Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Tangents And Tildes

Tonight the creative juices are flowing. Alas, I can't think of a whole lot at the moment. I'm going to attempt a little covert free association (so called because you won't be able to detect when I'm doing it here, unless my slightly schizophrenic break with reality pops up and takes us on a tangent somewhere away from reality or east of Davenport, Iowa, whichever is closer).

(Potential psychotic break is sponsored by Mountain Dew Throwback. MAN this stuff is good!)

Dang. I had hoped that, by now, that bar-looking thing would have appeared on the right hand side of the screen. I love when it first appears, because it always makes me feel like I'm really accomplishing something. It's like an old friend encouraging me to keep going when the going gets tough, or like that gym coach we all had -not the big, fat guy whose armpits seemed sweat soaked even in December, but the average-sized guy who told you that you were going to do it this time.

He was right. The scroll bar is here. It's here!  The thing popped up just as I was rounding out the last paragraph, but I couldn't slow down in time to let you know it was here. Not that I have slow reflexes, but I was distracted, momentarily, by what appeared to be a fruit fly hovering way over on the left hand side of the screen. You'll be relieved to know that it was, in fact, not a fruit fly but something in my eyes called a "floater". I can't tell you how many times floaters have led me to react with such precipitous force that holes in walls were created in my attempts to swat the would-be winged invaders of my domain. Anyway, the floater has now floated its way over to the other side of my left eye, so now everything important is clustered together. Spellcheck? Yep. Scroll bar? Got it. Floater? Floater? Now the stupid thing is floating back to the center of the screen, as though my vision were some kind of carpenter's level and the stigma wannabe is the bubble in the middle. Spellcheck isn't going to like this, I'll tell you. Too much interference. It's going to become pretty confusing when I keep asking it to check on the spelling of a weird occular anomaly that closely resembles a reversed ampersand.

I'm back from taking a five minute break from that last paragraph. Sorry. I should have mentioned that I was going to slip out for a moment to get something to drink. I'd have offered you something, but by now I assume you're drinking Mountain Dew Throwback . That stuff is good, you know. In a moment I'm going to wrap this up so I can proofread it. (I sure hope "proofread" is a compound word; spellcheck suddenly doesn't want to work. Note the irony.) In the meantime, I'll let you in on something I only share with my family and closest friends: lately I've been tempted to click on the "tilde" key. That's the one in the upper left hand corner of the keyboard. Mind you, I might not actually be so bold as to hold down the shift key at first. I think that would be rather presumptuous, don't you? What is that odd character that looks like a backward preceeding quote of a quote -the symbol which shares the tilde key? Anyway, the tilde key seems so mysterious -so downright foreign in a men-here-all-have-moustaches-and-all-the-buildings-are-at least-two-hundred-years-old kind of way. I think I want to click it, but I'm concerned that if I do, some foreign embassy will phone me and tell me to cut it out before I accidentally start an international incident or something. For all I know, the thing is benevolent. Maybe it doesn't mind being clicked every now and then. Hey, maybe it's hoping to be clicked. Since I bought this computer some time back, I've hit the "e" key some 9,117 times thus far. (I'm also obsessive-compulsive, but we'll save that that for another subject. Ask me about how I wore out my doorknob sometime.) It could be that the tilde key feels left out. Why not click on it? The worst that could happen is that the embassy will call me, asking me why I'm clicking their icon.

I'm going to do it! I don't mind telling you I feel a little nervous about this, since I've never been in serious trouble before. Here goes:

~

I did it! I've waited a long time to do that! If you'll give me a minute, I want to go look in the mirror to see if I look different, plus I'm so proud right now that I need to wipe my eyes. When I awoke this morning, I never thought I'd have accomplished anything so advanced as a tilde. I mean, it was just last week that I had finally mastered percentage symbol, and let me say right now that taming that little symbol is no mean feat. Now, at 12:04 Eastern time, I've broken new ground.  The tilde has been clicked! I'm calling my mom and my brother to share the great news!

But first, I need to take a phone call.

Friday, September 3, 2010

Hate And Discontent For Fun And Profit

What a wonderful vacation! Not that I could afford to go anywhere this year, unless Mt. Airy counts. Those who have the means go to Europe so they can be "ugly Americans", and the rest of us go to Mt. Airy. "Harold and I just got back from our third trip to Barcelona this year. Did you enjoy the sights and sounds of Floyd's City Barber Shop, Rob?" Sleeping in was nice. I think the neighbor upstairs, who clomped around in his clodhopper boots at 6:30 every morning, did his best to lend a certain ambiance to that time of the year I work hard for. I don't care what anyone else tells you; sleeping with earplugs in makes ears very, very sore.

Because I'm a part time employee, my vacations are unpaid. I'd like to express my gratitude to the Grand Imperial Board of Field Marshall Directors for that decree. God Knows we part timers NEVER work our butts off while the full time folk spend half the day sitting around, complaining about "how bad things are" and taking two cigarette breaks every hour. With no health insurance (ol' Barack is sure to love this), no vacations, and no sick days, we lowly part-timers easily carry forty percent of the total workload -that's two of us out of nine employees, Vern. My favorite thing about returning to work, of course, is being met by Mr. I-Don't-Have-to-Work-Because-I'm-A-Chain-Smoking-Assistant-Manager with "Hey Rob, when you get a chance, could you move the Blue Ridge Mountains an inch to the west?" Seriously, it's grating to be summoned to the front of the building to load two small boxes of tile into Myrtle's awaiting suv by an assistant manager who could easily have done it himself were it not for yet another impending nicotine fit. I thought the "Do As I Say" style of management went out with powdered wigs and harpsichords. How do I succinctly express my joy over being called away from doing my share of work to do his so that he gets half again as much pay per hour as I do, with full benefits, ad adsurdem?

Then there are The Ladies. Every business has to endure The Ladies. They're the ones who hang around in the break room, spooning 367 helpings of sugar into their coffee and giving dirty looks to the lowly hard workers of the company who DARE enter into their ersatz domain; their eyes close into slits so narrow one would imagine them to work best at night looking for the litter box and chasing mice around the office. You work routinely in hundred degree temperatures in the summer and forty degrees (and colder) in the winter; they bask in seventy two degrees of air conditioned paradise in the summer and go home early when their heater stops and the temperatures in their offices plummet to an arctic sixty-seven degrees. The Ladies constantly huddle in the executive breakroom, insulting anyone not in their immediate Circle of Righteousness and shivering at the mere prospect of another traumatic winter afternoon of having to wear a sweater.

Am I whining? Yep. But I'm whining while laughing, which is still legal until Nancy Pelosi makes another appearance with an oversize gavel and rules it otherwise. What I don't like is the intentional lack of respect for the people at the bottom of an organization who do most of the hard work for little pay and no benefits. I'd expect that in a for-profit business, but this is a nonprofit "Christian" organization with the mission of helping those in need. Ironic, no? I think it's that hypocrisy to which I object the most. I'm looking for some other job, but so far there are no takers. Apparently, the unemployment rate in this region is even higher than normal.

I'll chalk that up to "change we can believe in".

Monday, August 30, 2010

Zero To Seventy In Eight Hours

For anyone looking for a day vacation, there is no better experience than a spirited jaunt from Roanoke to Mount Airy. Sounds kind of boring at first, in a "we're going-to-visit-Aunt-Helen-so-shut-up-back-there" way.

(Absolutely dreadful anecdote, if it can even be called that, is sponsored by Mountain Dew Throwback. MAN this stuff is good!)

I hadn't been on Parkway South since Reagan's second term -and that was only to take my date to an overlook. Ask me what happened that night when the back seat of my 1969 Country Squire station wagon wouldn't fold down. I had no idea she would end up over the top of the back seat like that. NASA would have been impressed. Truly. I tried to recall which overlook we were chased out of by a snickering park ranger that night, but they all seemed to boast 500,000,000,000... acres of breathtaking views that would have made the most coldhearted realty agent weep. Every single one had the same glorious view, it seems, although I had an especially glorious view of

Ahem.

The trip along the parkway was more sedating than being slipped a mickey in a mausoleum. I wondered if Bambi was going to emerge from the treeline, bat those long eyelashes at me, and ask me to dance the dance of the forest amidst throngs of applauding squirrel and bunnies. (Imagine what I'd be like if I did do drugs.) No offense, but sometimes nature is, well, boring, and kudzu only serves to blur that experience. "Look, there's a weeping willow." "How can you tell?"

But then things got interesting (because you knew a pregnant pause was going to occur").

A T intersection introduced itself to me -nay, saved, me from going out of my mind, which is a short trip when you have a Bipolar disorder. "Hello", it said cheerfully, as T intersections are wont to do, unlike four way intersections which are too busy for such frivolity. "If you're interested in heading south, I'd be happy to lead you to Stuart. Or, if you prefer something lighter, I have a very nice Mount Airy just across the state line." What the heck, I reasoned. You don't often meet such friendly intersections, so I might as well get the most out of this. Since North Carolina was as accommodating as the T intersection was cheerful, I thought, "why not?", and several minutes later North Carolina actually welcomed me to their state. They even put a big sign up saying so!

Mount Airy, as it turns out, is deceptively complicated for a small town. Seems that no matter which way you turn, you end up right back in another part of Mount Airy, unless you don't turn. Then you end up in Level Cross. Not the one which elicits anticipation of strolling around in Petty Enterprises museum, but the Level Cross that boasts an actual four way intersection complete with four -count 'em, four- stop signs. I know! Well, who visits Mount Airy without seeing the historical district? Yes, I saw Floyd's City Barber Shop. I think the original Floyd still works there. Wish I had gotten to town before five. Then I might have gotten up a good game of checkers and asked if Ray Pollister ever got that vaccination. I also saw a recreation of Andy Taylor's 1962 Ford Galaxie (Yes, that's how Ford spelled it. I don't know why either.) squad car. As an aside, the historical district is a one way street. I learned that when I accidentally turned right and almost had a head-on collision with another dumb tourist. Whew. That's all I'd have needed -to be cited by Barney under a 301.25, which would surely have led to my either being fined twenty-five dollars or spending two nights in jail. Rough stuff, I'll tell you.

A very calm and serene trip to Mount Airy, followed by walking around in a very laid back tourist area, was the perfect lead-in to the trip home: gentlemen, start your engines.

Let me say right here and now that the moonshiners of the day could have put Europe's finest road racers to shame. I drove those roads this evening. I drove, at daring speeds, over a couple of hundred switchbacks. I had the advantage and convenience of driving a relatively new car with front wheel drive. To have driven a 4,000 pound car with rear wheel drive at those speeds through those turns without losing control would have required nothing short of world class driving. No wonder, then, that NASCAR's top drivers of the era were all from those parts. Ridge runners often say they weren't afraid of crashing. That's because there wasn't time to be afraid. I took turns so tight that I'm still trying to catch my breath at 12:40 am. I ate curves like they were strands of spaghetti. The more I got, the more I wanted. I almost cried because I didn't have a 400 horsepower musclecar for that particular trip. I felt like I was cheating my way through the turns with my Accord, which I happen to love, by the way. Curtis Turner would have put me to shame on those roads. Then again, it's easy to be motivated to be a great driver when you're being chased by federal agents for, um, being a libertarian when it comes to tax on alcohol.

Today was about starting off slowly and speeding things up. Typical day for me. If the 45 mile per hour trip along the parkway was somewhat of a ho hummer, the upwards of 70 mile per hour trip along those neverending ess turns brought back wonderful memories of high speed driving when I was younger but just as foolish. Unlike the days when I was young and immortal, today I was entirely cognizant of the car's capabilities. No side roads were anywhere near the stretches of roadway I was on, nor were there any other drivers or pedestrians. Once back in Virginia, though -I think it was in Floyd- I did see a bear cub toddling along a treeline perhaps twenty-five feet from the side of the pavement, but by then I was back to Clark Kent speeds. I'd love to have snapped a photo of the cub, but I suspect Mama Bear wouldn't have approved.

Probably would have given me the "I mean it" look Marsha gives you when you use "sarsha" in a sentence. (Sorry, Marsha. Mountain Dew paid me to say that.)

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Embellishing A Nonexistent Subject: Tools For Beginners

This is worse than being in a Stephen King short story. At the moment, I have an excess of creative juices flowing through my psyche. This, I cannot impart succinctly enough, is maddening. Not because of racing thoughts, poor impulse control (Bottle rockets and a cattle stampede. That's all I'm saying until I KNOW the statute of limitations is up.) , a generally good mood, and free time. No, those things, along with the occasional hallucination (auditory, please), are quite normal for me, as ironic as that sounds. What's missing is a specific focus -a subject.

Now, we all know Stephen King has this type of thing mastered. NO one tells a story better than Mr. I-Have-Spider-Webs-Designed-Into-The-Wrought-Iron-Gates-Opening-To-My-550,000,000,000-Square-Foot-Mansion. Not only is the detail exquisite in his stories, the style itself comples you to keep reading and to keep willingly suspend disbelief about things like human fingers coming through bathroom sink drain holes. I'd love to be a Stephen King of comedy, but that sounds like a sequel to a really cheesy movie that neither of us would want to watch. I recount experiences and embellish them a little bit, but some of my experiences seem to have come pre-embellished. For example: spinning my dad's car out on Loch Haven Road at 70 miles per hour while passing traffic on the interstate adjacent to me backward wasn't something in need of any truth-stretching. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if someone who knew me saw the whole thing from I-81. No need for either embellishment or surprise. "There goes Rob again. Think he's ready for his geometry test?"

On the other hand, experiences at work, while not in need of embellishment, nontheless benefit from such treatment. I know I'd rather read "Edna was already puffing anxiously on her third cigarette while Mike and I labored furiously to load two sofas, three overstuffed chairs, and one-hundred fourteen sheets of plywood into her 1987 Volkswagen Jetta" than "A woman asked Mike and I to put items she purchased into her used car".

See?

Embellishment is the gateway to freedom from tedium. It's a license to express one's experiences and views without having to answer for them. No one ever asked me, "Hey Rob -who gave you the right to say things in a funny way?" Stephen King is a master of embellishment. I'm a newcomer to this wonderful world. Boy is there a lot to see and do here! One of my favorite things is to get out and watch people do people things. The other day, I watched two drivers cut each other off -and promptly lean on their horns in response. As such, it was pretty funny, but I find it funnier by including how they decided to slow down in order to have a 40 decibel jousting match, and how both contestants knew it would be a fight to the finish of their batteries. Neither was willing to leave, since they had both committed to the event and had invested themselves emotionally into this Honk-Off Of The Century. Truly, an event so huge it would surely preempt the tennis matches being covered by ESPN. Embellishment turbocharges a story by making a humdrum occurrence engaging.


Never be afraid to add humor to a story. Don't lie, of course, but have fun tweaking experiences, as retold, until they make your friends wonder if the Haldol is working too well. As for me, I don't take Haldol, so it isn't an issue for me. Then my hallucinations would stop, and I'd be doing spreadsheets for a boss wearing tres chic suspenders. Oh, shudder. Embellishment is the embracing of a story. To me, it's the love expressed for a story needing to be told, if that doesn't sound too syrupy. (I know that it does) Whatever the case, embellishment is my friend, and sometimes we sit down and collaborate on a blog.

That said, embellishment and I are tired, so we're calling it a night.

Oh, embellishment says I should apologize for such an abrupt ending. I agree.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Out with The Old...

The other day I was looking at Google Images and I came across this great old ad for the 1979 Dodge Magnum GT, with none other than golfing great Lee Trevino posing in it. The caption reads, "Remember the kid who used to burn up 11th Street?" or something like that. There he is, in laid back "I've got it together" 70s style. Ol' Lee looks so content it drives me nuts. The house and the yard in the ad are impeccable and modern for the 70s. And am I jealous.

I wanted to be the guy sitting in the bucket seat of that almost-a-musclecar, smiling confidently to whoever was close enough to see me. "Look, Rob's sitting in his Magnum GT, smiling confidently again. Think we should remind him to water his lawn?" I mean, Trevino is even wearing that great 70s icon we all remember fondly as the denim jacket. That's how laid back the ad is. Nowadays, we've all grown up. We're serious. The cars we drive are no-nonsense, Corporate 401K Silver-colored cars complete with leather seats and that irritating voice that reminds us that we're too lazy to pull over and read a map. Humorless, blunt-affect jellybean-shaped contraptions which ease our concerns that we might not blend in entirely with the 400,412 other shoppers at Sam's Club.

Far be it for me to judge anyone. I believe that whatever someone wants to drive is a personal decision, but from my observations it appears that anyone trying to break out of conformity -no matter how insignificantly- is risking ridicule and scorn from those who find complete comfort in silver jellybeans with leather seats and GPS. Are we living our lives according to some script? "You're driving a Retina-Burn Yellow 2006 Ford Mustang, Rob. We don't do things that way around here."

The greater point isn't about what we drive. It isn't even about how we express ourselves. It's about grabbing, and clutching with all we've got within our souls, our God-Given right to individuality. (Note: please, I beg of my friends not to report me to the ACLU for mentioning God.) What ever happened to being ourselves? Didn't those great old cars reflect individualism? That's what "custom" means, in automotive terms. Not that I'm pushing for a reemergence of those 70s disasters we all remember, with PTSD, as "custom vans". Hey, I love unique vehicles. My friends know that about me, especially those who remember the '71 Dodge Charger I once had. But the van movement destroyed its own "willing suspension of disbelief" about the time that guys started installing waterbeds and ceiling fans (!) in their rolling ecclectic self-expressions.

To me, individual expression, when issued honestly, is one of the most beautiful gifts we've been given. It reminds us of our Creator's limitless Nature. Somehow, silver jellybean-mobiles seem the exact opposite: Conform. Comply. Keep your head down. Submit to the world's way of doing things. Share the same cookie-cutter mold as your acquaintances. Maybe that's why, as I get older and increasingly must trim my eyebrows so I don't look like the crusty old man I fear I might become one day, I've become more conservative over the years. I can't think of anything scarier, in worldly terms, than getting the standard issue above-the-ears business haircut (unless I decide to buzz it all off again at some point-no point in discriminating against the hair on top of my head), donning the khaki slacks purchased at Belk's, and parking my silver jellybean amongst the other silver jellybeans so that we can meet over drinks and compare our above-the-ears haircuts we all got over the weekend. I believe a change is in order.

Maybe if I compromise, I can meet myself halfway.

Maybe I can install hair clippers in an old, silver van.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Tales From Mudlick

Mudlick Road is a happening place.

I know, because sometimes I drive on Mudlick on my way to work. The road seems to draw the worst drivers and, seemingly, the most idiotic behavior. Take today, for example: Charlene, who takes great pride in her hair as exemplified by the combing, spraying, and teasing it while tailgating me this morning, almost rear ended me when I slow for Bobby Joe and his farm tractor. Note that the tractor has a lawn-cutting implement attached to it and that he was mowing the shoulder of the infamous avenue so that we can all get a better view of all of the Budweiser cans and Marlboro Light butts underneath. Hey, I love green too, but sometimes a feller has a hankering for something to break up the continuity. As much as I hate litter, I find it interesting for the first 1/5,000 of a second because the white can offers an aesthetically pleasing contrast to the otherwise pristine nature trying to sweep it under its rug.

While Bobby Joe is unearthing these artifacts, which seem to predate Reagan's second term, his partner Billy Ray is working the other side of the road. That's where the overhanging branches are, which he's trimming with his powered-by-a-Hemi tractor. Bear in mind that neither of these entrepreneurs was willing to waste time by placing "men working" signs around the blind curve they were working. Law? What's law? Charlene, who has now finished her magnificent coif, is now embarking on the oh-so-important task of running laps around her mouth with Revlon's finest "Run Away With Me To Madagascar" lipstick of unknown hue. At the very last microsecond, she decides to step on the brake pedal, thereby avoiding treating my Accord to a brand new paint job. Bobby Joe and Billy Ray, meanwhile, decide that the best time to hold a conference is when they're astride from each other and blocking traffic coming in both directions. The topic du jour is, ironically enough, about reminding each other to watch for "dangerous traffic". I'm sensing that I might be late to work, so I honk the Accord's horn. The cold stare issued by both men reminds me to purchase a 180 decibel train horn from the latest JC Whitney catalog on payday. "Guaranteed to get their attention", reads the advertisement.

Indeed.

I inch slowly past this potential scene from "Deliverence" while Charlene is now honking her horn at the guys, who, for all I know, are giving her pointers on how to apply lipstick while tailgating. Maybe putting on lipstick is similar to trimming branches in ways I've never encountered. Or Billy Ray might run his own salon as a sideline business: free hedge trimming with every purchase of "Gunk! By Loreal." Whatever the case, I'm late to work, so now I must move like an evading Navy SEALS Team 6 around 471 cars, 89 minivans, 212 suvs, and 23 motorcycles. While the radio blasts "We're Not Gonna Take It Anymore", I slip past these vehicles deftly -so much so, in fact, that when I got home from work this evening my answering machine held an invitation from Richard Petty to be a backup driver for one of his race teams.

I'm holding out: I want my race car to be solid green, except for small, white cylindrical shapes dotting its silhouette.

Bobby Joe would want it that way.

Friday, August 6, 2010

Piaget and The Filing Cabinet: A Game of Inches

Jean Piaget was a developmental psychologist from the days before there was color in the world, according to all photographic accounts of him.

(Lame, but applicable, anecdote of the week is sponsored by Mountain Dew Throwback. MAN this stuff is good!)

I mention the chap, because I really need him these days. Not so much for myself, but for some of the folk (also known as customers) who require assistance with loading merchandise into their awaiting vehicles. Piaget was, for purposes of this son-of-an-opus, the guy who discovered that very young children believe a tall, skinny eight ounce beaker can hold more water than a short, fat eight ounce beaker due strictly to its taller height. Little kids can only focus on the detail of height. This is known, for all intents and purposes, as "conservation" to those of you who want to be erudite.

Apparently, Piaget was on to something. Nora, who purchases a four-drawer filing cabinet, asks if we can load the large metal object into her 1992 Rustola. No problem, we answer, while we navigate around the half filled basketball, the three golf shoes, and the split plastic trash bags filled with leaves and sticks from last November's annual family yard raking event. To our amazement, the cabinet doesn't fit. "Try turning it around so the drawers are facing down", offers our seventeenth customer of the afternoon to make such offers. Now, we know that isn't going to address the challenge, but to humor the dear lady we invert cabinet only to discover that, in addition to staving off leaves, twigs, and very menacing golf shoes we now also must respond to four filing cabinet drawers attempting to bail out of the struggle. Nora simply cannot grasp the concept that turning the cabinet upside down doesn't save space. It certainly doesn't save Gary's back, if his dancing off while clutching what appears to be a C5 injury is any indication. We try to explain, in layman's terms, to Nora that what must occur first is to create space for the cabinet. "May we dispose of your leaf-filled trash bags?" we ask the poor woman who's already on her third cigarette. Judging from the icy stare, which is a thankful distraction from the pit bull tattoo on her bicep, the answer is a reasonably estimated no. That's okay, though, because Mike is onto something big: by removing the trash bags, stacking the three golf shoes, and then placing the filing cabinet into the truck, all that remains to be done is to crush down, then insert the bags onto the top of the filing cabinet. I could, at this moment, offer Mike a Gatorade, except that I only have one left, and...

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Dube, My Baby Brother

I found this in the archives and am in mood to share. This is about the Boxer dog I had waaaaaaaaay back when we were in high school. I hope you enjoy this, because you're not getting a refund, Cooter...


Man is it great to be home from school! All that jive about geometry, history, and biology (had to cut a dead frog apart. Nancy almost puked. She didn't, darn it!) has me wanting to snitch Oreos from the cookie jar, except mom got those Hydrox ones with no flavor. Maybe I'll go back outside and take another look at the orange engine in dad's Monaco. You don't see too many orange engines. Wonder what that "440 Magnum" emblem on the air cleaner means? Whatever it means, that car sure was fast last night. Good thing I rode the bus to school today -I have a feeling the county deputies are on the lookout for that car. Hmm. Maybe I'll go back inside and scold Dube (aside: he was already a year old when we got him and had already been named, so there) for dragging that trash bag through the house and tossing mom's shoes down the stairs. I'd better get him off of the sofa first.

"Dube, get off of the couch."

"Mawrmawrmawrmawrmawrmawr." (Boxers do this really weird mumbling thing.)

"Dube! I mean it. Mom's coming up the street."

"Mawrmawrmawrmawrmawr. GRRRR!"

"Don't you growl at ME, Dube! Ha! I got you by the collar! I'd like to see you get away THIS ti-OW! My CHEEK!"

"Mawrmawrmawr..."

(Sound of the front door opening, followed by a perturbed mom voice) "Roooob! WHY is that dog on the sofa?!"

"I've BEEN trying to pull him off, mom, but he mumbled at me. Then he growled and boxed me in the cheek!"

"Mmm. I doubt that you tried very hard. Have you made his dinner yet?"

"I was about to, but-"

>gasp< WHAT are my SHOES doing on the STAIRS?!"

"Why are you blaming ME?" HE did it!"

"Oh my beautiful sandals! They don't MAKE these anymore! And WHY are there EGG shells and coffee grounds all over the living room CARPET?"

"I forgot to take the trash out this morning... "(voice trails off meekly)

"Oh, well that's great. Now you can make his dinner, then pick up all my shoes and THEN you can vacuum the living room, but FIRST you need to check the basement floor to see if he went to the bathroom down there again. Clean that up first. Do you have homework?"

"Well, not really."

"And by 'not really', what exactly do you mean?"

"Only 150 pages of Latin, 247 pages of geometry, twelve chapters of biology, nine papers, and a reinterpretation of the Mona Lisa for art class. Did you know she doesn't have eyebrows?"

"All right, do your homework and I'LL take care of this mess. I hope you don't have plans to take dad's car anywhere tonight. Don't forget that I chased you down the last time you sneaked the car out late at night without my permission. And clean up your room. There is NO excuse for trying to install a fountain by the dresser."

"Okay, mom. I have dad's best pipe wrench here. Give me a sec. Oh, I need to shut off the water main first so I don't warp the floorboards again."

>sigh< "Do you have any idea how hard it is to teach kids all day, then come home and have to deal with you and that hellion of a dog?"

"Well, no, it's been YEEEAAARS since I taught kids."

"Don't be smart with me. I do NOT appreciate coming home to these messes every day. Now, then: what do you want for dinner?"

"Um... how about pizza?"

"Funny you should say that. We're having meatloaf. And I'm cooking it until it's so well done that it's crunchy all the way through."

"Aw, mooom. Why do you cook it like that?"

"Your father likes beef well done."

"Well done is one thing, but this stuff is like it was blown out of a volcano!"

"Well, do your homework and I'll put a bottle of catsup next to your plate. And don't even THINK about sneaking your dinner to Dube!"

"Uh... Mom?"

>tsk< >siiighh< "What is it now?"

"Did you hear dad's car start up?"

"I think I did. Why?"

Where's Dube?"

"Well, in the living room, of course. What kind of -the front door is wide open!"

"Not only that, mom, but look! Some guy with pointy ears and a brown coat just stole dad's Monaco!"

"Well, let's hope he has coupons for Gainsburgers."
Once there was a little worker bee. Actually, there were several worker bees, and not just once. This worker bee in question was a loyal little worker bee. He had a very strong work ethic. He never asked for a lot of money, but what he wanted was a little appreciation for his efforts and dedication.

At first, things were going really well in the hive. The Queen Bee and her assistants were willing to do their share of the work. Over time, however, the little worker bee began to notice that the better he became at building honeycombs, the less the Assistant Queen Bees contributed to the production of the hive. At first, this was no concern. After time, though, the little worker bee was doing his share of the work in addition to that of the assistant bees. Now, whenever the Queen Bee flew off of her throne to inspect the royal hive, her assistants became very nervous, as was exemplified by a waggle dance known as an expression of anxiety among all bees. Her assistants were on the clock, as bees are known to have throughout their hives, for twelve hours per day. But the assistant bees thought it unfair that they should have to work all twelve hours. Having the Queen Bee discover how little they contributed would be a shame.

What this meant was that one of the bees was going to have to pick up the slack. That bee, of course, was the little worker bee. He was known by the Queen Bee and her personal assistant bees to take great pride in his work. "Well, why not let little worker bee do some of my work so I don't have to work all twelve hours?", reasoned assistant bees. "After all, worker bee only works in the hive part time. Let's give him some of our work." At first, worker bee thought this was eminently fair. After all, what bee can work nonstop twelve hours?

Things went well for awhile, but one day worker bee noticed that he had been working much harder lately than he ever had. Additionally, summer was in full swing and it was very warm. In fact, it was over one hundred degrees in the labor division of the hive. worker bee began to feel dizzy and close to fainting, but the assistant bees, afraid that he might have to go rest, thereby leaving them to have to do some work again, began pushing worker bee harder. Now, while this was happening there were other worker bees who, like the assistant bees, got away with not working as much as they were being paid to work. This meant that, in addition to doing his own work, he now was also required to do much of the work of the assistant bees and his fellow worker bees.

This made worker bee very sad. "I'm being paid to do the work of one bee, but now, because I have become so good at my little job, the assistant bees now make me do work that they should be doing. Worse, now I also must perform the tasks of two of my fellow worker bees, who don't seem to want to work as much as they did."

Worker bee began to experience heat sickness and soon sought the air conditioned comfort of that of the assistant bees, but before long the assistants saw what he was doing, and chased him back to work. Worker bee, feeling very faint, then sought the air conditioned comfort of the office bees. But that didn't last long, for the office bees wanted no part of a sweaty, filthy worker bee in their pristine midst. worker bee soon realized that while his productivity was valued at first, soon it was merely taken for granted by those bees who had long forgotten what hard work it is to run a hive.

This took a very bad toll on worker bee. First, he became faint almost every day. Then, he became very, very dehydrated. His soaking wet work shirt was seen by other bees as a disgusting sight rather than as a symbol of a strong work ethic. Worker bee had kept his chin up as long as he could, but after a few seasons of working in the hive, he began to feel very, very sad. Before long, a tear -a very small tear at first- formed in his eye, then fell down his cheek. He finally realized that his purpose in the hive was not to treated as an equal, or even with any appreciation at all. It was simply to serve as a bee taken for granted, much like a comfortable breeze on a hot summer day. Worker bee's spirit was broken, and now he performs less than he once did, for now he has lost sight of the goal of the hive.

The end.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

The Budget Model Doesn't Come With Segues.

Warning: The following blog entry is suitable for adults 40 and older. Perusing discretion is advised.

(Hackneyed comment is sponsored by Mountain Dew Throwback. MAN this stuff is good!)

Well, it was a slow one at the ol' ranch today. Thankfully, we were all in good spirits. That's no mean feat when you're loading a sofa into Beatrice's 1989 Ford Almost-a-Bronco. I'm not sure why there was a Bronco II since Ford got it right the first time. This time it wasn't loaded down with sandy remnants from Nag's Head which, of course, would have been highly offensive to the "I took my grandchildren to Witch Mountain" sticker plastered masterfully over the rust hole on the rear bumper. Nor were there spare tires (with tread, please), jumper cables, or dessicated road flares to contend with. What was contentious was loading that sofa while Miss Charm School was polite enough to remind us 41 times to "be careful about the head liner". Those cigarette burn holes are arranged in a very meticulous pattern, and having a Herculon-covered couch manufactured in 1972 would so interrupt the fung shui thing she had going.

Oh, I got to be a commando this afternoon. Actually, one of my managers (Can I mention you, Brent?), two customers, and I rolled a love seat (to the uninitiated, a love seat is like extremist politicians, i.e., no middle ground but with a lot of extra padding) half of a block to their photo-and-haircut studio. It was an interesting experience: when traffic was clear, we set course due east about one click from the Times building. Then, in true SAS form, we slipped across the street one at a time on a ten meter spread. One of the customers was on point; I had rear guard. It was pretty intense for me, since I was the one rolling the "merchandise" with no weaponry or cover. I cannot tell you how easily I could have been captured. Mind you, the love seat would have made good, albeit temporary, cover against flying rounds and grenades. Fortunately, the enemy haden't been operating in that part of the block, so slipping across Salem Avenue undetected was easier going than initially anticipated. To read more about this harrowing experience, go to www.soldieroffortune.com.

>INTERMISSION: LET'S ALL GO TO THE LOBBY AND HAVE OURSELVES A SNACK!<

Why on earth did I do that?

Oh, one of the managers dared me to sniff an old garbage can we keep on the dock. Well, you know I have to do that -it's in the Guy Code. Jeff Foxworthy calls it the "courtesy sniff". He says that by sniffing something truly awful when called upon to do so, the guy who asks you will owe you a sniff at a later time. That came as very good news for me, as the odor to which I subjected myself was that of a small dead mammal. Boy does John owe me. By the way, I don't think dead animals have the right to smell sweet. It would have blasted my socks off, except that I don't wear socks at work in the summer. And no, it wasn't my shoes that smelled so bad, so don't go there with me, Jerry. If anyone remembers how truly rancid the locker room smelled back in the eighth grade, this was worse. But I believe I'm a better man for enduring the smell emanating from that old garbage can. Not just anyone could have endured such odoriferous largesse. I am now a true guy. This morning, I was merely a minor player, but when I took that sniff, I did more than honor an assistant manager's request. I established myself as a man's man. As a guy who can be counted on to sniff garbage cans anywhere at work. Why, I bet if I got a phone call at 7 pm from my boss telling me we had an emergency, and that garbage cans had to be sniffed right away, I could be at work, fully olfactorized and nasally conditioned, within 20 minutes.

Word on the street is, they're going to build the right side of our building into condos. That's going to be interesting. Barry Blueblood is going to stroll over and ask us not to make so much noise on the third or fourth floors. The condo is going to be equipped with a mini movie theater, you see, and it's bad enough having to wait in line, like common people do, to purchase the Tobblerone bar and Perrier, without having to deal with the sound of Rob loading 31 towel bars onto a metal hand cart. Simply dreadful. I've been down this road with "people of means" before. What I'm referring to by "people of means" is folks who are new to being wealthy and who haven't yet learned that money doesn't bring negative or superior attitudes. "That table is solid mohagany", stated Thomas Farquarr III, Esquire, last week. "I shall require a receipt proving that I was kind-hearted enough to donate this very precious personal posession to you indigents with true love for my fellow man. And please do remember to stay in your part of town." As it turns out, that one-hundred percent mohagany table, skillfully crafted by monks in the high ranges of Katmandu, was, in fact, plywood with a 1/32" inch mohagany applique. That's a fancy way of saying that Brother Farquarr III, Esquire, expresses his love for his fellow human 1/32 of an inch at a time.

I bet he was relieved to have gotten a receipt for that outporing.

Saturday, July 31, 2010

When 90 MPH Was Too Slow For 419

I cannot remember the last time I was in a land vehicle going over 100 miles per hour.

(Insipid statement sponsored by Mountain Dew Throwback. MAN this stuff is good!)

I suppose birth certificates should come with disclaimers. For me, that disclaimer would have read, "Warning:" (The German instructions, of course, would have started with that Kaiser helmet-sounding "Achtung!") "This infant is designed for future unsupervised acceleration trials only. Any warranty herein is null and void." Such an official notice would have gone a long, long way toward avoiding aggravation on the part of the Roanoke County Sherrif's Office long 'bout 1977 or so. For the uninitiated, when I was a teen and doing dumb things like spying on the girl next door (they were pink, as it turned out) and putting Pop Rocks in my beloved Boxer dog's mouth to watch his reaction, taking a nightly study break was always a temptation for my very short attention span. Typically, it went something like this: "Dad, can I borrow the keys? I need to go to Hop-In for -" "You need to go to Hop-In? Here's five bucks. Bring me back some cigarettes and a six pack." Daaaaad, you KNOW they won't sell me that stuff!" "(Grumble, grumble) All right, but take it easy with the car, okay sport? That last engine cost me $900."

Going to Hop-In was great, but who wants to head straight back home when you're sixteen and have wheels? Electric Road, known by locals as 419, has a wide, sweeping turn between Keagy Road and all those nondescript office buildings overcrowding the highway these days. The nightly goal, while you were studying trig and writing a paper for English Lit, was to blast toward that sweeper at, oh, 90 miles per hour or so, then slow waaaay down to a very sedate 70 through the turn (diving down to the fast lane from the right hand lane ala NASCAR; it's called "riding the apex" because you wanted to know). Then, coming out of "turn four" this future savior of Petty Enterprises would upshift back to third gear or, as it's called on automatic transmissions, "drive".

Then the fun would begin.

Dogs ran.

Children cried.

And a leadfooted, dumb kid with 400 horsepower under his right foot would blast back up to 120 miles per hour as though heading down the Mulsanne Straight with the smell of the checkered flag hanging heavy in the air. Think of it as the high performance equivalent of Ray Charles singing "Shake Your Tail Feathers" in the Blues Brothers. Let me tell you, Margie, that county library came up FAST! Telephone poles began to look kind of like a picket fence. Deputies stirred from their boredom in time to hear the wailing of a fast-approaching 440 Magnum engine (and a police interceptor engine at that). Often, the Doppler effect distracted them before they could adjust their radars. (Remember when they looked like two Clorox bottles glued together and hung on the passenger door's window? I bet Bert Tyler does! Sorry, Bert -haha!) When the deputies weren't distracted by the Doppler, they would pull out of their favorite hiding places and give chase. I learned automotive escape and evasion techniques that would have wowed SEALS Team 6.

Well, all good things come to an end when you're sixteen and hot-footing dad's car around Southwest county. An overwhelming sense of guilt always followed such impulses. And a vow to myself to take studying geometry seriously when I got home. (Yeah, right.) I had already studied geometry. I had calculated the degrees of the curve in "turn four" -at 90 miles per hour. I had also summed the total number of degrees required to take the fewest number of 90 degree turns to get back home undetected.

And the best part? I was a kid, and there were no required postulates and theorems.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Live From Roanoke!

What a horrible title. I know. A few who have been reading this blog (and others like it which I seem to have misplaced) are used to intriguing titles like "When Dogs Commit Anthropomorphic Fallacy" or "Steak Fries: Are They Right For You?", but in my defense I'm hot and tired. I was tempted to title today's entry, "Never Drink A Slurpee While Taking A Cold Shower", but some of you out there are too dirty-minded and would never have let me live such a title down. and that's sad, of course, because just this afternoon I was, in fact, drinking a large, Cola-flavored Slurpee while standing in a cold shower. I do this because (a) money is tight, (b) because I'm cheap and don't want to enable the CEO of AEP's greed, and (c) because you know you've always wanted to do this, but were afraid of what your loved ones would think. One of my favorite standup comics says he likes to step into the shower with his clothes on, turn on the shower, and pretend he's in a submarine that got torpedoed. Well, I do that too, but I save that naughtiness for laundry day. Today is all about peeling off my drenched-with-sweat work shirt, turning the cold water on with such precipitous force that I get blasted against the towel (purchased from TJ Maxx for $10) hanging on the rack opposite of the faucet wall, and get forced to inhale deeply whether I want to or not. This latter point is key to my decision to climb into the shower, since I've been short of breath lately and cold water really helps me breathe. Of course, inhaling deeply when going into hypothermia can only help, so I elect to keep the cold water running until I'm just about incoherent.

While the hamburgers are frying away and the steak fries are changing into a golden brown that only Burger King could possibly duplicate, and while I'm hard at work anticipating how great it's all going to taste with the Goulden's mustard, the balsamic vinegar, and the garlic powder, it occurs to me that preseason football is just around the corner. Yep, in just literally days we're all going to be cheering our teams on to win those oh-so-important preseason games like we're already in the playoffs. Oh, the humiliation, nay tragedy, of being outscored by... another highly trained, equipped, and motivated team of professional athletes who have been playing this game since they were kids. What will my fellow football-loving coworkers think if the Steelers fall, in Preseason, The Prophetic Word of Future Victory, to some team like the Panthers? Could I ever look them in the eye again or until next week when Pittsburgh wins a preseason contest which carries with it all the importance of an audited college course on your gpa? We'll have to see, but this blogger has steeled himself (no pun intended; I'm a Steelers fan, btw) with a dogged determination to see these harrowing few games through to their bitter end. Frankly, I believe the Steelers are going to have a great season, but if I'm wrong, so be it.

There are always cold showers and Slurpees.

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

What a soaker!


I'm not sure how hot it is outside these days, but inside the building at work it has routinely been slightly over 100 degrees. That's Fahrenheit to you, Myrtle. My work shirt, proudly emblazoned with the company logo, looks like the a wet t shirt contest gone awry at a frat kegger. It's so saturated with perspiration that I duck out the back door to the dumpster in order to wring it out so I don't have to put up "Caution: wet floor" signs on the sales floor. This, as it turns out, is an excellent idea; Sky and Freedom, two diehard hippies from Floyd who are shopping for old lumber for some kind of art I'd frankly love to go see, notice that my freshly-wrung shirt is now sporting a tie-dye look, albeit a subdued look. "It's monochromatic" I offer to my two acquaintances who have more talent than I could ever comprehend having. Now, I'm not sure what monochromatic means, exactly, but in sales one must think on one's feet. As it turns out, Sky nods understandingly while Freedom (Free for short) expresses his wish that the shirt had more color -more "hue".


Mike is making do with the second floor in an effort to deal with this somewhat oppressive heat (humidity). In his defense, he works full time and needs air conditioning every now and then. I'm only a part time worker, so I can deal with it a little easier. Well, except for last week when I had to leave work an hour and a half early due to shortness of breath. I found that humiliating, since I was a desert rat for five years in the New Mexico sun while pursuing an undergraduate degree. I'm conditioned to 120 degree summer afternoons. What a wimp! 95 degrees and I fall to my knees on the dock floor like a B-movie sidekick looking for a lost contact lens in a bar brawl. Brent, mercifully, reminds me that I'm "not in my twenties anymore", and that I need to keep an eye on my elderly health. Hmm.



I'd put a paper bag over my head, except it might get wet with sweat and fall apart.

Monday, July 26, 2010

What's up with all that sort-of-sticky clear plastic that covers new electronic gadgets? What IS this stuff, anyway? Is it window tint material that got rejected? I ask, because waaaaay back when I was a late-blooming hotrodder, I tried (in vain) to affix something similar that covers the outer edges of new keyboards to the windows of my beloved '71 Dodge Charger. The only difference, as far as I can tell, is that the stuff I was smearing all over the inside of the windows was tinted. And didn't stick to anything except dead bugs and dust.

Mind you, I DID wash those windows until you could perform surgery on them. You'd think that Windex would dry fairly quickly in the heat of a New Mexico summer. This marvelous space-age material peeled faster than Marsha's flipflops when someone yelled, "PINWHEEL COOKIES!" I ended up tossing $20.95 worth of glorified Saran Wrap in the apartment dumpster because, apparently, I was the only hotrodder in Dona Ana County who couldn't quite master the four inch squeegie that came with the kit which extolled the virtues of dark tint ("guaranteed to reduce the heat of your interior by 50%", which, um, means I'd have climbed into an all-vinyl interior whose temperature would have been reduced to a balmy 900 degrees Celsius).

Now, after the Charger has long since been recycled into a new refrigerator for Lillian in Akron, I type this blog, shaking like a leaf due to the five square yards of failed window tint which adorns this keyboard so it wouldn't get scratched or dinged during shipping from Beijing. Perspiration frames my face as if it were an 8 X 10 glossy from MGM Studios. 3m's latest attempt to induce Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in my psyche has, for the moment, failed.

I've considered removing it, but there's something irresistable about new electronic gadgets staying wrapped in failed window tint.

It must be that new electronic gadget smell.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

It's Late And I'm Tired, So This Won't Take Long

Well, tough taters.

While I continue trying to retrieve my previous two blogs (Technology. Bah!), I decided to spread myself thin with a third (!) blog. You know, an interim blog. Like the Toyota Tercel your neighbor four houses down got for his dumb kid, except now the kid doesn't want it, so he drives it to work amidst much snickering among his Lexus-cruising coworkers. The Tercel is, of course, going to be replaced sometime between Christmas bonus and junior being rejected by UNC Law School. The problem is that I keep forgetting to write down my passwords for these blogs, so when the blog companies refuse to help an old fart out, I have to move to an interim blog.

That's why we're here. While you were asleep, I decided to keep driving through this internet countryside without a map. Hey, I'm a guy and guys don't use maps. Too unmanly -worse, in fact, than letting your woman make you hold her purse while she "won't be a second" in that lingerie shop she just stepped into while other guys looked at you pityingly. So we ended up in another cul-de-sac in the ethernet equivalent of Dekorah Iowa. Deal with it. I'll figure this out. Heck, I might even be able to retrieve the password this time -and if that happens, we're in fat city, baby. According to the instructions that came with this blogsite, I can even give these ramblings a neat-looking background, unless you want me to put up curtains or something.

Anyway, it's late and I'm tired. I'm going to bed so that some dumb kid can scoot past my apartment door, startling me awake by yelling, "Over here! The fire crackers are over here!"