There's no accounting for taste.

As I was walking along Broadway this evening I looked at all the people who had set up their lawn chairs on the sidewalk, waiting patiently for the oncoming parade.

I thought about how dumb parades are, and a series of negative thoughts about the kinds of people who enjoy parades enough to set up lawn chairs hours in advance went through my mind.

Then I reminded myself that I was on my way to pay money to watch people talk during a long forgotten B-movie.

My bogus journey

I went to a website today to calculate the time of my death.

They wanted to know my name, so I lied and said it was Ed Wood.

They wanted to know my height and weight, so I gave that. And they wanted to know my birthdate, so I gave that as well.

Then, they wanted to know what stimulants I use -- cigarettes, alcohol, drugs. I checked alcohol.

After this, the website calculated that I would die March 7, 2030 at the age of 49. Damn. Two more days and I could die on the same day as Biggie. I was a little disappointed with this, because I always thought I would at least make it to 54, which is the age Ed Wood was when he died. I also hoped I'd go on 12/10, like Eddie.

The other really depressing thing about the website is after you enter your information and they give you your predicted death date, they then send you to a screen that counts down the percentage of time in your life you have left. They give you a bar graph showing how far you are into your life, and they give you a ticker, complete with relentless ticking sounds, showing how much closer, bit by bit, you're getting to your eventual doom.

Right now, according to the website, I have 655,565,765 seconds left in my life.

To make myself feel better, I went back and re-entered all of the information again, only this time I told the website I was 500 lbs. This time, it told me I would die in about 6 years. Out of curiosity, I went back and tried 1,000 lbs and it told me to enter a "proper weight." So, I tried 900. Same thing. 800. 700. 600. Finally. Told me 6 years again. Tried 699. "Enter proper weight." Tried 675. Rejected. Tried 650. 6 years again. So, note to self: if I ever get to 500 lbs, keep eating.

The website also generated three "symbols" that may or may not have a direct connection with my death, and the symbols were generated each time I entered info, and each time I entered info they were the same:

War

Work

Alcohol

Well, if the war against the machines starts like it is supposed to, chances are I'll die on judgment day. Then again, if I die 3/7/30 as the website says, I make it well past judgment day. To be honest, I don't really see myself dying in a war.

Work could kill me in a figurative sense, I suppose, by crushing my soul or something like that (if I believed in souls). But, I don't see anything beyond a freak accident contributing to my death at work. I mean, let's be honest, all I do is sit at a desk all day, so unless an earthquake knocks the building down or I get killed in traffic, I think I'll be safe.

Which leaves us with alcohol, which I admit, could easily kill me.

But not if I kill it first!

Babies do not like intense violence or explosions.

As I was walking into the theater to watch TERMINATOR: SALVATION, a large family made up of a variety of children and adults were blocking the door and aisle, trying to decide where to sit.  The middle was pretty full.  The left side?  The right side?

I strategically stayed back, waiting to see where they would go, so I could sit far away from them.  After all, the youngest kid was still in a stroller, and that meant as soon as the explosions and intense violence started, the kid would start screaming.

But, they beat me.  Guess how?  For some reason, one half of the family decided to sit on the right hand side of the theater and the other decided to sit on the left.  I was fucked.

As I sat listening to their baby cry, I wondered what would possess them to split up.  Then it occurred to me that maybe one half of the family didn't want to sit near the baby.  I can't blame them.

An Open Letter to The Terminator

Dear The Terminator,

Look, I realize you're busy governing the state of California.  And I realize there are legitimate reasons why a dude who is the Governor of one of the biggest, most populated states in the union can't go around starring in action movies.  But people from other states need you now, too.  It's your responsibility to go back to your first, best destiny -- terminating things.

Don't act all humble.  I've seen you terminate cars.  I've seen you terminate buildings.  I've seen you terminate people.  I've seen you terminate other Terminators.  I've even seen you terminate yourself!  I'm pretty sure I even saw you terminate an employee one time.

I think it's time to hang it up as governor.  Not because I care one way or the other about your performance in that role.  It's enough for me that The Terminator is the governor of California at all.  Especially now that I don't live there anymore.

All right, I'll get to the point.  The point is, I saw TERMINATOR SALVATION today.

I'll be honest: it was not as bad as I thought it was going to be.  After kind of a slow start, the movie even started to win me over.  That Marcus Wright guy turned out to be all right, the movie seemed to fit pretty well with the other ones even though McG likes to shoot things from weird angles so I get all confused, and Anton Yelchin made a surprisingly Michael Biehnesque Kyle Reese.  Who would have thought?

We were even treated to one of the most bad ass songs of all time -- The Rooster.  What more can you ask for?

What more, indeed.

That's where you come in, The Terminator.  I won't be giving anything away when I say that about 3/4 of the way into the movie, the real Terminator (you) makes a cameo.  Everything I'd heard about the cameo up until I actually saw it was that it looked dumb and didn't fit in.  

Needless to say, I was woefully unprepared for how completely fucking awesome it was to see The Terminator terminating things again.

The crowd exploded with excitement, my jaw dropped, the people behind me kicked my chair.  Suddenly it was like I was 12 again!  And that's when I realized:

The Terminator needs to be in Terminator movies MORE.

I know, I know -- it sounds like a given.  But you and I know that you were not in this one nearly enough.  Sure, there were lots of guys they kept calling Terminators, but there's only one The Terminator, and he's huge and Austrian.

What?  You're too old, you say?  Even if you weren't Governor it wouldn't make any sense for a T-800 (Cyberdyne Systems Model 101) to age?

You're in luck.  I just made up Terminator 5.  It goes like this:

The Terminator RETURNS!  Only, this time he's human.  Peep this.  Skynet had to base the design of the T-800 on something, right?  I mean, there's gotta be a reason he's a huge muscley guy with an Austrian accent, right?

Turns out, in the future, John Connor and Kyle Reese come across the dude who served as the model for the T-800.  Sure, he's 25 years older than he was at the time Skynet stole him and made T-800s in his image, but he's still totally kick ass, having fought his lonesome way across the apocalyptic wastelands of 2020 Earth for years, going it on his own.  After chomping on cigars and rubbing his stubble and saying things like, "I stick my neck out for nobody," the aged T-800 prototype decides to join John Connor's crew and proves himself to be a valuable warrior.  Meanwhile John Connor can't help but be reminded of the T-800 he made best friends with back in the olden days.  Twice.

And then, check this out -- just when they think they have Skynet by the balls, the T-1000s pop up.  So then we get the return of the T-1000 as well.  Bonus.

They all blow shit up, chase each other, and fight each other, and then the movie ends with John Connor sending Kyle Reese back in time, quickly followed by sending another T-800 back in time (after the T-800 prototype dies, of course, in a really emotional scene that will make me cry even though I will have written it).

AND THEN THERE ARE NEVER ANY MORE TERMINATOR MOVIES.

At least, not until after I'm dead.  Then, have at it.

There's one small problem: in THE TERMINATOR, Kyle Reese says he doesn't know what The Terminator is going to look like until he strikes.  So my plot about Kyle Reese chilling with the aged T-800 prototype doesn't really make sense.  But, that's not my fault -- McG already fucked it up by having Kyle Reese see The Terminator in TERMINATOR SALVATION.  So there.  Too late now.  Bam.  I solved Terminator.

Anyway, The Terminator, I digress.  Point is, be in more action movies.  Especially TERMINATOR ones.

Love,

Paul

P.S. What's up with Bryce Dallas Howard?  Is she like really pregnant or what?

I scream "F@#%" for ice cream.

I said, "fuck," in front of a 4-year-old today.  I always feel bad when I accidentally swear in front of kids, but the parents, to their credit, almost always act like it's not a big deal.  It's probably incidents like these that cause all my "friends" on Facebook to vote that I'd be a terrible father.  Or maybe it's the heavy drinking.  Or general bad attitude.  Whatever.

Point is, this time, it was over an orange cream-sicle.

I was at the park with a couple friends, one of whom brought his 4-year-old kid with him, which makes sense, since it was a park.  The ice cream truck pulled up, and the dad of the kid in question really wanted an orange cream-sicle, but he was worried about whether or not there was dairy in it, because he's following a diet that doesn't allow him to eat any dairy. 

I, on the other hand, don't give a f--. . . er, don't care whether I eat dairy or not, so I bought one and decided to eat it.  As I was unwrapping it, the dad of the kid began asking for a bite.

Normally I'd be okay with sharing, but in case you'd like to know the secret rules I live my life by, here's one now: you're not allowed to not buy ice cream because of your diet and then ask me for a bite of my delicious orange cream-sicle.  It's against the rules.  Anyway, diets are based on what you eat, not what you pay for, so dairy is dairy whether I pay for it and then you eat what I paid for, or if you pay for it yourself.

So, I said no a few times, and he persisted, and finally I closed the case with a definitive, "Get your own fucking orange cream-sicle."

As soon as I said it, I realized I'm not supposed to say fuck in front of kids, so I said I was sorry.  I was disappointed in myself, after having carefully spelled P-E-N-I-S out loud earlier while discussing a previous weekend's Scrabble triumph.

"Don't worry about it," the dad said.  "He probably hears swear words all the time."

Then, I enjoyed my orange cream-sicle as I walked home in the sun.

The girl of my dreams?

I ran into a girl working in a coffee shop the other day who I thought I recognized.  After looking her over, I decided she just looked familiar and I didn't know her after all.  But then I saw her giving me a double take, and decided I must know her after all.  When she came over to make small talk and catch up, I realized who it was:

The girl I went to the Winter Dance with my freshman year of high school.

She was still cute, and friendly, and funny, just like I remembered her.  I didn't get her contact information or arrange to hang out with her or anything, but I felt satisfied that I'd finally run into a girl that I had often wondered about.  As I sat on the patio thinking about it, I remembered maybe I've run into her once or twice before.  I wasn't sure.

When Kaite showed up at the coffee shop to hang out with me, I told her about who I had run into, and she said, "I don't remember her."

Which was weird, because right around the time I would have been dating this girl would have also been around the time I was hanging out with Kaite pretty much every day.  As I tried to explain who I was talking about, it occurred to me that I had mentioned this same girl in front of some of my other friends before and they hadn't remembered her, either.

I tried to think of all my friends, who would be the most likely to remember her, and I decided my high school buddy Clint would be a good candidate.  The way I met this girl in the first place was because she had a locker right next door to Clint's locker, and I went to lunch with Clint almost every day, so ever day right before lunch I'd see her.  We started flirting, making small talk, joking around -- she was really engaging and funny, easy to talk to, and somehow through no fault of my own I had fallen ass backwards into a cute girl who actually liked me and wanted to go to the Winter Dance with me.

We talked on the phone a lot and went on a couple of what I guess you'd call "dates," but by the time we got to the Winter Dance we had cooled on each other and were pretty much at the end of our brief relationship.  What should have been our best date yet ended up being pretty much the last time I ever really hung out with her.

Anyway, I saw Clint online and asked him if he remembered this girl, and he didn't.

So, I began to wonder -- does she exist at all?  Is she a figment of my imagination?  Is my life one of those shitty movies where characters who seem real end up just being in the main character's mind?

As I thought about it, I reminded myself that I have a dream at night, from time to time, where I meet a nice, funny, cute girl who is really easy to talk to and who I really seem to be hitting it off with, only to wake up and realize it wasn't real.  I hadn't made the connection before, but I thought, that dream is kind of like the way I met the Winter Dance girl -- we just casually started talking and things clicked amazingly well.

I went home to visit my parents for a barbecue today and took the chance to go through the old photo albums.  I came across the pictures my mom forced me and my friends to take the night of the Winter Dance back in 1995, and sure enough, there was this girl, standing right next to me, looking just the way I remembered her, sweet smile and everything.

I stole a couple of choice photos so I could show my friends.  They may never remember her, but at least I can point out that she actually existed.  

As an added bonus, I look incredibly handsome in the photos.  So, good date choice, Winter Dance girl.

The Book of Jobs

Let's take a tour of all the jobs I've ever had, shall we?  Or, at least, the highlights.

JOB ONE:  LANDSCAPING

One summer in high school this hippie landscaper hired me and paid me under the table.  At first the idea was that I'd be his assistant in all things landscaping related, but early on it became clear that I was terrible at even the simplest forms of manual labor, like digging holes, so he sentenced me to plant watering.  It was boring, but it was easy, and I got to be outside all day.

The other two guys on the landscaping crew:  another hippie who I guess was friends with the boss, and some kind of convict who was on parole or something.  The convict had to have the hippie landscaper sign some kind of piece of paper at the end of the day for his parole officer.  He was a lot better at digging holes than I was.

JOB TWO:  MOVIE THEATER

Next I got a job at a new 8-plex they were building in town.  The idea was that my friends and I would get in on the ground floor and then rule the place.  We helped with the construction of the place, which was fun, but soon the place opened and it stopped being fun as soon as the customers showed up.  I was banished from concessions for being bad at handling money and sentenced to the door post.  Ironically, this was a position I preferred.

The people who ran the theater had a hard time keeping a janitor on the payroll, so there was a period where they made the closing crew do the janitorial work, sometimes lasting late into the night.  One New Years' Eve, my boss let me leave early due to lack of business.

"So, if I'm leaving early, that means I'm not part of the closing crew, right?" I asked.

"Yes," my boss said.

"So, that means I don't have to come back and help with janitorial, right?" I asked.

"I guess not," my boss said.

So, I left.  Next day I found out I had been suspended by the assistant manager for not coming in to help with janitorial.  I was suspended for a period of several days, and I asked the assistant manager if this meant literally that number of days, or the number of shifts, since I often went a day or two without working.  

"Number of shifts," she said.

"So I could be suspended for like two weeks?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said.

"I quit," I said.

JOB THREE: GOLF COURSE GROUNDSKEEPER

My dad got me a job watering the local public golf course.  When I interviewed for the job it sounded great.

"Well, you let the sprinklers run for about an hour," he said.  "Then you go move all of them.  Then you let them run for another hour.  It's a lot of sitting around, doing nothing.  You can bring a video to watch if you want.  You start around sunset and leave as soon as you're done.  I think the guy who has the job now usually leaves at 2:00."

The hours were weird, but I liked the idea of getting paid to sit around.  So, I showed up, and the guy who worked there and would be my partner showed me the ropes.  The fun part was that we drove around in a Gator.  We drove from hole to hole, inserting sprinklers into pipes in the ground.  It took about an hour to go all the way around the course, and by the time we were done setting up all the sprinklers, it was time to start moving the first ones we had set up.  So we'd start over again in an endless cycle, going around and around the course, setting up sprinklers, moving them, etc.

As night fell I began to notice bats swarming every time we stopped the Gator to jump out and move the sprinklers.  It was like the TEMPLE OF DOOM.  As the night progressed we eventually broke a sprinkler and sent water gushing, turning the fairway into a muddy swamp.  My partner and I tried everything to fix it, including dragging a generator and pump out of the shed and attempting to pump the water out.  But, no dice.  So we had to call the real groundskeeper, who was on call, but who was not happy to come out and help.

By the time we were done, the sun was coming up and it had been about 12 hours.  We reported to our bosses, who scolded us for calling the groundskeeper to bail us out, and commanded us to report for duty later that night.

Needless to say, I immediately quit.

JOB FOUR: VIDEO STORE

I worked in the worst video store in town for about one month.  The idea was I'd work there while I was home from college for winter break, then come back in the summer and have a built in job.  One time, I was supposed to open the store, and I slept in.  So the owner called to ask where I was.  Oops.  Oddly, they didn't need me when I came back for the summer.

JOB FIVE: WRITING TUTOR

In college I worked in the tutoring center.  I was terrible at it.  Let's not talk about it.  I did get lots of homework done, though.

JOB SIX: COFFEE SHOP

For two summers during college, I worked at a coffee shop.  The owner got sick of me moping around there in between looking for summer jobs and decided to hire me.  At first I was worried making all the crazy coffee drinks would be difficult but then I learned that they're all the same, so I chilled out.  Still, judging from the customers' reactions, I must not have been very good at it.  A lot of bikers hung out there.  I was never sure why until I realized they were all in AA.  Coincidentally, they always ordered the most extreme drinks -- iced quad shots, etc.  So, their drinks were already terrible, and then they hated the way I made them.  Go figure.

A lot of loser kids used to also hang out there and come in asking for water.  The owner got sick of it so she said they'd have to start paying $0.25 or something if they wanted water.  I decided not to charge them, but I'd tell each one who came in what the deal was and asked them to please not rat on me.  Of course, one of them did, so no more free water for them.

The owner eventually sold the coffee shop and the family who bought it didn't hire me back.  So, there went all my free coffee.  And cookies.  And Sobes.  And pizza from the restaurant on the corner.

JOB SEVEN: ANOTHER MOVIE THEATER

One summer when I was home for college I got a job at an older theater about a half hour away from my parents' house, in Salem.  My old boss from my first movie theater job was running it and was willing to hire me, and I was looking forward to "working" there and not having to do anything based on my familiarity with the boss.  There were a few other dudes in assistant manager positions who I also knew, so I just got to sit around in the box office reading.  Additionally, we got to talk on walkie talkies all the time, so all in all it was a great experience.

I assumed all the other workers were roughly my age until one day one of the guys was really excited about getting his drivers' license.

"Dude," I said.  "You're just now getting your drivers' license?"

"Uh, yeah," a hot chick I had previously assumed was 21 said.  "He's 16."

"Oh," I said.  "Oh!" I thought.  I looked around at everyone.  "How old are you?" I asked the chick.

"16," she said.

Turns out they were all high schoolers.  Fuck me, right?

JOB EIGHT:  THE JOB I HAVE NOW

Oh wait.  I can't write about it.  I read on CNN where you're not supposed to talk about your job on the internet or you'll get fired.

THE END