Did you know that today is National Watermelon Day? Well, neither did we until a few minutes ago. In observation of so worthy a vegetable, we at NiceWork bring you this photo of actual bins of actual watermelons at an actual Ralph’s Fine Foods. It was snapped for no reason only yesterday, so the chances are good a quick visit to the Ralph’s at Topanga and Ventura will snag you one of these beauties.
If you prefer your melons shot to pieces with exploding rounds, you might want to CLICK HERE.
CAR CRASH NEAR NICEWORK HQ—NO INJURIES
NiceWork News Bureau (Woodland Hills) Your never-sleeping reporter brings you the latest in L.A. street theater, this time performed not many yards from the the Comm Room from which NiceWork‘s worldwide operation emanates.
- Who: a couple of drivers. Guys. Distraught guys.
- What: an unplanned meeting of their vehicles, one an automobile the other a pickup.
- When: I dunno. Maybe a couple of hours ago.
- Where: right there, I tell you! Right there in front of the house!
LIKE A CANNON
In truth, your never-sleeping reporter was not actually in the Comm Room when the vehicles exchanged paint. He was returning from the hardware store with a bag of ant poison, 75 watt light bulbs, eyelet screws and a 75′ garden hose. But Miss NiceWork, our Junior Reporter, was on the scene and described the sound of the meeting as “like a cannon.”
The pickup appears to have been emerging from the alley that debouches from behind a Gelson’s Supermarket onto Mulholland Drive when it was knocked silly by a car zipping east over a hill traversed by the Drive. The car continued post-impact for a few hundred feet before coming to rest in the westbound lane with its airbags deployed and its driver yelling bloody murder.
After all the police stuff and whatnot, the badly injured car was hoisted aboard a truck and carted away to oblivion.
A twitterer proposes an exercise in disclosure, or autobiography, or self-awareness or self-obsession or… well, let’s just call it “sharing.” She urges everyone within the sound of her tweets to post “100 random facts about yourself.”
Count me in. Posting one hundred random facts about oneself is a good idea, I think, because Transparency is my middle name, or would be if you didn’t see right through it down to my real one which is secret. I take the word “random” to mean “unorganized” and I take the word “facts” to mean “made-up stuff.” Unorganized made-up stuff — it’s the opposite, I suppose, of the Periodic Table of Self promised in the colorful graphic glaring above. But it is also my meat and drink, dessert and antacid. So herewith are 100 or fewer data set down haphazardly.
- I believe mountains are flat on the bottom like Hershey’s kisses.
- Everyone knows the points of a pie slice are the best part, so why not just core the pie and eat the center?
- Red licorice should get its own name. It’s like calling banana cream “yellow chocolate.”
- If a child is christened with a nickname, will the poor kid ever have a real nickname?
- These aren’t really facts, are they?
- I was born one morning when the sun didn’t shine.
- I picked up my shovel and I walked to the mine.
- I loaded sixteen tons of number nine coal.
- I punched Houdini in the stomach and killed him. Not on purpose, you understand.
- My fourteenth favorite color is orange.
- Interestingly, my fourteenth favorite flavor is also orange.
- Walking in the rain drinking a piña colada is my idea of Hell.
- I’m a people person, but with only a very few people and for only a few minutes at a time.
- I can tell by looking at you whether you have a transplanted organ obtained from an unwilling donor.
- My sixth favorite color is chartreuse, but I can’t remember what it looks like.
- No, wait. Sixth favorite color is fuschia. Can’t picture that one either.
- Once, in Chicago, I was the only person on the sidewalk when the President of the United States greeted me on a loudspeaker from his motorcade.
- Man, I jumped six feet!
- I can sense when my body is low on molybdenum. My isles of langerhans vibrate.
- Patti Platypus remains my favorite Beanie Baby to this very day
That, I think, though not quite one hundred facts, is about as much transparency either of us can stand in one day. Or one lifetime, for that matter. I’ll spare you further facts about myself if you promise to spare me any at all about your self.
Or call me Lester Mizzerabulls. Here’s where I spent the portion of my morning normally given over to surface-dwelling:
No, not to elude Javert, though I was cautious not to draw the attention of zealous inspectors of the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power. In fact, I climbed down into the bowels of L.A. to retrieve a cat — our stupidest cat, Thomas the Cat — who, evidently lured by the siren sound of scampering rats, had dropped through the curbside opening into the deep concrete drain, and was trapped.
I offered a plank for him to climb out on. He blinked at it a moment and returned his attention to the whispers coming out of a tunnel angling downward into a murky region where the living are envied. Either he did not understand the plank’s purpose, or understood perfectly well but preferred to remain in an environment not at all repugnant to his feline sensibilities. He would not come to me. I had to go to him.
Sewer covers are surprisingly heavy objects, unsuitable for the frisbee fun of mere mortals, but not immovable by a determined man with a garden tool. The problem of how to lower my great self to cat level nagged me until the cover slid aside and sunlight pierced the cloacal depths. Ah!. The manhole comes equipped with a built-in ladder. I used it, once descending burdenless, and once again, this time ascending with a scrawny, imbecilic, protesting cat.
All before breakfast, too. But, to draw a cheerful moral, a day begun in this way can only get better.