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.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
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".
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.)
(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.
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.
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.
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...
(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...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)