 Comment

I Bought Some Hot Pockets: The Life Cycle of a Plastic Bag

How to Save Polaroid: Make Instant Cameras

The Truth About Conservatives: They Want To Regulate Personal Behavior

The Truth About Covert: Its Meaning Has Changed

The Truth About iPads: The Criticism is Sexist

How to Save Newspapers: Advertise

The Truth About the Space Program: It Still Captures Our Imagination

The Truth About America: We Are a Liberal Country

The Truth about Companies: They are Oppressive

The Truth About Doing Nothing All Day: It’s Boring

People & Places

Recent Posts

Archives

Recent Comments

Meta

People & Places

Tags

Recent Posts

Archives

Recent Comments

Meta