Andy's Morning Monologue: A True-Based Story

I've ridden my share of public transportation back in the day. Occasionally, you'd get a colorful character that cried out to the ears of a young writer. And, so, I bring you a pretty damn close transcription of Andy's Morning Monologue, from the 435 heading north on Fair Oaks Avenue:

Hi, how you doing today? It's a good day today. WHOA! Geez, I didn't think the bus was gonna move like that. I was grabbing on to the bar to hold myself. Like I was riding that ride over there. And you know the front of the car, there's nobody there in front of you. Geez, you know, it scared the living life out of me. You're just climbing up and the thing keeps going up and there's no protection there. You're just holding on to the bar in front for dear life. The Revolution is the worst. (He's referring to a ride at Magic Mountain in Valencia, CA.) That's the one where you're going practically straight up and you're out there for, oh, maybe a few seconds or so and then you practically go straight down. Oh my goodness, that was something else. (The Revolution, however, is a roller coaster, not one of those vertical drop rides.) You see those houses up there on the hill? My daughter was living up there. Those houses are really expensive. They would probably be going for somewhere around four or five hundred thousand. (C'mon, it was the late 70s.) My apartment, my apartment where I'm living, I got a pretty good deal. I've been there since 1965. I'm paying about $265 a month. (Again, late 70s.) If I was moving out, it would probably be $500 or $600 a month there. You know, the interest rates are going down and you could finance a new place with your equity, you know, the equity from a house. I couldn't move now. I been there too long. It's a good setup I got now.The interest rates are going down. You put your money in those CDs, you're not getting much for your money. You know, it's locked up there, say six months or 12 months. You're getting five percent or five and a quarter somewhere, some fraction of a percentage, you might as well put it in a savings and get your five percent where you can get to it. The return on your money... you're not getting much more and at least you can get a hold of it if you need it.Cabbages are real good for me, but I can't eat them too much anymore. (Great segue, Andy.) I used to eat it all the time. I'm eating good bread now and lots of vegetables. I like vegetables. Soup is good. I could eat soup anytime I like it so much, you know.

And that is the beauty of real-life dialogue from slighty crazy people.

Toes, The Great Equalizer

Many people are under the mistaken impression that equality comes through civil liberties, economic opportunity, equal justice under the law and other such esoteric claptrap. Really, the true equalizer of all humans is toes. Everybody has one or more jacked up toe. Usually it's the last or "pinky" toe. Usually due to some childhood accident or a recent bowling ball slippage. Rarely have I seen toes that could arguably be called "attractive." I'll bet even Liz Taylor has at least one fucked up toe. If Jessica Alba stripped her feet naked, I seriously doubt she'd go 10 for 10 in any attractive toe survey. Granted, some people have more than average nastiness in the foot department. That homeless person with the swollen ankles in Borders, for instance. George Bush, Mahatma Gandhi, Angelina Jolie, Adolph Hitler, the Mona Lisa (if she had feet)... messed up toes, every last one of 'em. Ben Kenobi got it wrong -- it's not the force that binds us all, it's hammer toes, bunions, fungal growth, wrinkled toenails and the like.

Are You Sure It's Heroin?

Nowadays, you don't see a lot a drug busts on TV cop shows and in the movies. Not like the 70s or 80s. Inevitably, once the bad guys were all subdued (i.e., killed in slow motion), a detective would walk up to the assembled crates that were being loaded onto the private plane headed for parts unknown, remove a switchblade from his Robert Hall sportcoat, flick it open, stab a big-ass bag of white powder, poke his finger in said bag and taste a bit of the powder, always being sure to spit it out immediately lest he become a raging junkie. "Yep, it's smack alright."

Now here we come to the crux of my complaint with said 70s/80s TV/movie detective. DO YOU HAVE TO TASTE THE HEROIN TO KNOW IT'S HEROIN?? Let's recap... you drive into an abandoned warehouse at 70 MPH, being sure to smash through the front gate. Several men with automatic weapons try to kill you. SIDE NOTE: To all bad guys with really high-tech automatic weapons-- maybe you would actually hit your target if you weren't wearing mirrored sunglasses inside an abandoned warehouse.

So... smash through gate, kill sunglasses-wearing henchmen, expend many, many rounds of ammunition... it damn well better be heroin!!! Wouldn't you be embarrassed if that shit was powdered sugar? Or instant milk being flown to starving African babies?? Of course it's heroin, idiot.

And shave off that stupid, drooping Frito-Bandito moustache. Trust me, it DOESN'T make you look like Burt Reynolds in Smokey and the Bandit.

Cornering The Market

What causes an ethnic group to corner the market on some totally incongruous area of local business? I first noticed this when almost every H. Salt Fish & Chip shop in the greater Los Angeles area was run by an overworked Vietnamese couple. This hardly made sense as the British, as far as I know, had little or no presence in Vietnam. In Seattle, you will find many Sikh men working at car rental counters at Sea-Tac airport. Granted, the Avis royal red or Hertz cadmium yellow blazer looks great with a full beard and turban, but, really, WTF? Do they tell each other about the wonderful perks? "Sanjay, you can upgrade from compact to midsize and still get unlimited mileage. This is a very economical move." As a side note, the Sea-Tac parking structure is maddeningly symmetrical, making it far easier to misplace your car. And it's no good using a Sikh parking valet as a reference marker. Beard, turban, Avis blazer... it all blends together. And in Austin, every cab driver I met during my short visit was African. Notice I didn't say "African-American," but "African." And these are not engineering students from the local university making some extra rave party money. These are grown-ass men. What a quantum leap from eking out a living in your village and fighting off power-mad militia soldiers to driving visiting Asian businessmen around Austin looking for the perfect barbecue. I'm waiting for Uzbekestani immigrants to corner the market on Mexican ice cream carts.