Wednesday Wonders: Another curious route to a story

How buying a cheap pair of wireless headphones six months ago and a random discovery about a new computer led to an epiphany about the timing of nostalgia.

I can tell you exactly how this particular story came about. It all started when I ordered a pair of wireless headphones in order to do Zoom meetings way back in March, when I started a new job that is 100% remote.

Now, the problem was that I needed something that wasn’t BlueTooth, because my computer didn’t have that, so I wound up settling on an RF model. That is, one with a transmitter pack of the type that would plug into the computer’s audio jack, with the headphones themselves completely unattached.

It’s not really at all unlike what a reporter or performer would wear — a battery pack, usually taped to their back, connected to an audio source, like a microphone, with the audio signal picked up elsewhere.

It worked great, even though I did have to wind up buying extra rechargeable AAA batteries for the transmitter and a whole set of rechargeable 9-volt batteries for the headphones.

Side note: Something I learned during lockdown: Rechargeable batteries are the best investment you can ever make. Get enough for all the little battery-operated doodads you have around the house, and then double that. Sure, it costs a lot up front, but you’ll save an assload pretty much instantly.

Case in point: The two times early on that I forgot to turn off the headphones and drained the 9-volt battery would have cost me more in non-rechargeable replacements than five rechargeable 9-volts with recharger cost in the first place.

But there were two big issues with these headphones. Number one is that I could not leave them on all the time so as not to run them down, meaning that I would have to go through the start-up process just before every Zoom meeting started — power up transmitter, switch on headphones, push ‘activate” button and then “connect” button, and hope that it worked.

Still, not being physically tethered to my computer with a cable was totally worth it — and I’d accidentally wrecked too many of those at the business end by forgetfully walking away while they were plugged in and on my head.

And no, I’ve never driven away from a gas pump with the nozzle in my car, thank you.

Of course, a lot of headphones are also just cheaply made crap. Even the Beats by Dre ear buds that we were all given one year as an office present didn’t last long after the internal wiring crapped out on one side. I’ve had earbuds I’ve gotten at the 99 Cent store that lasted far longer and sounded just as good.

Surprise, surprise — cheapness turned out to be the problem with these. It wasn’t more than a week before the foam earcups just detached from the headset, and no way in hell I could get them back on, because the retaining edge had clearly been machined into the earcup, and I just didn’t have the machinery to do it.

Meanwhile, after a month or so, the control buttons on the right ear cup — i.e., the ones absolutely necessary to make the things work — suddenly pushed in, as in sank below the surface of the back of the ear cup, so became useless.

Still, since they were so cheap, I ordered another pair. These lasted a bit longer, although they still had the foam problem and, eventually, the part where the headband attached to the left ear cup just snapped, and not with any particularly sudden or sharp movement.

I’m not going to call out the brand, although I will say that, since they worked with a computer, these technically were digitAL earphones.

After the second pair died, I spent eight bucks at the Rite-Aid next door for a plug-in pair that didn’t have the greatest sound quality, but did what I needed, and so it went until a week ago last Monday.

That morning, I read a news story explaining why it might not be a good idea to update to Windows 11 right away, so I had to check to make sure that “auto-update” was not turned on. I only found out later that Microsoft is actually allowing people to opt out this time, miracle of miracles!

Anyway, in the process of looking for the setting, I inadvertently discovered, nearly six months after I’d bought it, that my new computer does, in fact, have BlueTooth.

I tested it by tethering to my phone and, sure enough, it worked.

Well, fuck me sideways with a wooden hanger.

Delivered the next day — a pair of BlueTooth headphones that have been working like a charm, and have the best of both worlds, and more. For some reason, they have an FM tuner built in, an SD card slot for off-line music listening, a built-in battery with 30-hour life that’s rechargeable via USB-C (the best of the USBs) and the ability to also connect to an audio device via a cable.

Not to mention that the sound is just lightyears better than that from either the crappy RF phones or the cheap wired ones. And so is the battery life. I’ve had them on most of today, after their first full charge, and have been through several Zoom meetings and lots of audio, and the battery is still at 60%.

So this led me to testing out their audio qualities, and I began searching left and right for things to do that it with. Eventually, a vague memory that led to a search for “Star Wars disco” opened up a portal on a ton of albums from the late 70s that were basically DJ’d into the EDM of the era, but all based on Big Band music from the 1940s, and that’s when I was reminded of the great Truth of Nostalgia.

Nostalgia runs in 30-year cycles.

Why? The simple reason for this is that this is the point when kids who grew up on something have come of age but have also achieved enough power within various industries to start shaping culture instead of just consuming it.

So 1980s kids were consuming pop culture. As grown-ass adults in the 2010s, thirty years later, they started remaking, reimagining, or reforming all that shit from their childhood. Right now, we’re seeing the 1990s coming back.

But this is nothing new.

Let’s go back to the 1950s, for example, when one of the most popular movies was Singin’ in the Rain. And what was the story about? Why, the transition of silent films to talkies in the 1920s, and how new technology threatened traditional art forms. Westerns and gangster films were also big. The former were a big film genre in the 1920s, and the latter were an actually thing in the 1920s, thank you Prohibition.

And yes, Singin’ in the Rain was most likely a subtle commentary on the threat that television presented to theatrical films at the time via new technology, since it parodied the reaction to Hollywood and the introduction of talkies — i.e., films with sound.

Meanwhile, a teen idol from the 1920s, Rudy Vallée, made a huge comeback in film and TV in the 1950s. Brace yourselves for Harry Styles coming back in our 2050s, at the start of which he’ll be (gasp!) 56.

Then again, in 1950, Rudy was already 49.

But let’s get back to the nostalgia pattern. The 1950s definitely locked onto the 1920s because they both experienced post-war booms that kind of petered out, transitioned from somewhat liberal to very conservative, and saw new technology changing life as they’d previously known it.

The 1960s, meanwhile, mapped onto the 1930s, because both decades were eras of protest and economic uncertainty, along with foreign wars (The Spanish Civil War and Vietnam) leading up to World Wars (WW II and the Cold War.)

Both decades were also periods of sexual liberation, even if the 1930s were more subtle about it, but, for example, in big cities, gay men and lesbians were absolutely accepted in certain fields, like theatre or interior design. In Hollywood, a lot of gay people were openly so within the industry, provided that any hint of it never leaked outside of studio walls and publicity dates with persons of the opposite sex could be arranged and manipulated in the press.

Talk about “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” although that ironically came back in the third wave of the 1930s/1960s, also known as the 1990s, which are coming back right now one more time, although I guess that the “don’t tell” part now refers to whether a woman has had an abortion.

One big phenomenon from the 1990s — groups like Squirrel Nut Zippers, and the whole swing revival. They were actually modeling the 1930s, not the 1940s. Two very different styles — neither of them involving Harry or watermelon sugar, which may or may not be Style’s nostalgic callback to Richard Brautigan’s 1968 novel, seeing as how Harry falls into the 1960s/1990s/2020s/2050s pattern.

But it was finding all of this music from the 1970s that made me realize the 30 year thing, especially the epiphany that disco was just a playback of 1940s post-war big-band music. In the 1970s, it was post-Vietnam and party time, while in the 1940s, it was post-WW II.

Both artforms, though, had the same goal: Drag asses onto the dancefloor and get them to all shake their booties, and, sure enough, in the 2000’s, Christina Aguilera came along to bring it all back with her song Candyman — aka the video that makes every gay man question his sexuality.

This was also right around the time when the successor to the 1940s and 1970s crash-landed on the scene as EDM, or electronic dance music, and went mainstream.

Guess which decade the 1980s lapped up. Yep. That would be the 1950s, and it’s abundantly clear in both New Wave music and styles — remember those skinny ties, black suits, and poofy skirts? They were just the 1950s with neon highlights.

And punk wasn’t immune from 1950s influence, either. In its roots, they were just a revival of the Rockers and Teddy Boys of 1950s England, with the New Wavers and second generation glam acts like Adam Ant and Boy George cast as the Mods.

Cinematically, one of the most interesting curious from the era is Walter Hill’s 1984 film Streets of Fire largely forgotten now. It’s mostly notable only for marking Willem Dafoe’s screen debut as the villain, which he performed when he was… 29, or just a year short of being nostalgic for what he was appearing in. He really broke out in the movie Platoon, made when he was 31.

But the thing about the movie is that it was completely ambiguous as to when, exactly, it was set. A lot of the design aesthetics were firmly stuck in the 1950s, but the soundtrack and the attitudes were decidedly modern. Well, for the time.

Jump ahead to the 2010s, and both the 1950s and the 1980s feature prominently, with films like The Master and Inside Llewyn Davis nodding at the eras. The former was set in 1950 and, while the latter is set in 1961, it’s still before the assassination of JFK, which really was the emotional border between the two decades.

And remember that Best Picture Oscar winner Moonlight? Yep. Set in the 1980s, and so is Stranger Things, which debuted in 2016, and Call Me by Your Name, set in 1983 and released in 2017. So is The Wolf of Wall Street, which I have to honestly say is one of the worst movies I ever forced myself to sit through. The only redeeming feature in that hot mess is Joanna Lumley.

So here we are in the 2020s, with the 1990s, 1960s, and 1930s sneaking back into the zeitgeist. Once again, we have the sexually and socially liberated vs. the repressed would-be oppressors, the economic battle between the haves and the have nots, and simmering protests that break out into hot fires at the drop of a hat.

In the 1930s, unemployed workers took to the streets, protesting the same economic inequalities that we have now, all in the shadow of the Great Depression. In the 1960s, it was students occupying their campuses and taking to the streets, initially to fight for their First Amendment rights on campus, then ultimately to protest the Vietnam War. Remember, the military draft lasted until the 1970s, so they had a direct stake in objecting.

The 1960s also brought us events like the Watts Riots, echoed by the L.A. Riots in the 1990s, and the George Floyd BLM protests of this decade. and every one of these events happened for the same reasons: Police abuse and murder of people of color.

While the 1930s were a bit open about sexuality in a very hush-hush manner mainly in large cities where anonymity was much more possible, in the 1960s, the sexual revolution came roaring out of the closet, and not just for gay people.

Suddenly, women had The Pill (literally approved as the decade began), which gave them a lot more autonomy over their reproductive choices than relying upon trusting their partner to either wear a condom (without slipping it off)  or pulling out (without still managing to splash the target.)

Of course, the fun police in various states tried to make it illegal for married couples to use birth control because, um… “You must make babies, dammit?” At least Planned Parenthood was there to get these laws overturned through court battles, ensuring that a married woman could take The Pill and still bang her husband as of 1965.

The idea of sex before marriage being a sin also pretty much fell by the wayside as modern teens scoffed at old morality and started doing it left and right. By the way, these people are what are known as Boomers, although given their sexual behaviors in the 1960s — well, at least that of the cool ones — maybe some of them should be called Bangers.

The 1960s were also when the modern Gay Rights Movement got going with a little incident called the Stonewall Riots, which were the endcap on the decade.

In the 1990s, the gay rights movement really took off big time, largely in response to the absolutely abysmal response of the Reagan administration to the AIDS Crisis that had started in the 1980s. This was the decade when the first celebrities started coming out (Scott Thompson long before any of the others), gay characters started to show up in mainstream media and not as stereotypes, RuPaul first burst onto the scene, and someone being gay started to become not as big a deal as it used to be because of increased visibility.

In the 2020s, we’ve got all of that, plus the Nirvana Baby trying to sue the band and other entities over his appearance on the cover of their 1991 album Nevermind. Never mind that the grown-up version of that baby has reshot that cover three times, twice while underage, albeit with his dinky winky covered in the other versions.

And you know how old that baby, Spencer Elden, is now? Take a wild guess.

That’s right. He turned 30 in February of 2021, so his nostalgia meter is right on track, apparently. None of which absolves him of being an asshole, of course.

Update: Also right on track, the day after I wrote this story, this bit of news popped up. They’re creating a spin-off of That ’70s Show starring the parents from the original and it’s called… That ’90s Show. Guess when it’s set.

And does anyone remember That ’80s Show? It only ran for a few months. Premiering in 2002, it was a decade early and might have done a lot better in the 2010s.

Image source: paul bica from toronto, canada, (CC BY 2.0), via Wikimedia Commons

The Saturday Morning Post #50: The Rêves Part 28

Reunions

Brenda actually had no doubts at all that Ausmann had found them and killed Simon, but Joshua was covering that up for some reason. Maybe he was still under threat. She realized then how badly she and her family might have screwed things up if they actually had called the cops to report the intruder.

But what was the point? Ausmann was an old white man, probably well-off and with Federal connections. And Jonah had had his regular share of run-ins with cops, despite being a well-dressed professional in a clearly expensive yet family-oriented car, and in only the “good” neighborhoods.

But, of course, that was because a certain class of cop didn’t see the “well-dressed professional” part. They only saw a Black man. Well, in their minds, they didn’t use the “B” word, she was sure.

Then there was her father, gone for almost thirty years now, same reason, only one time turned violent, maybe because he’d finally had enough and tried to say “No.”

So they didn’t call the cops because they couldn’t trust them, even though they were upper-middle class, owned their own home, sent their kids to private school, and had the stability of three generations under one roof.

Because a certain class of cop wouldn’t see any of that. Hell, a certain class of people — but at least those people didn’t make it a habit to hang out in Brenda’s neighborhood. And their neighborhood was at least Black enough — and historically so — that the one indignity Jonah had avoided was being harassed on his own street, or in his own front yard.

She and Jonah had given Samuel The Speech multiple times, and still gave it to Malia, just in case. The Speech had nothing to do with sex; that was the white people version: “Here’s how to not knock her up/get knocked up.” No, their speech was all about not if some cop pulled them over for no apparent reason, but what to do when it inevitably happened, aka “Here’s how to not get shot.”

So she’d be keeping what was no doubt Joshua’s secret, because the timing of Simon’s death was way too coincidental, but she’d be doing it to protect her family, and was sure that Joshua was doing it to protect his.

Meanwhile, she flipped through her contacts until she found one, a family court and probate judge based out of the Superior Courthouse in Van Nuys, and she realized that this was the one who had handled Rita’s divorce case, and she knew she had her woman.

Rita’s divorce had been contentious, and Brenda had got to listen to her complaining about “That unfair bitch in the black robes” after nearly every single hearing. Of course, Rita didn’t know that Brenda had gone to college with Judge Bonita Valdez-Levi, nor that Brenda was regularly hearing things frrm Bonita of the, “I’m really not supposed to tell you this, but this crazy bitch in this divorce case is out of her mind.”

Bonita had no idea that Rita was Brenda’s boss, either.

Ultimately, Bonita found heavily in Rita’s ex’s favor, fined her for contempt twice, and even sanctioned her lawyer when he gave what he knew was a legally specious motion for mistrial.

“You don’t get to do that after I’ve rendered my verdict, sonny,” she reminded him. “What? Did you go to an online law school or something?”

“Yale,” he muttered.

“Ah. Harvard. Sorry.”

Although that was really just icing on the cake, and she’d only bring up the little detail about Joshua and Simon telling Rita to go fuck herself if Bonita were reluctant to help. But why would she be? They were old friends, she heard cases in family court, this was a family matter, and, most importantly, her wife happened to be a deputy coroner assigned to the North Valley, i.e. exactly where Simon’s corpse was currently pretending to be a 6’4” naked popsicle in a drawer.

If anyone is wondering — no, Brenda did not go to Harvard. Bonita only went there for her law degree. Undergrad, they both spent at Cal State University Northridge, aka CSUN, or was they loved to call it “Berkeley for Valley Kids.” They’d even been roommates for junior and senior years, and Bonita had bitched more loudly about it when Brenda was not cast as Mama Morton in Chicago.

So Brenda dialed the number and when Bonita answered, launched into it. “Hey, girl!” she gushed. “Long time no hear. What’s up?”

“Girl, we are all over each other’s shit on the social medias all the damn time, so what’s so important that it’s voice?”

“Perceptive as ever Okay. I need a really big favor.”

“Figured,” Bonita replied. “As long as it’s legal, I can probably do it. So… shoot.”

Brenda launched into her explanation and, about ten minutes later, after Bonita did some hmming and thinking out loud, she finally replied, “You know, I think that Miriam can manage that ASAP. I mean, as long as it wasn’t a homicide, but you already said — ”

“Tragic accident,” Brenda reminded her.

“Hm. I wonder if housing needs to take a look at the safety of the balconies in that — ”

“No, my friend told me that his husband had this stupid habit of sitting on the railing that he’d warned him about a hundred times,” she improvised on the spot, “Even though he was very tall and sometimes clumsy.”

“Got it. Operator error. Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you so much, Bonita.”

“Don’t mention it. But you owe me one now.”

“Well, duh, of course,” Brenda replied. “Hey — are you going to the class reunion?”

“Me?” Bonita said. “Oh, hell no. You?”

“Of course not!” Brenda told her, then they both laughed, said “Bye” and disconnected.

“Um… oh, hey…” Pearl was startled to see a regular Rêve up here, but he was looking at them like he knew them. They assumed, since he was a Rêve up here, that he was the one that Preston and Danny had told her about.

“Hello,” they said. “Do I know you?”

“No,” he replied. “But oh my god, I was at your last concert. Harvard Stadium. 1970. Six months after my 16th birthday, so I was able to drive up from Baltimore with some friends. Hell, the ticket was two bucks — what I made in my gas station job in about an hour and twenty minutes, but it was worth every second… what are you doing out here?”

“Living the life, baby,” They said. “And I guess that you’re kind of new to this whole being a Rêve thing?”

“Is that what I am?” he asked. “I thought I was just a ghost — ”

“We don’t like the ‘G’ word,” they warned him. “That’s a different thing, mostly because it doesn’t exist.”

“Wait. They don’t, and we do?”

“Bingo.”

“Oh… did I mention, I’m Jerry,” he announced, extending his hand, “And I am a huge fan, Ms. Joplin. ‘Lord won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz, my friends all drive Porsches — ’”

“Stop!” Pearl shouted at him. “God, I hate the song.”

“But it was — ”

“I know,” they admonished him. “But that was so very long ago and very far away.”

“But I’ve remembered that concert since forever. Ms. Joplin. Janis?”

“Yeah, we did it and then died,” they snapped back. “I’ve kind of expanded things since then. Personas, genders, whatever. It turns out that we’re very flexible once we’re dead. But… you saw what you call my last show?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jerry said. “I mean, is it rude to mention that you died just under two months after that amazing concert?”

“What did I just tell you? And what was the last concert you saw?”

“Um… god, I have no idea,” Jerry replied, then took a couple more moments and said, “Ah… it was a Bee Gees tribute band thing out in NoHo, and we liked it.”

Pearl just laughed. “I think I heard of them. I don’t really remember, but they were crap.”

“Were they?” Jerry asked.

“Are you in any position to argue?”

“You know, I really don’t know…”

Of course, what Jerry really didn’t know was that Pearl — no, actually the Janis part of Peart who had actually met young Jerry — was not engaging his adult self. Rather, she’d and/or they had been talking to the 16-year-old Jerry who had attended that last concert at Harvard Stadium.

And had not taken his young ass at all seriously.

So a vital clue about Ausmann was not passed on to the Hadas.

Meanwhile, another vital clue was passed on almost by accident, when an oral surgeon and his realtor wife went for their early morning power walk through their Simi Valley neighborhood, only to run into an old neighbor, except that she looked… different.

“Um… Coraline?” the wife, Becca, asked.

“Oh, hi!” Coraline replied. “Do you know where my husband is?”

“Do you know where you are?” Ralph, Becca’s husband, replied.

“Well, at what’s left of our home, duh,” she said. “But is he alive?”

Becca and Ralph just stared at her. They’d been watching the news, and Coraline looked just like what they’d seen, except that she wasn’t an old Hollywood actor.

“Dear,” Becca asked gently, “Are you possibly aware of the fact that you might be… well… dead?”

“What?” Coraline snapped.

“Oh, you haven’t been watching the news, have you?” Ralph inquired.

“No, I’ve been rather busy dealing with the ruins of my house and wondering where my husband is, thank you. And have you seen him?”

Becca and Ralph shook their heads. “No, dear,” Becca replied, “But we’ve seen the news, and even if you’re not famous, well… hang on.”

Becca tapped around on her phone, then showed Coraline news footage from earlier, with all the celebrity hosts popping up all over Hollywood.

“What makes you think I’m one of them?” Coraline demands.

“Well, two things, actually,” Ralph offers, demurely, looking to Becca.

What?” Coraline hisses.

“Um…. sorry to tell you this, dear, but we watched the county coroner take your body out of the basement of your house after the storm.”

“Apparently quite dead,” Ralph added. “Right into the body bag. Boom, zip.”

“You are liars!” Coraline insisted.

“Well, there’s that one other bit,” Becca explained.

“What?”

“Um… you know that footage about the ghosts in Hollywood?” Ralph offered.

“Yeah, and I’m not one of them there,” Coraline insisted.

“No, but you might as well be,” Becca said, turning her phone to Coraline again. Apparently, she’d been recording her during the conversation, and when Coraline saw the footage, her blood ran cold. Well, actually, it was the moment that she realized that she had no blood to run cold.

“I have to find Ausmann,” she said. “I do remember he studied these ghosts. I wonder if he’s in Hollywood. I have to go there!”

As soon as she said it, she found herself flying, heading southeast out of Simi Valley and into the San Fernando Valley. She didn’t get out this way often, but she was always amazed at how much bigger it was than her own valley, and how straight all of the streets were that ran between the two freeways — the 118 in the north and the 101 in the south.

That all changed at about the 5, a state highway that ran into the city diagonally from the mountains below Santa Clarita, aimed south by southwest splitting into the short 170 on its right fork and maintaining its identity as the 5 on the right fork, the 170 soon merging and vanishing into the 101 as it turned south for Hollywood.

When all of those east-west Valley streets passed the 5, more or less, they suddenly veered, mostly to the left, to run diagonally southwest to northeast, and it was particularly noticeable in Burbank, which itself had been laid out on a diagonal instead of a grid aligned to the cardinal directions.

The rest was paving anarchy, but that was because the city developed in different sections aligned to local landmarks or landscapes, the roads having to hook up eventually. The longest straight streets were the ones that had originally been lone country highways in the middle of nothing that connected distant developments, like Downtown and West Hollywood.

The Valley, meanwhile, had started out as immense, flat farmland, covered by huge rancheros originally owned by a handful of Mexican families, back when the southern third of California was still part of Mexico. Coraline would never have believed that of course, and it was a very unpopular subject to bring up in Simi Valley, but it was true.

While what Valley people called “the other side of the hill” developed in fits and starts beginning well before the 19th century and exploded from around WW I and after, only parts of the East Valley, like North Hollywood and Burbank, started to develop, as early as the late 1800s. Up until WW II, the eastern boundary was pretty much Van Nuys, with few and far between from there west.

Well, no houses, but quite a few companies engaged in the war effort. This was where they built the bombs and planes.

Once the war ended, there was a land boom, and the land was flat and wide, so turning it into a grid was the easiest thing in the world to do — a roughly 8 by 10 mile grid with very few breaks in its regularity.

But then she found herself over the Cahuenga pass, following the freeway that ran through a gap between two sets of mountains, and finally to Hollywood, landing at Hollywood and Highland, where she found the ghosts of the famous to be quite active.

She asked some of them if they’d ever heard of Ausmann. None of them had.

“Then I guess it’s time to go free-range,” she announced, and wandered off down the street. She could tell that people were looking at her and asking, “What’s she famous for?” but she ignored them.

She was a bit star-struck by all the celebrities she did see, even if they were all dead — Bette Davis, always the center of attention; the Three Stooges (Curly, Moe, and Larry era) hamming it up for the crowd; Peter Lorre, looking very sketchy; Alfred Hitchcock, leering inappropriately at every young blonde woman he saw — he was a Class III because there were still a lot of people alive who had known him, but he still liked to use his celebrity; Valentino, posing for selfies and proving very popular with gay men; and Gloria Grahame, appearing in glorious color as Ado Annie from the movie Oklahoma!.

But there was one Rêve who had been watching her, because Pearl had sensed something and sent a Hada to give him the word. Ausmann’s wife was apparently now one of them, and she was out here — the Hadas had sensed it and reported it to Pearl.

The message was to try to bring her to Anabel so that they would have a bargaining chip to use against Ausmann, and the message was sent to Ritchie.

As Coraline got close to the Hollywood and Vine station, he approached her. “Excuse me,” he said.

She stopped and looked. He seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place the name. “Oh. I’m Ritchie Valens,” he said. She was clearly still drawing a blank, so he sang a quick phrase: “Para bailar la bamba…”

“Oh,” it dawned on her. “I love that song. But… do you know me?”

“Was your husband named Ausmann?” he asked.

“Yes. Have you seen him?”

“No,” he told her, “But I may know where he is,” adding a lie to his truthful statement.

“I really do need to find him,” she said.

“Great. If you come with me, we can go look.” He nodded and lead her down into the Metro station, then to the platforms and the eastbound tunnel.

“Let me show you how our kind prefers to travel,” he announced, and then took her with him.

* * *

Friday Free for all #43: Pineapple, fear, and ethics

The next in an ongoing series in which I answer random questions generated by a website, although it’s been on hiatus since the Christmas Countdown began. Here, I resume with this week’s questions. Feel free to give your own answers in the comments.

How do you feel about putting pineapple on pizza?

This one is easy, and all of my friends already know my answer. Pineapple on pizza is a goddamn abomination. The two do not belong together, period. Want to ruin a perfectly good pizza? Throw some of that squishy, pulpy, bitter tropical shit on it.

Of course, it is also my firm belief that California Pizza Kitchen in fact does not serve anything resembling a pizza in any way, shape or form. And as for that Chicago deep-dish shit? Yeah, no. That’s not a pizza. That’s a casserole.

Thin crust, slathered with tomato-based sauce, then pile on the mozzarella, and top it with any combination of pepperoni, sausage, garlic, bell peppers, onions, ground beef, extra cheese (but only mozzarella, provolone, parmesan, or Romano) or olives.

Besides pineapple, all y’all can keep away your damn pineapple, Canadian bacon, and anchovies. Those do not belong on proper pizza either.

My god. The violence done to Za in this country is astounding. Just because you pile a bunch of shit on a flat, round piece of dough doesn’t make it pizza. Learn it. Love it.

What weird childhood fear do you still kind of hold on to?

I don’t hold onto it that strongly anymore, but there are still times when I can have an unintended physical reaction to the stimulus. But… for as long as I could remember until I was about nine years old, skeletons in general and skulls in particular just freaked me out.

Just looking at a picture of one, whether it was a photo of an actual skull, a fairly accurate drawing of one, or even a cartoon, would send chills all up and down my body, and I had to just look away.

The way I got over it at nine was actually rather inspired of me, although I have no idea where that inspiration came from. All I remember was that I was falling asleep and those hypnagogic hallucinations were kicking in.

You know those. It’s when you’re just starting to fall asleep but you aren’t quiet, and the movie theatre on the back of your eyelids starts dishing up random patterns of light and color.

Well, this one particular night, a couple of those blobs suddenly turned into a pair of skulls that started heading for me, and for some reason instead of freaking out about it, in my mind, I stuck my tongue out at them.

They both screamed and fled, and that killed the fear.

By the way, as a grown-ass adult years later, writing about that memory did make my entire head tingle, which is why I say I’m not totally over it, but I can still have a goose-bump reaction to the image. I just don’t experience visceral fear about it anymore.

The really interesting part is the basis of the fear, and I did not learn how it probably came about until many, many years later, when I was definitely a grown-ass adult.

Apparently when I was about three years old, my dad still had partial custody of one of my half-brothers from his first marriage. This would be the one who was still under 18 when I was that age. (The other two were already adults.)

So, as I eventually learned, one day, this half-brother, who was a tween at the time, thought that it would be funny to shove my infant ass into a bedroom closet, toss in a glow-in-the dark skull-shaped Halloween basket, then shut the door and sit in front of it.

I have absolutely no memory of this incident. But, obviously, it imprinted on my subconscious, and so this weird fear was born.

For the record, as adults, I love my half-bro very much, and I have zero resentment over the incident. So there’s always that.

If you can save another’s life and don’t because doing so would break the law, are you ethically justified in your decision?

And so we get to this installment’s really heavy question, mainly because I have to figure out a context in which it would break the law to save someone’s life with some possible ethical justification, because if I can justify doing it, it makes it hard to justify not doing it, right?

Obvious non-starters are things like busting into the death chamber and using violence to prevent a legally sanctioned execution. That would clearly be wrong and have no ethical justification. So yeah, in this case, you are ethically justified in not saving another’s life.

Now let’s get a little muddier. You’re just hanging out, minding your own business, when an altercation breaks out. And it becomes immediately obvious to you that some white guy is trying to pull some uber-Zimmerman “stand your ground” bullshit over a young black kid.

White dude has a gun pointed at the kid’s head and is both agitated and clearly ready to shoot. Meanwhile, there happens to be a very convenient and heavy stanchion right next to you that could shut up gun-boy forever and instantly.

Murder him with that and you save a life, although it’s technically homicide. Your choice?

Personally, in that situation, my choice would always be “break the fucking law if possible if it will save an innocent life.” So, yeah, I’m a pacifist, but I’d also have no problem splattering a racist’s “brains” all over the place.

Now here’s the next-level version. Same situation of innocent kid and armed racist asshole, except… that armed racist asshole is a cop.

And why does it get messy? Because, in this case, if you break the law to save a life you may also wind up losing your own. I mean, how many other cops are there watching, all with their guns drawn and with a hard-on for shooting someone?

So, in this case, I think I’d be ethically justified in not killing the cop but, instead, getting video of the whole damn thing, telling my version of the story to the media, and being a witness for the defense for the murder victim, e.g. the innocent kid who got shot in the street.

Momentous Monday: Us and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Year

It’s no exaggeration to say that 2020 has been rough on everyone. It started with Australia on fire and the death of Kobe Bryant, and then just went pear-shaped from there.

We hadn’t even made it to the start of spring when everything went on hold. For me, “normal” started to leave my world in early March, when my improv company shut down — cutting me off from one job as well as a weekly chance to perform that I truly enjoyed.

It came to a full stop on March 20, when Los Angeles shut down a day after San Francisco did. In a lot of ways, I was fortunate because I’d had an unemployment claim from earlier in 2019 that was still active, so didn’t have the problems signing up for it that other people apparently did.

Although I didn’t get the full amount of unemployment because I hadn’t worked enough in the target periods they looked at, that extra $600 per week from the Federal government helped (thanks, Congressional Democrats!)

So, I stayed at home mostly, with weekly masked trips to the grocery store, and it was amazing to see how quickly the two places I regularly went to — RiteAid and Ralphs — adapted. At the same time, though, a lot of Americans acted like selfish little children.

Some states were slow to react if at all, the Federal government totally dropped the ball, and while places like New Zealand got a handle on it (it helps to be an island nation), the U.S., not so much, so that as of now over 200,000 people have died.

Every month seemed to bring something new. In April, we had rumors of “Murder Hornets,” which didn’t really pan out, but then May brought us the death of George Floyd. This on top of so many other murders of Black Americans at the hands of the police set off a wave of fury and protests, which had the side-effect of finally making White American racists reveal themselves.

The end of May brought us people who just couldn’t resist celebrating Memorial Day without masks or social distancing, boosting the plague numbers even more.

It wasn’t pretty. And natural disasters didn’t help. Puerto Rico was pounded by multiple earthquakes of greater than magnitude 5 at the beginning of the year when they still haven’t recovered from hurricane Maria in 2017.

June brought us a couple of gun-toting lawyers threatening protestors marching past their house, and July had more protests, violent counter-protests, and the like.

In August, wildfires started in the west and the Administration started fucking with the USPS. By September, the entire west coast was on fire, while the gulf coast and other points in the south were being slammed by one hurricane or tropical storm after another.

And, of course, 2020 also brought personal disasters to a lot of us. Back on May 1, I lost my beloved dog Sheeba, who was almost 16. She didn’t even start to show symptoms until Monday night, and was gone by Friday afternoon.

A lot of people I know have suffered similar losses. Maybe it’s just a matter of selective attention because I went through it, maybe not, but a lot of my friends seemed to lose dogs or cats this year. And many other lost people, friends and family, to diseases not necessarily COVID-related. There were a notable number of cancer deaths, too.

And then there are those friends of mine who suddenly have to deal with parents of a certain age and declining mental condition who are going to require either placement in a senior care center or some other professional care, and the need for the young to stay away from the elderly in the wake of this pandemic just complicates issues enormously — especially when the kids live in an entirely different city than their parent or parents.

But all of these things, every single damn one of them, pales in comparison to the biggest disaster that has befallen the U.S. yet this year, and has put us into unknown territory that we are going to have to navigate through very carefully.

I’m talking, of course, about the death last Friday of Ruth Bader Ginsberg. She was the last bulwark protecting the Supreme Court from falling into fascist, reactionary hands for a generation, and the greatest hope of progressives was that she’d live until the inauguration, then announce her retirement as soon as Joe Biden was sworn in.

I won’t even get into the utter hypocrisy of Mitch McConnell saying he’ll ram through whomever Trump nominates when he refused the same courtesy to Barack Obama because “it was too close to the election” (eight months beforehand)  when this one comes up less than seven weeks before.

So… call your senators, especially if yours has an R after their name. Remind them of the 2016 “McConnell Doctrine,” and demand that they follow it. Let the Voters Decide!

And then damn well vote in November, and vote like the future of this country depends on it, because it does. Do we fully become Nazi Germany circa 1939, or pull back from the brink and return to sanity?

That choice is in your hands… for now. But if we fuck it up in November, we may lose that power forever, and this experiment in Democracy ends.