The World Bank

Today was a pretty eventful day. Terri finally died, ending a period of uncertainty and pain for our country. The Pope had heart failure, slipping him into a grave condition and hopefully ending his terrible pain.

And Paul Wolfowitz was named President of the World Bank, thus BEGINNING a period of suffering and pain for everyone. Now I have no problem with people from a certain industry taking on a mounumental responsibility -- that's how great things get done; but when you take an arrogant politician and put him in a totally unrelated industry, then I start to wonder a little. The person coming into that kind of position should not be saying, "I look forward now to deepening my understanding of the challenges facing the Bank." No, you deepen your understanding BEFORE you take the job, you idiot. You SOLVE the problem AFTER you take the job.

I don't need some war monger doing on-the-job training. I mean come on, political capital's cool, but isn't this a bit much?

My Mom's In China

And she's telling me great stories of other cultures. And it got me thinking about philosophy and Zen teachings. And I came up with this:

It's funny where life takes you. We ask all the right questions in an effort to figure it all out. We want so much to be in control of our future. But asking the questions doesn't seem the way to find the answers. You find the answers by doing. Experience brings its own answer, for which there are no questions.

Put that in your teacup and read it.

Eric's Brain

Eric's Brain
Originally uploaded by loomiswatoosi.

What's really on this poor soul's mind?

Is it sex? Is it the thrill of a possible beating with a plastic dog-throwie thingie? Or is just the snap, crackle, pop of synapses on a lazy Saturday in Venice.

Nah, it's sex.

My New Least Favorite Word

And I find myself using it more and more. MONETIZE: To convert into money.

Seems harmless enough, right? I mean, money makes the world go round, right?

Maybe it's my rebellious naturalistic side, or maybe it's the starving artist -- whatever, I have a bit of a problem with the word. I have no problem working for something and having a payoff come out of it; in fact, I prefer it that way. It's when the idea comes into the very reason for doing something in the first place. When you have an idea and it works on it's own merits and then you say, "well, how do you monetize it", like if you don't, then it doesn't have as much value.

There's something wrong with a society where this is one of the most important yardsticks. That's not what it should be about. You shouldn't have to adapt to make it fit. You shouldn't have to convert. In science, whenever you convert something, loss is always involved. You have to give something up to get something new. But what are we getting in the case of monetization? What are we losing?

The World of Anime

I know that Anime is the "not-so-newest thing since sliced bread" thing here in America. Every cable distributor, satellite operator and broadcast executive want to get their hands on the latest stop-frame, off-sync project every Toro, Shigu and Maru are cranking out on their desktop PCs in Japan. I bet there are 20 junior executives at the Hollywood Studios keeping track of every frame of animation in production, all with the hopes that they'll land the next "Spiderman."

Korea is another story. Just like the second son, Korea has to work a little harder for their place in the sun. Their animators work longer hours for far less than their Japanese cousins. It's sorta strange to watch Homer Simpson and know that he's drawn by a team of Korean animators.

Our vacuum conked out the other day, just before the big events of the weekend: Ben throwing ALL of his food on the floor and a Pyrex dish EXPLODING in the oven (I thought those things were shatterfproof)? Friggin' Corning Corporation. Anyway, Marsha went out and talked to the local vacuum shop guy. He asks how often we serviced the thing. She says never. He says, "oh."

So I unload the new Simplicity Vacuum and marvel at the incredible design. Really well thought out. Suck up last night's dinner from the floor and go to put it away. And then I come across this little picture and I realize how close "The Simpson's" and vacuums really are

Take A Chance

roachcoach
Originally uploaded by loomiswatoosi.

I'm all for experimentation. I've eaten shrimp noodle soup sold from floating boats in Thailand, indescribable bean mush from stalls in Turkey, and jerk pork from impromptu other-side of-of-the-track, roadside stands in Jamaica.

But even with the best medical help just around the corner, I don't think I could ever give this one a try.

Jesus and Mickey Mouse are Brothers

Marsha made a killer shrimp stir fry with black bean sauce tonight -- which, if you don't know her, is sorta as suprising as finding Liberace at a Nevada brothel. She even used the wok, which I think is now the first piece of cookware she's ever touched. I kid...sorta, but the shrimp rocked.

Anyway, I'm standing there at the sink cleaning up (the person who doesn't cook does the dishes) and I turn on my Tivoli Henry Klos Radio (amazing) to listen to KLON/KJAZ. I like to listen to Jazz, Blues and Classical when I cook/clean, it somehow fits well with those kind of tasks. Probably why they always play slow, jazzy numbers in movies when some guy's scrubbing the floor of a bar after closing time and some loser's still there talking to the bartender about his long-lost love.

So when I turn on the radio, do I get sweet jazz? Bouncy Blues? Moody Classical? No. I get jabber. It's pledge week on all public stations in America and suddenly I'm peppered with some annoying, nasally-challenged lady and a chipper little-league announcer wanna-be repeating their toll-free number over and over again.

I scrub the wok in concentric circles, like my friend Jon has told me to do, as they repeat that annoying number to the point I want to call them up, find out where they are and rip the microphones out of their hands. What research monkey told them that a person would want to contribute after hearing someone repeat things over and over. Stop already!

So I turn the radio dial (yes, it has a dial...cool) and let it fall on some station that seems to have a bouncy beat. A little pop-py but it's getting the wok clean, so I leave it on. The song finishes while I'm on the knives and suddenly a bright and happy 20-something girl comes on. Reminds me of what I imagine girls in Oklahoma or Illinois or Nebraska sound like. A sorta "this is America" feeling. Sears. True Value Hardware. Dodge. Ice Cream.

Then she announces their slogan " Safe for the whole family." And then the rest: The Fish KFSHand all of sudden she's talking about becoming a Praise Pusher and somehow, in some weird way, I'm still intrigued.

And then it hits me. Christian Rock has become the Mickey Mouse Club of our era. Before you get upset, I'm not talking about Jesus or God (I never understood the difference -- sometimes Jesus is God and then other times God is God, who's who? It's like having two guys named Ray in a room -- "You mean me?"). I'm not even talking about religion. What I mean is that the culture of God and the group of people who socialize around that culture, especially Christian culture, is very close on the genetic tree to what Disney represented in the '50s -- Family, Safety, Love, Respect. Jesus is the new Mickey.

It's even more blatant than that. On "The Fish," they advertise trips to Disneyland and DVD re-releases of Bambi.

Now all of this is not such a bad thing -- there's nothing wrong was spreading love and responsibility, but you've got to wonder how bad our common culture and media options have become in their quest for commercial success. Just how much crap are we putting out there?

And what would Jesus make? Or Mickey?

Oh Happy Egg

happy egg
Originally uploaded by loomiswatoosi.

Sometimes you wake up and you just have a feeling that it's going to be a great day.

My Quote of the Day

Life is about recovery

Brilliant Surprise

It's so nice when you receive something unexpectedly. Such was the case this Saturday morning. A client who's a music director/supervisor at a record company here in L.A. sent a mix CD of some new music that's around. Now I've become a bit boring actually in the realm of musical variety; in fact, I would say that between my playlists on the iPOD and the programmed, repetitive drool they play on all the Clear Channel and Infinity stations, the only way I hear something new is if it's from the Jerry Garcia impersonator on the street corner near Third Street Promenade.

So I was quite excited when I put the CD in the DVD player and started it off. Listening to other people's mixes is sorta like reading someone's writing -- it's an ever-unwinding journey that you have to give yourself to.

Most of the songs were a bit off what I would usually like, but they were fresh and crisp and really well produced. About four tracks into the mix I had to pack up the fam and head out to the Valley (that'll be in tomorrow's blog), so I took the CD into Marsha's car and spent 5 minutes trying to get it into the CD changer -- for the amount of money they charge for that car, you would think BMW would be smart enough to put the CD changer in a better place than the friggin' boot (that's trunk for you yanks). Just goes to show you that money doesn't always buy the best thing.

Anyway, Track 6 proved to be the clincher. If you've never heard her, go out right now and get Angela McCluskey's tunes. She's a mix of Macy Gray and Bessie Smith and Joss Stone and hell, anyone who's ever opened their mouth and sang in a way that made your jaw drop. It was only after looking her up that I realized she sang for The Wild Colonials. Pure, sweet butter. That's all I can say.

So my advice to you -- my funny Internet friends -- is to get outside of your routine a little and see where in your life you can find something new. If it comes in a package to your door, great; otherwise, open your ears and look around -- it's out there -- and it is sweet.

Give Thanks

I'm feeling philosophical so forgive the following:

In my busy life, it's really easy to go through the day and not say thank you to the many people who help me along the way. I'm not talking about "thanks" as in to GOD. I'm talking about something simpler and yet a little more meaningful.

I was thinking the other day about what the most satisfying type of work is for me. It's not completing some great task or having my vision seen by thousands or perhaps millions of people -- it's doing something that affects one person in some way. It doesn't really matter how much money I get for it; just as long as I make a positive impact on someone.

And the same is true the other way. There are so many people whose lot in life it is to help other people -- doctors, teachers, artists -- yes, even some lawyers. But it's so easy to look at them as people in jobs rather than just people. Well, we pay them; so there's no need to thank them. But you've got to wonder what compels some to work in often difficult fields; I guess it really doesn't matter -- the important thing is that they do.

With all the trouble going on in our country and around the world, I guess the trick is to look at what we do -- in our jobs, our relationships and our everyday life -- and see how to say thank you to those who matter and make ourselves worthy of having someone say the same to us.

Hard Work

Last week, my wife and I were stuck in downtown traffic after attending an expo. Commenting on the traffic, she said we were spoiled by where we live and how far we have to drive to work...but we've worked hard for what we've gotten, right?

I said no, our housekeeper works hard...in my wife's case, sitting in a room and working with a bunch of insecure Jewish writers is not hard...it's difficult.

Bad Use of Good English

So there I am exercising this afternoon in an effort to shed a few extra of the couch pounds I've acquired due to my Tivo and a large supply of nuts -- my iPOD ablare with an old Moby track (good for the motivation, you know) watching Princess Martha Stewart strut her PR-supported prissy felon/homemaker stuff for the cameras (diversions help pass the time, you know) when they cut to a commercial -- first an ad for Larry King Live, with -- oh wait, the most important figure in modern life today...Kofi Annan? The Pope? Bono? No, that would be Kirstie Alley, who after taking a few years off and memorizing the direct line to her local Dominos has now figured the only way she can pay for more food is to poke unending fun at her self in a new Showtime semi-scripted series (I thought Showtime was soft-porn...or was that Cinemax -- whichever, talk about counter programming -- the Christian Right should adopt her as their anti-masturbation mascot).

Forgive me, I digress. Anyway, then they run a nice family oriented teaser for, of all things, the imminent threat of DIRTY BOMBS

And that, got my thinking.

DIRTY BOMB. What a stupid term. I mean, have you ever heard of a CLEAN BOMB? Isn't the point anyway to make a really big mess? I don't care if it has to do with the efficiency of the nuclear reaction, when I think "clean", I think of the dude on the box.

So then that really got me thinking. You know, they have SMART BOMBS which our government likes to brag about (and drop) all the time. If these bombs are really so smart, you think they would have figured out a way to keep from blowing themselves up. Put that in your Howitzer.

Maybe as part of Martha's house-arrest she could work with the military to come up with new designs and names for our bombs -- maybe a NIFTY BOMB or a SUMMER SURPRISE -- Yeah, I like that a lot better than those stupid cupcakes she's always making; and the best part about it is Kirstie can't eat em.

Disasters

In late 1993, I took a backpacking trip around Southeast Asia to see how the rest of the world lived. One of the places I visited was a small island off the coast of Phuket, Thailand. Phi Phi (pee pee) Island is pretty tiny, with a small isthmus surrounded by towering peaks.



The main "village" (if you can call it that) was right in the middle of the isthmus. My travelling partner and I got a small hut on the beach within walking distance to the center. During the day, we would sit on the beach and eat pinneapple; at night, we would drink Sang Thip with the local fishermen, watch the amateur boxing matches or dance with a bunch of Swedish tourists. The island had no phone except for a radio at the local military camp on the other side of the island. The TV was switched on for 1 hour a day to broadcast the BBC news. All electricity was shut off at midnight.

One of the fishermen I met was a wiry guy with a wife and 4 kids. (That's his boat on the left).
Other than the boat, he had a small hut and some clothing. He would wake up at 4AM to pilot his boat from a neighboring island to the local spots, cast his net, and then bring his catch to PhiPhi to sell. He then would take tourists out for day trips to the surrounding idylls for $2 a day. After dropping us back on the island, he headed back out and fished the afternoon catch, followed by Backgammon (I honestly don't think he knew how to play), Sang Thip and cigarettes. Finally, when the electricity went off, he climbed back in his boat and went home.

One day, while walking in the shallows off the beach, I cut my foot on a sharp rock. It bled like crazy and though the ex-military, red-haired Irishman who owned the huts said it would heal just fine -- just put plenty of Iodine on it -- after 4 days it was swollen and red to the point that I could no longer walk on my own. Through broken English, my fisherman friend said it looked bad.

That night, while sitting in the outdoor bar/boxing ring, I suggested to my travelling partner that we probably should go to Bangkok to a proper hospital. Just then, I saw out of the corner of my eye the pictures from the TV -- flames shooting into the air, destruction, panic -- the 1994 Northridge Earthquake.

We hurried to the military camp to use the phone, but we could not get through for 2 days. Time stopped. I worried constantly about what might have happened to my family. When I finally got through, I learned that my family was alright, but that things in LA were a mess. We got on the next boat out and headed back to Phuket and eventually home.

Eleven years later, I'm sitting on the couch in my livingroom. My foot and my city have healed just fine -- just scarred.

The first news of the Tsunami disaster comes in. They mention Thailand, then Ko Phi Phi Island, which had grown considerably after Leonardo DiCaprio made "The Beach". I instantly think of my fisherman friend and wonder if he or his family is still alive. In the coming weeks, I learn and see more of the growing devastation.

Time goes by and I read reports that people are getting back to their lives there. But I still want to go back to see for myself.

Published!

You may remember a story I wrote earlier this year while flying back from a business trip. It was entitled "The Life of a House" and was all about how my current home had a story of it's own.

Well, this week, The Palisades Post ran a slightly edited version of the story along with a picture of me and the fam. I must say, after a novel, 2 screenplays and countless short stories, business papers and computer code, it sure feels good to see my name in smudgy ink.

Unfortunately, the Post doesn't put all of their stories online or I would link to it. I'll ask them for an edited version and put it up soon.

No Habla Mortgage

My wife and I have a housekeeper who comes once a week to clean up our stuff and make the house look somewhat presentable to the few restaurant deliverymen and scam artists who show up at our front door. "M" doesn't speak any English, and my wife doesn't speak any Spanish, so unless I'm home or the computer's conveniently parked on Google's Translate Tool, I'm really not sure how anything gets done. All I know is that when I get home, my shirts are clean and I don't step on the pieces of pineapple and mashed yam that Ben likes to throw on the floor.

So today I get home and Marsha and I are talking about our day. You know, who did you see? Who did you talk to? She says that she and "M" had a very good conversation. I'm thinking, "This oughta be good." She says that she thinks "M" said that our house is too small and that the one they're building up the street looks very nice, and if we're going to have another kid, we're gonna need a bigger one, probably have to...and she gives the universal sign for KNOCK DOWN.

Great, so either I've got a housekeeper who goes home and reads the The Robb Report or a woman who travels ten miles on a bus and then walks 6 blocks so she can spend the entire day scrubbing my floors thinks my house is a tear-down. Ah, the joys of home ownership.