I stroll into the Bank of America today looking to move my cash into full liquidity, get the last fee removed and impotently rage against the nameless, faceless machine, but using the faces available.

Fuckers to the end.

I get into the teller line, rehearsing my “Can I speak to a manager?” in my head. There’s one teller counting cash or whatever they fucking do behind the counter and the sign saying “Next Teller.” Another is doing something with her back to the line. The third is actually interacting with a customer.

I wait.

Some fucking old broad comes into the bank clutching one of those zippered pouches into which managers jam the cash register cake in retail operations. She sashays right the fuck in front of me in line and shouts, “Hey,” to all the girls. The tellers all look up, smile and greet “Kathy.” So, she walks right up to the counter smack dab in front of my line-waiting dumbassedness and proceeds to get to bidness.

Fuck me. I’m stewing and planning my little ‘splanation about why I hate them. Inside my head, I was all cocksure and righteous and all smart-talking and worthy of banking sympathy. I’m sure out of my head and into my mouth was mealy and weak and whiny.

No mind, the fee is looking to be reversed, and I’ve opened another account at a local bank. Post-holiday, given that lord and turkeys and we all know that bankers ain’t killing themselves moving my cash over Thanksgiving, so post holiday, my money will be moving.

Thanks “Kathy” for being a careless, selfish old biddy bonding with the BofA crew and reenforcing that that ain’t my bank.

I don’t generally write about movies. I don’t generally like James Bond movies. Moreso, once upon a time I had a mad, stupid, rich fantasty life around “Remington Steele,” and the Pierce Brosnan Bonds broke it. Total British buzzkill.

So now it’s Daniel Craig, and I have a new crush. It’s a bit shorter and hairier than I would like. But, Sean Connery had the short, hairy precedent set.

The flick was pretty good. The love interest bored me a bit, but I ain’t no romantic, weepy chick. I likes the action. Not really, but you know, time and place. It’s a spy flick, I want to see spying and killing and shit.

From the fractals in the opening sequence on, I was pretty hooked into the movie. Not high art, but fun.

There ain’t nothing I can do about the depraved, dank cesspool of a culture we be enjoying this the 21st century. I mean, I can yelp in the wilderness a bit, but no one’s listening.

Nonetheless, here’s my idea. Go ahead and sign the Goldman family’s petition at dontpayoj.com. But, no that the interwebs are a perverse place. That’s just the kind of thing that advertises for the wrong guy and gives shitheads something on which to latch.

Instead, I say how about a little criminality to fight the gains of a criminal? Borrow O.J’s book, If I Did It, (Come on, how fucked up is that conceptually?) from your local library or steal it. Just walk right into a bookstore and steal it, knowing that somehow Judith Regan will have to kick in a bit for “shrinkage” at the bookstore.

Don’t read it, unless you must get your scary, vicarious thrill, knowing that there are likely thousands like you, but scan that puppy. Create a PDF or e-book or whatever kind of document you want. And, flood the internet. Post it everywhere, make is more prevalent than the Daniel Pearl video that freaks of all persuasions downloaded.

Flood the market and kill the profit margin. Fuck O.J. Seriously.

I have about $80 large in BofA’s coffers, which will soon be making an appearance in any other bank in the fucking world or possibly my mattress.

Few months back, flush with the proceeds from my house sale, my bank accounts were magically converted into “VIP” accounts. By VIP, I’m pretty sure they mean “we hate you, you venal fuck, and now we own you, oh yeah and go fuck yourself.” That’s how VIP I feel.

Turns out the fallout of VIP-ness is no overdraft protection. Fuck me.

I wrote the rent check, bought groceries, pumped some gas all the while thinking I had a couple bucks enough in the bank to cover. Not to Bank of America’s fucked up calculus. My check bounced and each little extra transaction gained me a total of about $100 in insufficient funds fees. None of the three other accounts they opened for me to “maximize” my money can cover my checking account.

I couldn’t quite follow the argument on the other end of the customer service line, but my balance at the time right before I got special VIP bank accounts seemed to suggest to her that I would have bounced these checks anyway. To be all polite she’d reverse SOME of the fees, but some of them I still got, because my balance in July in the savings account that disappeared (the one with overdraft) was only $200 and wouldn’t have covered these checks.

Um what?

Slowly I’ve been moving my dough elsewhere. Soon that will be mightily speeded up. Maybe I should grab something sawed off and get it all right now.

Someone told me a great story today. It’s not my story, it’s also sensitive to that which pays my bills. So, it ain’t my place to tell.

However, I will comment — I fucking love how stupid people are.

I have a hope, a deep-seated, comfortable and sure sense in my guts. I know that the sun will continue to rise and set. There will be wars. There will be love. Babies will be born, and all of us shall pass from this mortal coil.

These things I know. And, I know one more thing. No matter what utter stupid falls into your lap, caresses you with its wonderful improbability, no matter what, someone will top it. Or bottom it, I guess.

It’s the stuff of dreams, really. It’s knowing that every forehead-slapping “D’oh” has a better trainwreck waiting around it’s corner.

People are crude and dumb and unknowable. Fucking idiots. I love that.

We spent today in Santa Cruz, kicking around the Natural Bridges State Beach and around and about.

We checked out where the Monarch butterflies hang out, whilst migrating and sexually hibernating, and I took some pics. The orange leaf looking things, ain’t leaves, and the caterpillars love the milkweed.

On the beach itself, gulls and pelicans were the subject matter for another bunch of pics. M. started tossing walnuts to the birds, while I mentioned that Hitchcock shot some gull abuse scenes in Northern Cali.

The last of the animal watching was the herds of surfers riding the waves. I ain’t never seen that many folks floating at once, so I had to take pictures.

Then the sunset, and we took off.

Work was so at a level of burn-out suckitude last Friday, writing at all this weekend seemed too much like fucking work to cope. I focused instead on the vitual and took a million and six photos and whatnot. Also framed a couple for the boy-o’s new, swank, executron type office.

I gotta admit though that one of the perqs of the workplace is the quasi-academic thang that gets rocked. There’s an occasional emeritus dude or two from the school next door using office space and generally writing.

One such character is doing a book on something I know a bit about, since good old Pat was a virtuoso — Guilt. Yup, something I am fucking, damn, spanking truly good at. We talked a bit about the cultural influence of people’s perception of guilt. The word from the professional psych dude, it ain’t so much the Catholic, it’s the Irish what makes me feel this way. Moralistic pricks from the Emerald Isle.

Talking about guilt and the possible Asian corollary, shame, which may or may not be a chauvinistic, ethnocentric concoction by Westerners not getting the whole bowing shit and honor and stuff, was looking to be the high point of the day.

Then the work day ended, M. came by and I experienced freedom. We wondered down to Mountain View and stumbled upon Frank Warren of PostSecret.com by happy accident, giving a talk at Books, Inc. Rock on independent bookstores and gurus of simple, brilliant websites for helping me to forget about work bullshit completely. Fucking completely.

Coolest thing about the PostSecret session was hearing about the art exhibit base. It’s definitely one of those simple ideas you just wish you had. And, boiled down to a few words on a single postcard is the essential truth thing, I’ve heard tell about. ‘specially in the comedic circles.

Now that I’ve forgotten work, with stress and fatigue, but guiltless and without shame, I’ll wake up again tomorrow for some new shit, I’m sure.

I went to work with a smile. A smile born of a blow for democracy, truth, the Constitution and the American fucking Way.

Then, I got into work and the buzz was about the upcoming Bush speech/press conference. Alrighty then, I fired up the audio on this here ‘puter and got ready to listen in to the little monkey boy and leader of the free world.

What ho, though, before the speech began, scary old man, Defense Secretary Rummy, ready to cut and run. Awesome.

My favorite quote from the press conference:

To our enemies: Do not be joyful. Do not confuse the workings of our democracy with a lack of will. Our nation is committed to bringing you to justice.

It might be treasonous, but to our enemies, I’m pretty damn joyful my own bad self. And, that thing about will and bringing you to justice, maybe we’re all clarifying a bit on who’s our enemy. Friends, OK, ‘cept you heartless terrorist motherfuckers?

Around lunch I had the proverbial chery on my ice cream soda of politic joy. Lunch included BREAD PUDDING. I loves me some bread pudding.