Saturn's got some strange weather.

How strange is this? 

There's a hexagonal storm swirling around on Saturn.  I don't even know how this is possible, and the article I read didn't have any physics to explain it.



Of course, then there's this on the other side:







As the article says, this is "freak, one-eyed monster storm" that's raging on the opposite pole from the hexagonal storm.



Truly, this is a bizarre planet.

Powered by ScribeFire.

My wife is a good person. She lets me talk her into doing things like this:

I thought it'd be a funny picture to have her straddling the miniature tracks like a giantess. You can tell by the tilt of her head that she's nonplussed. Here's the photo:
See? Funny, right? Imagine being a train and you saw her standing there and . . . aww, never mind.

Once again, I am given scintillating, soul-stirring advice by my choice of underarm deodorant. If that ain't inspirational, I don't know what is. It's especially gratifying to wipe that slogan in my pits. I mean, if that hadn't been carved into the stick, I might've forgotten to "lead the way" today - and that's unacceptable.
In all seriousness, having slogans on my deodorant has the reverse effect than what I expect was intended. Products that are pushy like this make me mulish; I'd just as soon do the opposite than know that I was following the advice of my smell-good. In this case, I wound up becoming opinionless and wishy-washy for the day. Hopefully, I'll never get one that says "Make Money" or "Take a Deep Breath."

Yes. I may be a bit behind the times, but I do so enjoy Twitter.

Powered by ScribeFire.

This site is fabulous. It's a flickr photostream with shots of someone's little boy playing his Gameboy at various historical sites in Europe and around the Mediterranean.



I remember doing something similar when I was his age (or at least his size . . . como se dice "late bloomer" en espanol?), except it was a novel, not a video game device. As my family traveled around Europe the summer following my 7th grade year, I found myself engrossed in "Team Yankee" by Harold Coyle.

From the Amazon page for the book:
Harold Coyle's Team Yankee: A Novel of World
War III (Presidio Press, 1987) was published a year after Red Storm
Rising's triumphant debut in hardcover, and although it is thematically
similar (Soviet forces invade West Germany after a series of crises
escalate into an all out conventional war), Coyle's approach is very
different from Clancy's. Instead of creating his own possible scenario
for a NATO vs. Warsaw Pact confrontation, he asked for, and received,
permission from British author (and retired General) Sir John Hackett
to set Team Yankee within the scenario created in Hackett's two
"speculative fiction" books The Third World War: August 1985 and The Third World War: The Untold Story.
Team Yankee takes place within a two-week period in an August in
the late 1980s. Since late July, a series of crises precipitated by the
Iran-Iraq war has morphed into a clash between U.S. and Soviet naval
forces in the Persian Gulf region. By August 1, word comes that NATO is
mobilizing and ordering their armed forces, including Bannon and Team
Yankee, to their wartime positions. Soon, the Soviets and their Warsaw
Pact "allies" cross the Inner German Border in force. Team Yankee and
the rest of NATO's forces in West Germany must then fight the invaders
and stop them before the Red Army reaches the Rhine River. After that,
assuming the Soviet attack bogs down, the mission will change from
merely defending territory to taking offensive operations and pushing
the invaders back. The question Coyle poses is, can American soldiers,
using their weapons and tactics against superior numbers of Soviet and
Warsaw Pact soldiers, defeat Russian weapons and tactics?

Readers familiar with Hackett's macrocosmic World War III will know
the big picture, but first-time readers will be turning the pages to
see who wins, who loses, who dies...and who survives in this
outstanding first novel by a true master of the military fiction genre.


The only flaw, and this is not Coyle's fault, is that reality -- in
the shape of the fall of communism and the end of the Cold War -- has
made the novel's setting extremely outdated. Some of the then-modern
weapons, such as the M1 main battle tank, have been since updated to
M1-A2 standard, older weapons have been retired, and obviously there's
no more Warsaw Pact.

All in all, it's an entertaining read.

I felt justified in reading it, though, since the setting for the book happened to be Germany. As we sped down the Autobahn, I'd occasionally glance out the window to take a look at the land. This made the book all the more immediate to me (so that's what the Black Forest looks like! Whuddya know?), and I finished it in record time. The book, in turn, spawned a phenomenon in my entertainment for the next couple of years. The diagrams in "Team Yankee" were very appealing to my young mind with their grids and topographical lines and symbols representing armored units; I decided to create a game with my pal Kyle Dahlen that utilized those same markings.

The game required:

• Grid-lined paper
• Pencils
• Lots of erasers
• A ruler
• Honesty

Essentially, it was "playing war" as young boys do with the whole "I shot you first. Nuh-uh! I shot YOU first", except it was on paper, which is what young nerds do. There would be agreements made ahead of time regarding the range of artillery (six grid spaces), the speed of vehicles (2 grid spaces for humvees per turn, 1 for trucks and tanks, etc.), the damage caused by said vehicles (a humvee, unless it was equipped with anti-armor missles, was unable to take out a tank), and the inability for your units to "see" around hills even though you, as the player, could see the massive armored unit lurking on the other side of a large hill plain as day. Discovering hidden enemy elements required scouts and helicopters which couldn't be intentionally sent to the other side of the hill; the movement had to have the appearance of routine and unintentionality, and we would call each other on moves that looked too suspicious.

All of these unspoken rules made the game a tad on the subjective side and not unlike Calvinball in some respects . . .



. . . which is why we quit playing the game around the time one outgrows playing "war." We turned our attention, instead, to other, more age-appropriate pastimes.



What?! You thought we'd play something that wasn't on paper? Hardly.

Powered by ScribeFire.

I had a dream a couple of weeks ago that affected me a bit more than I expected so I might as well write about it. See if I can't get it out of my system.

I dreamt that I had an opportunity to visit Angel Falls.

Now who wouldn't want to visit the tallest falls in the world? Especially if you're of the same mindset as me; I want to see the biggest, baddest, edgemost, best places and things and Angel Falls fits into that category. So, with that in mind, you might possibly understand my excitement at the prospect.
My dream fast-forwarded to my arrival at the falls. I hopped out of my vehicle and raced toward the walkway that would lead me to the great wonder. As the walkway led around the corner of a cliff, I realized that I wasn't actually looking at a natural cliff-face. Rather, it looked more like a dam. In fact it was! It was a big ol' cement wall . . . with a thin, pathetic rivulet dribbling down its face. "Odd," I thought and then I saw a sign in front of me. The sign looked like any of a number of National Park informational signs and it read "Angel Falls." Disappointment descended upon me like the world's largest sponge after it had filled itself with the world's largest falls but I tried to make the most of it.

"It's so bee-yoo-tiful," I said to my companions, and I clasped my hands together and held them to my chest.
"Isn't it though?" they replied. "Truly a wonder."
"Oh yes," I said through my teeth. "It truly is."

They cast some sideways glances at me because they knew I was being insincere. I'd had my fill of "Angel Falls."

"Let's see what else is around," I prodded.
"But we came all this way," they complained. "Don't you want to spend some time with the falls?"
"I've spent plenty of time. It's manmade!" I shrieked. "I DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS MANMADE!!" I ran back to the parking lot, sobbing.

I woke up in a sweat; this is not your typical nightmare what with its lack of werewolves and public nudity, so I felt a bit confused at how rattled I was. Since then, I've given it a lot of thought and I'm pretty sure that I know its meaning, but if any of you want to give it a go, feel free. I don't remember my dreams much anymore.

Oh, and by the way, the other night I woke Heidi up by talking in my sleep. I said, "That's why they call it the weasel dance!" followed by deep, jolly belly laughs. Heidi then proceeded to wake me up because she was laughing so hard.

As a kid, I used to watch nature documentaries like empty-nesters watch soaps. Cheetahs chasing down gazelles in super-slo-mo, old men wrestling anacondas in the Amazon, bighorn sheep butting heads, great white sharks devouring huge chunks o' meat - their eyes rolling back into their cartilaginous noggins with bestial ecstasy: All of this served to instill a need to see the animals at their most active. Zoos were disappointing - the animals just sat around or slept most of the day - so I spent much of my time in the woods, hoping to catch a glimpse of nature going about the business of survival. I did get to see many things in the forests of Minnesota, but we don't have any of the romantic animals other than wolves and no one ever sees those unless they live way up North. You know, the lions and killer whales and spitting cobras and gorillas - all those unique and exceptionally dangerous animals with a flair for the dramatic.

Well, my dreams came true this last week. Luckily, I had a camera with me. When you see this, if you were a true fan of nature docs, you'll know exactly what was going through my mind as I recorded the event. Why, I've even included the appropriate music (to add to the effect). I give you . . .

"The Elephant Seals of Piedras Blancas"!

I received a link to this from my brother; it's for the BBC2 show "Top Gear," and this has got to be their most ambitious project to date. I don't know who gives them the money to do this stuff, but it makes for great TV so go make some popcorn and enjoy.

Visted Gus's BBQ last Friday with some pals:

Great exterior signage!

But it's not exactly the manliest of BBQ joints when you first walk in.


Gus's BBQ lives on Fair Oaks Ave. in South Pasadena, CA. If you're ever interested in visiting a place that isn't a scene in the Los Angeles area, go to Gus's. Between the pink neon, the porcelain pigs heads that adorn the wall above the kitchen, and the horse-racing-themed etchings on the mirrors behind the bar, one can slip in and out unnoticed and unjudged for one's lack of coolness. Pink neon tends to level the playing field, giving everyone who steps into the restaurant a wash of "unconcerned with fashion."
Gus's seems to be a bbq joint/diner/bar/pool hall that exists outside of any particular time period unless that time period is called "Reno" or "Truck Stop on I-80."

. . . which is why their logo seems so out of place.
(actual napkin swiped from bar)


What a fantastic typeface! You can practically hear the bbq-ready animals bleat as they're hooked by that massive, shepherd's crook of a "G." But why such an amazing, antique typeface when the rest of the place seems so . . . well . . . tacky?

According to their website, Gus's was originally established in 1946 by three Greek brothers. However, many of their ads say "Since 1929." So which one is it, fellas?


I'm inclined to believe the 1929 claim (considering the typeface), and after a bit of googling around, the jury's still out.

So, all this talk about a bbq joint and no mention of the bbq food? There's a reason for that.

"The Food is Horrible"

and yet it fits perfectly with the decor. So if you're ever catching a midnight showing of "Superman 2" or "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" at the Rialto, be sure to stop by Gus's for a quick dip into the Stardust culture. At least it's cheap.

I spent a good twenty minutes guffawing at webpage called ROFLCATS! and lemme tell ya, Heidi was debating whether I'd completely lost it when I showed her some examples.

Whereupon she immediately became a fan. Many of the captions on the photos look like the same type of stuff one might find on Cute Overload minus the commentary. I'm a sucker for this kind of thing. Give me furry fuzzballs in peculiar situations and I'm good to go for a while.

A-like so.

Re: My post on the 8th of January "The Wind"

I now know why the Whole Foods folks ask you if you want your stuff "For here or to go." Because they have an eating area, if you ask for it "for here" you will be charged tax. If you get it "to go," there's no tax. I knew that worked with coffee shops but grocery stores introduce a whole new paradigm; the phenomenon didn't register with me while I was at the . . . um . . . register.

I love this! Fantastic stop-motion mayhem and good music, too. Props, kudos, and thumbs up to this pair of creative numbskulls. Let it load all the way and enjoy.

If I ever participated in the rat race, today was that day.

I had to do a deadline run to downtown LA from my office in beautiful "Historic Philippino Town." My boss waited until the last minute to send me out with a DHL package. First of all, DHL is the toothless, lazy-eyed, red-headed stepchild of FedEx and is therefore impossible to deal with. Their website is unacceptably slow and when this is coupled with an unacceptably slow connection at an ancient studio, the results are as you would expect - unacceptable. After much hair-pulling and tooth-grinding (I stopped short of "rending of garments" since I still have to maintain an iota of decency in the office), I got the airbill to print . . . with forty minutes to spare before the drop closed.

"Forty minutes," you say, "Why that seems like plenty of time to complete your errand." Sure it is, if you're trying to do anything other than worm your way into downtown LA at 5pm.
Hopped in the Jeep . . . great. Just great. My fuel gauge was on "E." Oh well, no time to stop. Better hope I've got enough to get there. My directions were simple enough.

1. L on Beverly
2. R on Rampart
3. L on 3rd
4. 3rd becomes 4th
5. L on Grand

Moves one through four worked as planned, but once I got to the left on Grand, what I didn't know was that Grand is a split-level street. Which level, oh mighty google maps?!

But the paper lay in silent mockery of me. Very well, I'll have to figure it out. I didn't make the left on lower Grand, mostly because I missed it, so I jammed around the city block and onto Upper Grand. Great! I should be able to find 323 S. Grand from here. There's 350, there's 333, and there's . . . wait, 221!?! Where'd 3-2-3 go? At this point, the time was 5:10pm. Ok, look for parking; absolutely no parking from 7am to 10pm Monday and Tuesday. Super. No ramps either. They must be on lower Grand. So 'round a city block I went, past the Walt Disney Concert Hall, past some large courthouses, and into lower Grand.
(It was at this point that I started taking pictures because I realized it was starting to get silly)


Find parking. Monthly . . . monthly . . . loading dock . . . aha! $3.50 every 12 minutes?! Highway robbery!


Or, low way robbery as the case might be, but I had no choice. I went in, parked my car, and hopped into the elevator. This was in 333 S. Grand. When I arrived in the lobby, several security guards attempted to tell me where 323 S. Grand was located, but none of them were able to do so. None of them knew where the DHL drop was either. Being clueless and helpless, they had no recourse but to grant me access to the exterior of the building (does that seem backwards?) so I could look for 323. I ran North. 221. South? 350. Ok, across the street then . . . and on the phone with DHL. Luckily, I know their 800 number by heart and called it. After pressing zero a dozen times, I finally got a live person on the phone.
"Hi there, where's your dropbox at this location?" I asked (I'm paraphrasing).
"It's in the lower LDL mailroom, plaza level." she replied (again paraphrasing - she had difficulty separating the difference between my account address and the address I was currently at).
"What does LDL stand for?" I queried, the time being 5:24.
"I don't know," she said. "That's all the information I have."
"Ok, thanks," I said as I made my way toward some elevators.
"You're welcome, and thank you for calling DHL."
"Yes, and thanks for your effort," I snarked as my RAZR clicked shut. Obviously, the only help I was going to get from my phone was photo documentation.
I got on the elevators and headed back down to what I hoped was Lower grand; instead, it was just a parking garage. Ok, so maybe I should run around the parking garage like an idiot. Good idea. That's what I did, following exit signs as I went. Eventually, it put me out on lower Grand. And what should I see before me but a DHL van! Sweet!! I ran over to him.
"I'm so glad to see you. You have no idea."
He looked at me warily.
"Is there a drop box with a 5:30 pick up around here somewhere?"
"Yup."
"Can you tell me where it is?"
"In there."

"Ok, thanks!" I blurted cheerily as I ran into the loading dock. I was greeted by yet another security guard.
"Where can I find the DHL box?"
"Ummm," he hummed, "ask the elevator operator - in there."
"Ok, thanks!" I said as I hopped over the loading barrier and into the hallway.

Not a soul to be seen anywhere. I hit the elevator button. No change in the digital floor number posted next to the door. I mashed it again. Nothing. I waited a few seconds more and then blasted back out to the street - straight for the DHL guy in his van.

"Can you take this?!"
He put his hands up. "No way, man. If I do, I'll get in trouble."
"Really?" I asked, incredulous. "Where'd you say that drop box is again?"
"In there."
"Yeah, but where 'in there'? No one seems to know."
"P level."
"P level?"
"Yeah, P level, plaza level." He was getting irritated with me.
"Great. Thanks!" I sprinted back into the loading dock and leapt into the hallway. The elevator was higher up in the building. I started looking for stairs. According to the emergency evacuation diagram, there were some stairs around behind the elevators. So through the door I went, and then down a flight

to a second stairwell. In I went and up several flights to the P level.
"Please be unlocked," I prayed as I tested the handle. It came open.
But now where was I??!
Oh great. This is really helpful. It looks like a sanitarium which, in a way, was appropriate considering my state of sanity at that point. Time to use the "run around and hope" trick I used in the parking garage.

Not this way.
After a few more random lefts and rights, I spied the grail.

And with no time to spare. Luckily, the pick-up hadn't happened yet so I dropped the package.

"Now how the sam hill do I get out of here?" When I finally made my way back to the loading dock, the Uber-helpful DHL guy was pulling in. Apparantly, this was his pick-up. Thanks, fella.
Once I found my Jeep again (that's a story in and of itself) I only had one other problem to contend with.

And in rush hour, no less. man!

The Wind, pt. 2

From my previous post, you knew that it was going to be very windy in Los Angeles, but did you know that it was windy enough for us to travel through time?! No? What if I have proof of said time-travel? Would you believe me then? No? Well, it's just as I suspected, but know, oh ye skeptic, that on Saturday we traveled to those groovy 60s.

How do I know this? What was stuck in the aloe outside my front door? Behold!


Ok, it's a little difficult to read at this size, but if you get out your magnifying glass, you can see that the date of this NBC invoice is 11/30/65 with an "Ok to Pay" of Jan. 4, 1966 (the birth year of regular commentor "older brother") Can you believe it? And it's like, in perfect condition and stuff. That must mean I traveled in time. How else would a windblown invoice from the sixties end up at my doorstep? How else!?!

I'm willing to entertain other ideas.

The name of the invoicee is "Goodson Todman" of 375 Park Ave., NY, NY. A bit (and I do mean a "bit," as in "wee") of research into this reveals that Goodson Todman is a rather influential production company.

From wiki . . .
Born in Sacramento, California, Goodson and long-time partner Bill Todman produced some of the longest-running game shows in television history. The long list of Goodson-Todman productions includes Beat the Clock, Family Feud, Match Game, Password, The Price is Right, To Tell the Truth, I've Got A Secret and What's My Line?. The shows endured through the decades, many over multiple runs, because of Goodson's sharp eye for production and presentation. While Todman primarily handled the company's business affairs in the early days, Goodson oversaw the creative end of the company. Goodson's knowledge of what made a successful game show work in terms of both format and presentation was pivotal to the longevity of the shows he produced.

Ladies and gentlemen, I hold in my hand a piece of history. An NBC screening room invoice for the Goodson-Todman company for the sum of $5.00. Let's dig a little deeper, shall we? What were Goodson and Todman working on in the middle Sixties that would require the use of NBC's screening rooms?

Again, from the wikioracle . . .

Branded was a Western series which aired on NBC from 1965 through 1966 and starred Chuck Connors as Jason McCord, a United States Army Cavalry captain who had been drummed out of the service following an unjust accusation of cowardice. Created by Larry Cohen, the show was produced by Goodson-Todman Productions, who are primarily known not for Westerns or dramatic shows, but for almost exclusively producing game shows such as The Price is Right.

Aha! This is almost too easy. And it came to me, delivered by the elements. Nothing like having tertiary accounts payable documents from defunct companies and dead men to clutter up my already-too-full file cabinet. I think I'll put this in my saveable and memorable file.

"But Heidi, it's old!"

Oh, and for my friends in Los Angeles . . . can you believe this wind?! It caught me totally unawares this morning; an enormous gust roared up and rattled my windows pretty hard. It didn't relent until the sun went down.
I pulled this off of weather.com.

High Wind Warning

LOS ANGELES COUNTY VALLEYS-SANTA CLARITA VALLEY- 457 PM PST FRI JAN 5 2007

...HIGH WIND WARNING REMAINS IN EFFECT UNTIL 12 PM PST SATURDAY...

A HIGH WIND WARNING REMAINS IN EFFECT UNTIL 12 PM PST SATURDAY.

STRONG NORTHEAST WINDS OF 25 TO 45 MPH WITH GUSTS TO AROUND 60 MPH WILL CONTINUE MAINLY BELOW PASSES AND CANTONS THROUGH SATURDAY MORNING.

A HIGH WIND WARNING MEANS A HAZARDOUS HIGH WIND EVENT IS EXPECTED OR OCCURRING. SUSTAINED WIND SPEEDS OF AT LEAST 40 MPH OR GUSTS OF 58 MPH OR MORE CAN LEAD TO PROPERTY DAMAGE.

Yup, it's windy; today, I saw a flock of pigeons get blasted apart by the wind. I think they were okay, but it looked very dramatic what with the wings and the bodies careening in thirty different directions and feathers and such.

Whole Foods - "For Here or To Go?"

This is not the question I expect when I'm standing in the checkout line at a grocery store, but this is exactly the question that I was asked as the clerk bagged my groceries for me.
"To go," I said, and I have to admit that I was a bit incredulous as I said it. Since when do you get groceries "for here"?
Since there's a place to eat two meters away from the checkout, that's when.

Ok ok, I've been to Whole Foods before and I know they have an extensive salad bar, deli, and sandwich-makin' station which makes it imperative for them to have a place to eat said food, but it's been a long time since I've shopped there and I had no idea that you could get your salad bar goodies "for here." I almost retracted my "to go" statement and had the clerk provide me with whatever it is they provide their shoppers with when they get their groceries "for here." Maybe you get trays and sporks! and those non-absorbant diner napkins that come out of the chrome napkin dispensers, except these napkins would be pressed out of natural hemp fibers that were hand-harvested by organic non-impact farmers in Paraguay and you would have to pay 3 dollars a napkin. That or you could buy reusable rags (also woven from hemp - the miracle substance!) with "Eat At Whole Foods!" printed on the front in a manner resembling an old neon sign.
Yeah, in my dreams. In all likelihood, she probably just keeps one's salad/sushi/sandwich out of the bag so you don't have to dig past your organic carrots and yerba mate tea to get at it. Maybe they have flatware . . . I don't know. Next time I go, and I've got half an hour to burn, I'll experiment.

Last night, I dreamt that I wanted to change my name to "Knife" Mick McGee, having seen this name carved into a wooden sign by a rushing river.

"How cool would that be?" I imagined myself to be all tough, wearing flannel shirts, carrying axe handles, wearing thick, brown leather belts and sturdy green suspenders to keep my oversized dungarees from falling down. A lumberjack with a chip on his shoulder - that's "Knife" Mick McGee.

Corporate Shill

Had to go to the local mailbox and shipping store today to ship some stuff. It's a nice day, so I figured I'd walk there. I got my bag and the box I needed to ship and headed out. Once my task was complete, I made my way over to the nearest Starbucks to spend some Christmas gift card money on some coffee. A nice afternoon, this. As I walked out the door, I fit my white earbuds into my ears, sipped on my espresso and pressed play on my wee little iPod. A family waiting for a table at Bob's Big Boy watched me with a collectively bored and steady gaze as I sauntered down the sidewalk toward them; I made eye-contact with their young daughter and it was at that exact moment that self-conciousness dropped on my head like a big, greasy Big Boy burger.

Lessee . . .

• white, iPod earbuds? - check
• white Starbucks cup with green logo? - check
• brown adidas with distinctive "trefoil" stripes? - check
• short sleeve, button down shirt with bright red "Dickies" logo stiched to left bicep? - check

If there's ever been a time in my life when I've felt more like a walking billboard, it isn't readily springing to mind. Oh wait, there was that one time at the gym that I wore a navy blue sleeveless t-shirt with "PONY" written on the chest in bold, white, block letters. That was pretty bad. Never wore that one again, I'll tell you right now, though the sideways glances I got that day were moderately priceless.

Oh well, whatcha gonna do? I like my Dickies shirt, I like my iPod (which I've dubbed "The Entertainment Dot"), I like my adidas - I even like free Starbucks coffee. Can I help it if companies like to emblazon their trademarks all over every product they produce? No.
Can I avoid carrying/wearing them all in a kaliedoscope of logos? Yes, but then there are those days (like today) when the corporate singularity drags all of the various elements into its event horizon and there is no escape. It is at those times that I'm forced to advertise for the products I paid cash money for. The very same products I'm enjoying are also the ones that are making me bitter. How ironic.

How I spent my weekend, or . . . What's Ted gotten us into now?

The Fridge

Wo-o-o-ow it's been a while. Jeesh. See, I got this job that takes up 15 hours of my day and haven't had it in me to write at all. Excuses excuses.

Last Saturday, I had a humbling experience. Went to the bank to do some business during which I had the chance to people-watch a bit. The line, she crawled. As I snaked around to the second switchback in the queue (wait, do they call them switchbacks in bank lines? Whatever.), a loud, skinny, sun-wrinkled, man in a dirty black tshirt entered the lobby with his family. He yakked on the phone and laughed with whomever it was on the other end of his raucous conversation. His kid played with the hooks on the queue ropes, as kids tend to do in boring ol' bank lobbies and airport terminals, and was generally quiet. His wife stared at the flat-screen television displaying some Washington scandal in HD. As the line inched along, we ended up side-by-side for a time and the man stank. Reeked! It was as if his sweat was made of nicotene and sewage. A plumber? Who's to say. He seemed happy enough. His family was well-clothed and easygoing. I'm not going to try to figure his life out right now, I told myself. But man! does he smell. Poor guy'll probably die when he's fifty.
In a split-second, My mind pictured him at dimly-lit bars, boozing his life away. Ingesting methamphetamines and philandering. My rational side was telling me to quit thinking like that, but my imagination was wandering away too quickly to halt it. After another minute or so, I forgot about him completely and zoned on the TV myself.

I got to the teller and went through my business. It took a lot longer than I expected since the teller basically did whatever he wanted to do despite my very specific instructions. The manager had to come out and void things - rekey things - adjust numbers - cancel transactions, and the like. I began to get frustrated with the whole situation. At one point, I had a fee to pay, and rather than redo a withdrawl slip, I asked if I could pay with cash. Fine, they said. As I scrounged around in my wallet, I realized I was one dollar short.

"I'm a day late and a dollar short," I said. The idiom was lost on the teller and the manager. Umm, I don't have the four dollars I need. I only have three. I'll need to fill out another withdrawl slip, I guess. The duo looked at me strangely, as if I was asking them to stand on their heads now please and twirl. I need another withdrawl slip, please?
Just as they snapped out of their collective reverie and moved to get me a new slip, a folded-up dollar bill came flying onto the countertop from the heavens. Literally.
What the heck? I looked around . . . and who should I see standing at the next teller over but Ol' Smelly Yakker himself, with his fam. He grinned a semi-toothy grin at me and said "There you go, buddy. I'm gonna get me a new tv today."
"Wow." I said. I was flabbergasted. I felt cut to the heart. I wanted to apologize for my thoughts about him. "Thanks so much. That was very kind of you."

"Don't mention it," he said and then went back to his business at the teller.

My two tellers smiled at me and I smiled back. I felt good . . . and chastened. After I finished, I turned to say thanks again to my philanthropist but he'd gone.

I wish I could tell him thank you again. He's probably watching his favorite program on his new tv somewhere and couldn't care less, but he made a difference to me and I think that matters somehow. You never know the goodness that can come from people. You never do.