My Christmas Cheer

Sung to the tune of “Oh Tannenbaum” (“Oh Christmas Tree”)

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Oh Lions team, Oh Lions team, Oh how we do adore the.

Oh Lions team, Oh Lions team, Ignore what came before thee

We know with Suh and Vandenbosch, their Quarterbacks say, “Oh, my gosh!”

Oh Lions team, Oh Lions team, you know your fans adore thee

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Oh Lions team, Oh Lions team, you’ve come to win the game

Oh Lions team, Oh Lions team, you wilst thou crush and maim

You’ll cross their T’s, you’ll dot their I’s, and when you win you’ll ostracize

Oh Lions team, Oh Lions team, we know you’ll win the game

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Oh Lions team, Oh Lions team, I hope you'll beat the Packers

Oh Lions team, Oh Lions team, a bunch of cheese head slackers

Just let loose Johnson down the field and their defense is sure to yield

Oh Lions team, Oh Lions team, it's time to crush the Packers

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Oh, Lions team, Oh Lions team, you’re going to the playoffs

Oh Lions team, Oh Lions team, no time to take a day off

Match any team from anywhere, Stafford will kill them in the air

Oh, Lions team, Oh Lions team, it is about damn time!

-Bill Uebbing 12/30/2011 8:47am

16,338 Words

A simple Google search revealed to me today that the average modern novel has, depending upon your definition of modern and upon which of myriad answers you choose to believe, 50,000-200,00 words.

Granted, that's a big ball park. War and Peace, The Fountainhead, The Stand, all have many, many more. The Five People You Meet in Heaven, Rosencrantz and Gilderstern are Dead have many, many less. The page count of a 50,000 word paperback is about 126-150. 70,000 words seems to be a magic number to get to 200 pages, which, let's face it, is hardly a long book. Now, 250 pages and you've got yourself something. It feels meaty in your hand, but it isn't too intimidating for most readers. The public will feel they are getting their money's worth and not be too afraid to pick the thing up.

All this assumes people still buy physical books. I know they do, but in the three-and-a-half years since I worked at Barnes & Noble it is amazing to see the diminished inventory they have on hand. Right up front is the Nook stand where they will happily sell you one of many styles of their house brand readers. One can get the Amazon (whatever that is) version as well, if they are predisposed to just giving their money to terrorists. I have made use of my iPad to read and unsurprisingly, there is an app for both Nook and Kindle.

Point being, I shouldn't be so wrapped up in word count, or page count as it all seems to matter less and less since it all is the same size, weight and shape on an e-reading device.

But I am wrapped up in it. I bet you'd like to know why; and if you don't, you needn't have bothered to read this long, because it's all working up to this - I have been taking the little extra time I have had and started plugging away at my little work of fiction. As of today, I have an unpolished, sort of manic thing that is, by the storyboard in my head, about half done and Word says it is 16,338 words. My calculator says that is about 33% of a really small novel. But it's about 50% of what I think I have left to write. Double it and you get 32,676 words, which takes me on a bus straight past short storyville but drops me off short of novel country for wont of more fair.

Put another way, my less-than-brilliant, been done-to-death idea is too long to be a movie script, impossible to adapt for a stage play, and too short to be a novel. It's a novelette. Novelette is a term no one uses anymore. Because novelettes are stupid. My project is like caffeine free diet pop - a big fat glass of why bother.

Now, I suppose it could end up being longer. I haven't completely fleshed it all out yet. I am kind of banging it out, since I only have a vague idea of how it will end and I am sort of just letting it get there. Once I have a beginning and a middle and an end, maybe I will need some more supporting material or dialogue to bolster a storyline or scene. Maybe I have not included enough information to get from plot point to plot point and a reader who does not know how to read my mind might end up saying, "huh?".

Many authors talk about their intensive research and outlines that have back stories that never even make it in to the book, but they need them as inspiration to justify what the character does, and... huh? Why write a book, and then a book? If you are going to speak about your characters as literally alive, (can you turn a human character into an anthropomorphism? Discuss amongst yourselves), how can you so intensively predestine all that they will do and say?

I don't do it that way. My characters say what they say in the moment and that causes what is next to happen. What the hell do I know? I've never done this before!

This is a purely academic exercise, this fretting about the word count of my first attempt at long fiction. The only place it will ever be published on to a pdf on my thumb drive.

Someone who reads my blog, (and professes to like it), asked if I ever planned on packaging up some of the better posts (implying there are any at all), and making a book out of them. How am I going to find time to do that? I'm trying to write a book!

Some people just don't get it.

The Doors of Deception

We live in an old house. We knowingly and willingly entered into the contract to own and be stewards for said house. It is said the only thing that works consistently in an old house is its owner. Truer words were never spoken. It definitely pays to be handy, or at least intrepid in an old home, especially when your pocketbook and your wife make gutting it and starting over an impossibility.

Emily, you see is a historic preservationist. She actually is a commissioner on the Grand Rapids Board of Historic Preservation. No vinyl windows for us! The fact that we have vinyl siding, (installed by a previous owner), is an infamnia! It was only the promise, written and notarized, that I would one day remove said siding and restore it to proper wood lapstrake siding that got her to sign the mortgage papers with me. Since we're married, it seemed proper to live together. I know that's a little old fashioned, but oh well.

I know I have written about our house before. It is only natural that something which takes up so much of my energy, money and motivation would be a frequent subject on my web log (since we're being old-timey). Among the idiosyncrasies in our particular old house, was the bathroom door Because of age, settlement, and some previously done ham-handed "improvements", it was difficult to close. It needed to be pushed inward to the jamb rather purposefully in order to hear the 'click' that indicated it was latched. Not doing so virtually assured that one of my cats, who by the by hate closed doors of any kind, would drop by and simply pop a paw under the door, reducing whatever modesty you had to nothing.

It has happened.

Once ensconsed properly and safely, a stranger would find getting back out of the room was difficult as the knob also required a trick... you see, you couldn't just turn it, it would just spin. You had to grab the escucheon piece behind the knob and turn it. It was best accomplished while pushing the door into the jamb, to avoid a somewhat alarming 'pop!' when the door sprung back open.

So, every time someone new came to the house, we had to explain the whole process. There was a powerpoint and a written placard, laminated for durability and a physical demonstration of the process. Of course, our guest would be doing the pee pee dance the entire time. I can't tell you how many people we sent home prematurely with wet pants. We started to get low on towels, since we would insist they put one down on their car seat before they drove away. It was the least we could do.

Over the last two years, we have been slowly but steadily removing our globbily painted trim upstairs, including the door frame of the bathroom. I took the door off, with designs on cleaning it up,repainting it and reinstalling it. But nothing is ever that simple.

For three weeks, we had no door on the bathroom. I stripped the many layers of paint from the door, which takes awhile. Especially the gummy layer(s?) lead and oil paints were slow going. One side of the door, the side facing the landing, (it isn't really a hallway, just a spot with doors everywhere you turn), had paint over top of finish. I got most of the finish off, but not all.
This turned out to be a mistake as even though I primed and prepped the door, paint would simply not take on the center panel where there was still finish that I didn't remove.

So I ended up removing the paint off that side of the door. Yes, the paint I just put on. Yes, even the primer.

I decided I liked the look of the center panel in finish with the stiles of the door painted. I figured it would break up the feeling of claustrophobia on the small 2nd floor landing. I like the look. Then I decided I didn't like the old brass hardware. We had already purchased bone white antique knobs to replace the mishmash of knobs we had. We have removed all the bright brass in our house and replaced it with finished like oil rubbed bronze, which we prefer.

And Em wanted a working lock on the bathroom door. So, I ended up having to adjust the mortise for the new works and once I got it put together I really hated the brass. So, some bronze backplates are on special order... for a dear price, I might add.

Long story short, it took us a couple hours to hang the door, (remember nothing is square) and get it to fit and open and close and lock and work. Three weeks of work and it isn't done, but it is up, working, and just waiting for the new "jewelery" to come in. Then I will touch up all the spots that got dinged up in the install and voila, 5 weeks start to finish.

What did we learn, (or learn again)?
1. Home improvement shows have crews of professionals doing the work behind the scenes.
2. Nothing gets done in 1/2 hour... or even 3 1/2 hours. It takes me that long to find stuff I
should have put away last time.
3. Next time, given the choice between hanging a door, or hanging myself, I'll gladly take the
noose and walk under my own power to the highest tree I can find.
4. After all that work, the door still looks like it is almost 90 years old in an almost 90 year old
house and doesn't fit well and upon close inspection looks pretty dodgy. And there is nothing,
shy of moving to a new house that will fix that.
5. Undoing someone else's mistake is worse than trying to undo your own, because you at least
know what mindset you were in when you made the mistake and can back-track. Trying to
undo a strangers work that was done long ago is much like slow torture. Each new step
reveals another layer of hell.
6. As discussed by the neighbors at our recent Christmas party, you can either pay $300,000 to
buy a perfect house, or $150,000 now and $150,000 more over the next 15 years to have a
house that is not perfect, but is close enough that you can take a year or two off before starting
all over again.

My need for symmetry and organization requires I go to 10 on the list, but I think that about covers it. One door to finish, three to go (six if you include closets). I'm shooting for 2020.

Did I mention I am restoring the storm windows over the winter, too? Oh, that's a whole 'nother story.

A Cross in the Road

I don't know a better way to come out and say it, so I'll just say it. I cannot stand the memorials that people put up in the location of the death of someone along the road. They are proliferating at a rapid pace, even though traffic deaths are sharply down nationwide. This would lead one to believe that there is death-a-plenty on the nations roads when that is simply, patently false.

If you have been touched by someone you love dying in a car accident, I don't mean offense. I have not been immune to this either. In fact, I believe in the western world, it is rare to find someone who doesn't know someone, or have loved someone who has been seriously hurt or killed in a car accident or some other type of road accident.

But I fail to understand the roadside memorials. Cemeteries are often considered "Memorial Gardens". Battlefields are regarded as hallowed ground in deference to those who lost their lives on that spot. Occasionally, places that were the location of death for persons of distinction are regarded and identified as memorials to those who lost their lives. There are a number of examples of this ranging from Ford's Theater to the 9/11 memorial at the World Trade Center sites.

The roadside memorials of which I write started as improvised crosses or small trellises of flowers. I first remember seeing them about a decade ago. At the first, they came across as, well, makeshift and cheap. They have achieved ubiquity, all the while evolving to become more and more elaborate. The evolution of these memorials is still very much in progress. I imagine this is much like headstones evolved over time. One can see this in very old cemeteries which display simple white marble stones which are so old as to be eroded, to new markers that are as elaborate as the pocket books of the dead could make them. They are far more like statues in a park than grave markers.

On the way to my office in St. Jospeh from Grand Rapids, I pass no less than 7 memorials in Kent and Ottowa counties alone. The most recent to appear is also the most elaborate. It is along southbound I-196 near Hudsonville. There are three crosses and wreaths of flowers in a field that has been graded to a flat area off the shoulder of the road delineated by white painted railroad ties and red cypress mulch.

Whomever did the work took their time. It looks for all the world like a little cemetery right there at the side of the road. But it isn't. It is simply a memorial to people who perished, one could say tragically or at least unexpectedly near that spot. I don't know who they are. I imagine only a few people do, because it would be improper and extremely dangerous to simply stop on the shoulder of a 70 mph highway to pay homage to the deceased. And isn't the purpose for a memorial to stop and regard the lives of those lost?

In our part of the world, where winter is harsh and spring brings on the explosive growth of grass and wildflowers, these roadside memorials become obstacles for the municipal workers who are charged with maintaining the roads we all travel. Over time, it is inevitable that these memorials, not made of resilient stones and other hard-wearing materials, degrade and look tawdry and unkempt and does nothing to honor the memory of the person who passed.

These areas are owned and maintained by the municipalities in which they lie and paid for with taxpayer dollars at the federal, state and local levels. As such, these memorials should be immediately declared illegal and removed immediately upon being erected.

Again, I mean no disrespect to those who have passed away violently, tragically, unexpectedly, too young and full of promise and hope. I just don't feel their memory is served properly by these makeshift memorials. Nor do I feel they provide a cautionary reminder to drive courteously and safely, at least not based on what I perceive as an overwhelming lack of consideration and intelligence by most drivers on the roads today.

In spite of our lack of discipline behind the wheel our accident and death rates continue to decline. This even though the number of drivers and miles driven nationwide have steadily increased decade on decade. Yet, were someone from a foreign land to accompany me on my way to my office, they might be lead to believe our roads are a daily dealer of death and destruction and their very lives hang in the balance.

A proper memorial for people who die on the road would be an obituary that encourages people to donate funds in the name of the deceased to charities and organizations that help raise awareness of road dangers or enforcement of rules and limits on roads that are dangerous. Perhaps saving someone else from a similar death is the best memorial one could hope for under the circumstances.

On Christopher Hitchens

I am not qualified to speak on the specific works of Mr. Hitchens, as I admit to never having read a thing he wrote. This is not because I chose to be ignorant, it is because I simply refuse to read anything about religion as I am not interested in what you believe or don't.
Such is the surity of my belief, which I incidentally have not simply acquired or inherited without great thought and repeated personal proof. I am not searching for anything and thus do not need a primer from anyone else.
I know who he was. I know what his theology was, (and it was, ironically a theology with dogma unto itself), and I did not agree.
Upon his death, I am simply filled with deep curiosity. What is death like, Mr. Hitchens?
If he was right, I could not ever, will not ever, know the answer, because my mind cannot contemplate complete nothingness; and if it could, my mind would cease to exist upon my death and there would be no me.
While Mr. Hitchens was clearly unafraid of death, I am too. It is amazing that the same fearlessness of leaving this mortal coil can be reached through such diametrically opposed beliefs.
Maybe the takeaway here should be that there is commonality to be found amongst us all.
What I fail to understand is why believers disregard disbelievers out of hand as evil and disbelievers regard believers as killers, war mongers in the name of a god that they have created for convenience and/or soft-headed cultists. None of this is true on the face or otherwise.
I don't believe Mr. Hitchens regarded believers with a great deal of respect. I feel this did not move the ball much in the great (greatest?) debate.
Rest In Peace, Mr. Hitchens. See you on the other side... I should like to have tea with you upon my arrival if you will have me. I think I would find you fascinating.

Bill Uebbing, Professional. Bad Ass. Zombie Killer.

I actually had a protracted dream in full technicolor and Cinema Surround the other night that the zombie apocalypse had finally arrived. I was the only one in the group of Helens and Nancys who would, or even could save the day.

It started innocently enough, as the group of strangers I was with and I broke into a gun store and looted the place. Long guns, pistols... ammo, ammo, ammo. We took as much as we could carry.
For some reason, a nearby funeral home was deemed the most hardened place to hide out and defend. Not a bad idea, except for all the recently dead who were waking back up.

First we had to defend from the inside... Firing volleys on the undead and watching them explode with the awesome firepower of my shotgun. Then, after stacking the recently dead-cum zombie-cum really really dead, like cordwood, we began to defend the permiter.
Long story short, we won. We, (I), since the people I was with were entirely worthless killed all the zombies we could find.

Weird dream.

And unprecedented for me. I rarely have bad or violent dreams. This one, while it seems violent at first blush, was really more entertaining and campy. I knew I was dreaming the whole time and just never stopped it. I was having fun watching myself be Bill Uebbing. Professional. Bad Ass. Zombie Killer.
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Can't we get on with this whole Christmas thing? I just want a reliable and broadly accepted excuse to stop working and still get paid! I have been too busy, which is good. Some of the most productive weeks of the year so far, actually.

The owner of my company, (who is also a friend), said he loves the holidays, but hates how it is such a distraction and a detriment to productivity. Oh how I wish. I could use the break!
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I am a smart, stupid person. Going back and reading some recent post leads me to be shocked and appalled at the lack of quality and bush-league mistakes! The same that I mercilessly poke fun at others for. <---- Like ending sentences with prepositions.

While I do not purport this blog as a quality piece, (quite the contrary, actually), I shall do my best to watch the misuses, misspellings, etc. Thanks for not making fun of me to my face. Of course now that you know I am a Professional. Bad Ass. Zombie Killer. You are less apt to do so. At least I assume as much.

Dashing Through the Snow

Ahh, the first accumulated snow. It's a little late this year here in our part of "America's High Five", but the inevitable has finally happened. Of course the veritable dusting has lead to the equally inevitable and totally predictable carnage on the roads as people regain their "snow legs."

I think driving in the snow is the best example of modern day Darwinian theory with respect to natural selection. Only Darwin didn't know about 2 stage airbags, passive and active restraints and CATIA developed safety cages made with equal parts 'mathemagic' and high strength steel.

What does all that mean? Last year's idiots have survived to crash again this year. The herd is therefore not thinned, and a new Darwinian construct is allowed to flourish... "Reciprocal Idiocy."
Never heard of that one? Probably because I just made it up. So, for the benefit of those readers who might not immediately latch on to the concept, allow me to explain a bit further.

Reciprocal Idiocy is the phenomenon in which bad behavior is repeated due to lack of permanent consequence, (the most potent example being death), resulting from outside, (non-natural), forces that result in a preternatural, (read superhuman levels of), ability to survive the unsurvivable, (cheat death), thus allowing the perpetuation of the genes that are marked as predisposing the gene holders, (idiots), to repeat said behavior in the future, (hence, Reciprocal Idiocy), until the eventual intercession of the consequence, (death- but only after they perpetuate the legacy of Reciprocal Idiocy by parenting 9 kids).

This year's soccer mom, upside-down spinning like a top in the ditch of her new Honda Odyssey, cell phone plastered to her ear and bottle of Xanax spilled all over the headliner is the same soccer mom who ran last year's new Honda Odyssey off the road to ruin at the same place under the same circumstances. Hey, isn't that what insurance is for?

This year's contractor, feeling equal parts invincible and ignorant, who takes out 60 yards of shiny, freshly installed, tax payer funded guard rail is the same one who did the same thing in the same place last year... only his truck still bears the scars because the insurance company stopped covering him years ago.

The most egregious offenders are typically those with 4X4 stickers emblazoned on the flanks of their huge vehicles which are often additionally festooned with extra lights, knobby tires and are lifted to the point where one would need an elevator to make it ADA compliant. These people wouldn't understand coefficient of friction if you were on an ice rink. They cannot be convinced that 4 wheels spinning on ice isn't better than 2, or 6, or 100.

Not too far behind them are the aforementioned soccer moms in the mini-vans, (about which there is nothing mini, with the average one weighing in excess of 4,000 pounds), followed by anyone driving a commercial vehicle.

These folks all seem predisposed to driving as fast as possible, testing the limits of their capabilities and indeed the laws of physics. Often, they are single-handing it on the steering wheel, staring at the cell phone, trying to text with gloves on, or otherwise engaging in activities that lie in direct contradiction to the act of driving.

You can see them from a mile away, or you could if they ever turned on their headlights. Come to think of it, it seems as though most of these folks adopt a run-silent-run-deep philosophy, never bothering the even remove the accumulated snow from their vehicles, (including those unneeded and pesky brake lights), so they can achieve maximum stealth. There is nothing quite so awe inspiring as a huge snow drift passing you at 80 miles an hour in white out conditions. It's as if the ice berg passed the Titanic on the right, cut it off and slammed on the brakes.

On the other side of the coin are the shell-shocked Sheldons and Susans who are sitting so close to their steering wheels they would be blown into the next county in the event of an airbag deployment. They couldn't possibly negotiate a change of direction of their vehicle on account of the fact that they have left no room for their arms to manipulate the wheel more than a degree or two off-center.

Therefore, they drive at something just over the pace of the tectonic movement of whatever continent they're on, creating a rolling chicane that exposes all around them to danger tantamount having a mountain dropped directly in the path of a bullet train. Bad things always happen when one of these people are about.

I wrote a paper in college once that scientifically predicted the likelihood that these people would be first at each and every stoplight, causing spectacular near-collisions at each quarter-mile interval as people who are not idiots take drastic evasive action to avoid sure metal on metal contact. The likelihood, I surmised, was 100%. Perhaps there is a margin of error there, but anecdotally, it's at least 100% of the time. Probably more.

The final group of idiots are the "Crazy Ivans", so named after the maneuver practiced by many Soviet submarine skippers to check and see if anything is following them on their "six", directly behind them. This maneuver involves a rapid change of direction, (often a 360 turn) in the least possible space without provocation or warning.

Crazy Ivans don't use their signals, don't tap their brakes before slowing, don't offer any indication or warning at all of impending drastic vectoring. In fact, it seldom looks like Ivan and Ivana even know where they are going and even appear to be just as surprised as you are that they just pulled a left turn from the far right line right in front of you, lost traction (on account of the snow) and are now about to become your hood ornament.

I watched a Crazy Ivan driving a Ford Focus two winters ago down the center of the highway (which was fine, because we all were since conditions were really awful). He tapped his brakes. Why? Only Ivan knows, but he got a little squirrely. Ivan didn't simply let off the break and coast safely to a slower speed, he yanked the wheel to correct, which started a polar moment oscillation from which there would be no recovery, at least not with his demonstrable lack of skill.

Ivan then hit the built up snow with one tire, panicked, slammed on the brakes and pirouetted gracefully backward into the ditch. I could see his face as I passed him by and I am pretty sure he called his wife for a change of pants before calling AAA.

People, and I'm speaking to the non-idiots (if you are not sure into which group you fall, just stop reading now) - we have to watch out for the scourge of the reciprocal idiot. They aren't going anywhere. Imagine watching "Night of the Living Dead", only the zombies didn't die when you shoot them in the head. They just kept coming. The reciprocal idiot isn't out to get you, but like a large tuna net, they just sort of indiscriminately collect anything and everything in their path... Oh look, a shoe!

I encourage you, parents of the future leaders of the post-apocalyptic earth... be on guard. Don't get taken out! Live to keep the gene pool deep and chlorinated. You are the final hope of all civilization. Godspeed. Be careful out there, it's gonna be a long, long winter.

The Beginning of the End, or, A Lesson in Irrelevancy

Part of growth is change. Change is inevitable. Yet, for one giant government entity, change seems to be coming all too slowly. I am speaking of course of the U.S. Post Office.

I am do not relish industry downsizing because if often means jobs lost and lives changed, (for the worse), at least in the short term. But the Postmaster General himself admits that the postal service knows the days of high volume first class mail delivery, long the bread-and-butter of the whole operation, are over.

So the recent $3Bn in cuts while massive, will be completely ineffective. Completely. The reasons for this opinion of mine are enumerated by any number of professional news outlets who can do a much better job of explaining them than I, but it comes down to this: Your user base continues to shrink, the post office keeps cutting services allowing private enterprise into the vacuum who will do it better, faster, cheaper, forcing the user base to shrink and you keep cutting services, etc.

See where this is going?

My solution is this. By the end of 2013, shutter the U.S. Postal Service... at least in its current form. From now on, all metered mail of all types will be taken care of by purely private industries, not the hybridized public/private enterprise that we have come to know doesn't work. Need I even reference FannieMae and FreddieMac? Well, too late, I just did.

The postal service will begin to liquidate to the highest private bidder who can demonstrate ability, expertise and financial fortitude, all its routes and assets. The current crop of postal workers, who make government mandated minimum salaries, (reference the Davis-Bacon wage act for more information), receive government level benefits and pensions and who have to apply through normal government employment channels, will have to apply for jobs at the private concerns. They will be actual private employees working for actual private employers. Their pay and longevity will then presumably be based upon performance and work ethic. Just as it should be. Anyone who disagrees with this broad statement is welcome to debate the relative merit, (singular for a reason), of the seniority system. I wouldn't bother.

UPS, FedEx, DHL, RPS, etc. will see explosive growth. They will first balance the books by making sure their workers get paid a wage in line with the skill it requires to perform the tasks at hand. They will raise the rates on bulk mail and circulars. I guarantee they will have the books balanced and offer an easy to understand, safe and reliable service within a shot period of time. Customers will be happier. Users will increase through a series of continual improvements which all the private package handlers have shown in spades... these people are innovators. What was the last innovation the postal service introduced? The forever stamp? Whoopie!

Congress, comprised of failed business persons and felons, will no longer be the board of directors for the postal service, (I needn't extol the bounteous virtures inherent in that development), and can focus more of their energy on ruining our country while sucking money like so many human Hoovers. I didn't use Dyson there because of alliteration and on account of the fact that unlike the Dyson, Congress is composed of bags who do appear to lose some of their suction with age. Compare Barney Frank now with what he was in the 1980s for a good example of this phenomenon. I digress.

Direct mail inserts, unsolicited credit offers and all other manner of bulk detritus will slow or cease altogether. Therefore, greenhouse gasses and carbon emissions will thus be reduced.

I see win win win win win win win, here. Except for the too highly paid, too secure in their jobs postal delivery people who for generations have exploited the relative apathy of the public it serves and underperformed to the extent they can get away with it.

Kelly Garland Brown, friend and sometimes commentator to this blog posted to Facebook:

""For the first time in 40 years, stamped letters will not get somewhere overnight." Where does that happen? We live in Chicago, where it can take up to 2 weeks for something to get to another place in Chicago! Lose Saturday delivery? Don't care! My mailman doesn't deliver on Saturdays anyway since it interferes with his loafing schedule. Who uses the mail for anything important anyway?"

I think she and many others of her ilk, (read intelligent, educated professionals) will agree... The time for talking is over. The long, slow decline of the postal service is inevitable. Let's all save a lot of time and money and just euthanize it now.

Disorder in the House

Our church's sanctuary must be 10,000 square feet. It's a pretty big place. They manage to decorate for Christmas (Hang the Greens as they call it), in one Sunday afternoon with the help of many hands. I never volunteer to help with this as I consider decorating for Christmas a torture akin to the trail of tears or the Bataan death march. I can be happy and bouncing with energy until I even think of the process of pulling the 3700 pounds of Tuppermade and Rubberware containers out of the attic and shuffling my world around to unearth and place all the little pieces of flair and the lights and carefully unboxing, hooking and placing the ornaments on the tree. That energy is zapped from me like it was never there. And it feels like it will never come back.

At 36 years old, I literally feel like stomping my feet and throwing a Grand Mal tantrum at the very thought. I cannot deny my raw emotion. I could tell myself to grow up and play along, (which I really do try to do), but inside I am screaming like a mental patient in desperate need for 50cc of Haldol.

And Em just wants someone who will enjoy it with her. I find myself impotent to the challenge. Perhaps a large part of it is that our hanging of the greens takes a lot longer than a Sunday afternoon. Those aforementioned large plastic containers have been out and sitting since Saturday last; and will be there through Sunday this. After all is finally out and placed and dusted and lit and fussed over and ruminated upon, my chore will be to take those now empty but still giant containers back up to the attic... for like, three weeks until they need to come back down. And then go back up, laden once again with 3700 pounds of Christmas cheer, plus the accumulated weight of this year's spoils.

And there will be spoils.

After I get it all back up and out of the way on Sunday, my reward will be to... wait for it... Decorate the low income apartments for Christmas with the youth group! Hazzah! This is a really good thing for the kids to do, and I this will be the fourth year we are doing it. We recognize many of the faces and even are getting to know a lot of the names of the denizens of this place, a former hospital now turned into apartments for people with mental and physical disabilities.

Since it was not conceived as a government run HUD house, it is bereft of the drab indistinct clinical government building pallor. It is a well maintained and very pretty place. After we are done, it even represents something of a festive place.

But, I hate it. Because even though we are bringing joy to a a deserving population, I still can't manage to find happiness in the act of decorating for Christmas.

Maybe after a few more years away from retail I will be more in tune with Christmas and the wonder it represents. Perhaps I will be able to buy into the modern physical celebration that accompanies the faithful thoughtfulness of the season. For now, I just have to force myself to get it done without raining on the parades of all those people out there who are normal, and love this stuff.

The Final Frontier

My Name is Bill, and I am a Trekker. I recently fell off the wagon after about 10 years of sobriety. I mean, sure I watched the occasional movie with friends, but it was always a social thing. I was in control of it. I would sit and make fun of the movies, even though I really liked them.

Earlier this year, I started really craving Star Trek. All of it, from Kirk to Janeway. I never much cared for Archer, he just wasn't my thing... but that T'pal... she's another matter altogether.

I started cruising the cable listings and recording all the Trek I could find and watching it when no one was home. One time, my wife came home and caught me. I was so embarrassed as I fumbled for an excuse.
"What are you doing?", she asked.
"I, um... well, Paul Winfield is in this episode. I was just flipping through the channels. I really like Paul Winfield."
"If you're flipping through the channels, how come it's on the DVR?"
"Uhhhhh."

About a week after that, I didn't realize she was over my shoulder while I was looking at the comprehensive guide to The United Federation of Planets "Ships of the Line" on the internet. I was so embarrassed, I said "Shaka, when the Walls fell!" I knew I was caught.

To make matters worse, BBC America televised 14 solid hours of Next Gen on Thanksgiving. I filled up the DVR and keep going back to watch them. I'm even finding Troi attractive. I looked her up on IMDB yesterday. She's almost 60 now. Yuck. But I can't stop.

It might be that instead of most sci-fi, which supposes a dystopian future, Star Trek shows us Humans and Vulcans and even Klingons, (Kinda) living peacefully (Kinda). Sure, there are enemies, but we don't hate Romulans and Cardassians (no, not Kardashians, but I'm sure if they ever got into space they would be hated, too) because they're Romulans and Caradassians - We hate them because they are evil. It's O.K. to hate the Borg, because, well, they're no longer truly sentient. The Alpha quadrant even puts up with the Ferengi! The Ferengi! I mean, what a wonderful universe it is when Ferengi are allowed to roam free, allowed to be their smarmy little selves.

So, all is not perfect, but the underlying message is what can be accomplished with the weight of entire species, an entire quadrant of the galaxy pushing in the same direction! And this isn't some galaxy far far away, this is our galaxy. The Milky Way galaxy!

Of course, you can drive trucks through holes in the plot points. I mean, for a ship lost in the Delta Quadrant, how is it that Voyager went through, like 8 shuttlecraft, each one of a different configuration, even though the shuttle bay is clearly only configured to accept 2 shuttlecraft?

Yes, it does seem a bit far fetched that in the future, on a planet as interconnected as Earth is portrayed to be that there would still be such distinct accents, but at the same time an utter lack of unique colloquial aphiorsms. And why are they always citing literature and history from the 16th through 20th centuries? I mean, did nothing of note happen after the year 2100 other than - "Oh, yeah, Zeprham Cochraine, who looks a lot like actor James Cromwell, discovered transwarp travel and the Vulcans stopped by to introduce themselves." Apparently the rest is history.

As for the technology, we are coming strikingly close to where Star Trek left off. CERN scientists can't explain why some nutrinos in their experiments are traveling just this much over the speed of light. Einstein hypothesized that this is simply not possible. Of course, Star Trek could not be if it weren't for trans-warp (faster than light) travel.

What else is possible if faster than light could be a reality? How about wormholes? Matter Transporters? Will my concealed pistol license allow me to carry a phaser? Who will install the first replicator in my house? Will Earl Gray tea, (hot, of course), taste the same having been synthesized from component atomic particles?

And the computers, which at the time of the shows airing were impossibly talented and capable are now becoming a pretty close reality, too. For instance, a typical command in the 24th century (That's 300 years from now, people), is "Computer, search all databases regarding the Centauri System." And voila all information would come back without a hitch. Now, I can do the same in my car and on my phone and if the information exists, they will find it. Perhaps the depth isn't there, but the concept is the same. And I am pretty sure my iPhone and iPad can do anything a tricorder does... and more! I just looked it up... there is a tricorder app. Of course there is!

So, my name is Bill... I am a Trekker. I am ready to admit that. I'm not ready to go to Bi-Mon-Sci-Fi-Con, but I think I am comfortable with my level of addiction. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I can fit in an episode of Voyager before I have to leave for a marketing event.

iNeed to Vent

I got a new iPhone 4S yesterday and immediately set about getting it all configured and set up the way I want it. This process included only the odd "wow" and "oooh" from me as I discovered the simplicity and seamlessness of its operation and integration. This is a far bit away from the normal words that issue forth from my heavily contorted visage as the beads of sweat like drops of tropical rain roll unabated down my bald head, only to steam off of my red enraged face.

Aside from being pretty, it is another cog that is necessary in my professional electronic organization nirvana. Or at least that what I told myself to justify my purchase. Truth be told, it isn't really my purchase... It is my company's. I am the only Apple devotee in a sea of people who think I am a mindless follower of the cult of Mac. But they none-the-less relented as I made the case my purchase was necessary and directly impacted my ability to juggle my job.

I have the thing. I love it. I literally and to an unnatural degree love my phone. I'll get over that, I guess, like you do after any purchase like this. After time, it loses its luster and becomes less special.

Or is that the case for Apple's products? Several months on I am still enamored by our iPad, bought for us as an anniversary gift by my parents. It is almost flawless. I say almost because for some reason I can't get Facetime to work. I am sure a small investment of time, (which I don't have as reasonable a need as that is), will lead me to the answer and all will be right with the world.

When I got my phone, all the "Apple People" congratulated me and greeted me warmly. Friends responded to my Facebook status and I got several Facetime calls from other iPhone users... just because they could. It was like going to heaven and seeing Grandma and your favorite dog waiting there for you, hands outstretched. I felt like I was immediately and without prejudice a member of this community of happy people.

And it isn't so much that I love my phone. I knew I would. Having not lived under a rock these past four years, I have used many iPhones. But I think I unlocked the secret of why people pay more to drink of the "Cupertino Kool-Aid" as I am now calling it. My iPhone has engendered within me an instantaneous and deep enmity for my old Blackberry.

Crashes, problems, limited capabilities... these are all well-known and long suffered traits of the Blackberry that users know all too well. Furthermore, I tried to remove the software from my computer and cannot because of some sort of registry error that lead me to the nerdernet, (the 1% of the internet not devoted to celebrity gossip, porn and other ill-conceived subject matters and actually containing useful information), to find out why.

Off to the command prompt and typing in all sorts of things to supposedly get it to fix itself and still no-go. I reinstalled, "fixed" and otherwise tried to restore the program, which never worked correctly in the first place, all in order to get it off my computer.

It's still there, in spite of an hour of work. And wouldn't you know, throwing the actual Blackberry had no discernible effect on the situation? If utter violence can't solve a problem than what of the world as I know it?

And now my love, sits proudly to my left, streaming Van Morrison, so beautifully playing the object of my affection, while on my right is the pile of parts that used to be my Blackberry as useful now in pieces as it was intact. Beauty and the Beast, indeed.

iRegardless

A co-worker of mine belongs to an organization that is involved with multilevel marketing of a group of healthful products. He is involved in this primarily because he believes in the products and he perceives great value in the leadership and motivational support system that is built around the products themselves.

Fair enough.

My co-worker lent me a few CDs, because he knows I am always interested in listening to motivational speakers for a variety of reasons. The best ones always offer some sort of new perspective and find a way to connect with the listener. Under the right circumstances, these types of programs can help you over a hump, help you find your lost will, or just help you by teaching you something you didn't know before.

My first CD, which I started listening to was entitled, "The Churchill Factor." Anyone who knows me knows of my deep and abiding admiration and respect for that most pugnacious and brilliant Brittan and his ability to share his intellect by employing his unmatched and highly quotable wit. According to the CD, Churchill is "widely considered" the most important Brit of all time. I haven't heard that myself, and I feel that most broad statements of that sort are highly arguable, but I don't disagree.

So far, so good. Setting aside the deep Michigander accent of the speaker, (I am guilty of it myself being a Michigander), he started wavering off the original point. Churchill hadn't been mentioned now in several minutes. We were many thoughts off the topic now and I wondered if the man was using notes, or just sort of... talking.

And then it happened.

He used "irregardless". And as soon as I heard it, my ears began to bleed. I thought to myself I must have misheard this man, who now was talking about 'personal mastery.' Clearly a professional presenter who understands the importance of personal mastery did not just use a word that is not a word.

And he said it again with more feeling, using repetition to underscore his core point, which I have long since forgotten, since I was having a TIA while driving on account of his proud use and reuse of 'irregardless.'

He lost me there and never got me back. I donned my thick rimmed glasses complete with neck chain, zipped up my black silk robe, doffed my mortar board and set about mentally dissecting each and every phrase and argument as though the speaker was offering oral arguments in defense of his thesis.

He was losing. He could not win. He would never win.

After the 'I' word, (non-word), I noticed he had poor diction. he used the word recognize a lot, except it came out each time as reckonize. Before the dropping of the 'i-bomb' that likely wouldn't have bothered me.

Then it happened again.

"Risk adversion" was the next misbegotten Mondegreen. I am sure he meant 'risk aversion', but he bumbled boldly forward continuing on, again using repetition to drive home the point that he was an idiot.

My bile was whipped into a froth by now, and so to other drivers who were paying attention I was red-faced, full bore screaming at my center console to this man as though I was in his audience. I assure you, he is lucky I wasn't, for I surely would have taken umbrage with these unforgivable gaffes right there in front of God and everybody.

It isn't that you need to be a master of superfluous erudition or possess preternatural perspicacity in order to be a good speaker. In fact, the number one rule of public presenting is to know your audience and tailor your message to that audience.

In other words, if you are speaking to an audience of presumed wide-spread education and intelligence, then you must speak in a way that the least capable among the audience will understand. Patton called it 'Corporal Rule'... Only until your orders can be understood and carried out by the lowliest of grunts are they good enough to be disseminated to the leadership.

This man, who was now talking about personal mastery in public speaking had never learned a thing about public speaking. And my co-worker, known for using such chestnuts as 'sleep deprivized' and others I can't remember at this moment, only takes more bad habits away from this 'educational' series.

The punchline here is that he wants me to buy into the monthly series for $50.00 a month. I now face the indelicate task of explaining to someone, (who is my superior on the corporate chart, but with a dotted line), that I don't think I have much to learn from this particular program.

I don't have a point. I just needed to get it off my chest. And I don't appreciate that there are people out there who would tell me I am being a snob and that as long as I understood what he was trying to say, I should stuff my disdain for his mistake.

I disagree. If you place yourself in a position of expertise, you had best know exactly how to comport yourself and telegraph your message using proper syntax and grammar, period. If you aren't willing to do that, sit down and let someone else do the speaking, for that would be the best and most educational gesture for which you are capable.

Hoops: Some Jumping Through Required

Today was the day. I had to be at the mall, so why not pop by the Apple store and pick up my new iPhone 4S? The store wasn't even busy. And they didn't have what I wanted. Which I knew they wouldn't because that's just how those things go.

So I went across the parking lot to the Verizon store. See, Verizon is through whom my work has phone service. I pay a small amount each month to have the privilege of using my phone for work and for personal. It's a good deal and keeps me from having to carry multiple devices.

But, they didn't have it, either. So, I tried to order one from Apple.com. Can't since they couldn't verify my account. They couldn't verify my account because they only do personal accounts. So, I had to call Verizon.

The very nice and knowledgeable customer service person explained I don't have an upgrade, but another number on the account does and I can just call the store, order it, and when I pick it up, tell them to do a "buddy upgrade" and voila! I would have a new iPhone.

So, I called. Nope. Can't order it on the phone, have to come in. Or, I could order it online, get it, then do the upgrade. Except I don't trust that, because I want a face and name attached to the "yes, of course we can do this upgrade for you." Otherwise, I can see everyone running for the hills and screaming they've never seen me before... and no, I can't return my phone.

Simple.

Why is it that no one wants to take my money? I mean, I know people are lining up like cattle at the fair to blindly give Apple their money for a new phone, but does that really mean they don't care about my moooooo-lah? Sorry, I couldn't resist.

I want the iPhone since I have an iPad and have found it indispensable for business, but It requires all sorts of additional input on my part with calendar items and contacts. I just want to put it in one thing and have it be in the other thing immediately and automatically.

Technical enough for you? And no, I am not going to pay for an exchange service.

So, there. Won't someone please take my money so I can have another China made piece of plastic that won't be any good in 18-24 months? I thought this was a consumer society after all!
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Latent Mail, Holiday Weeks, Thankfulness, Day 1

Why is the mail late? Because there's money in there for me, that's why. It never fails. I have written about it before.

My friend Greg believes he and indeed his whole family is cursed. He swears that any time he likes something as soon as he latches on to it, buys in, becomes a devotee or whatever, it gets canceled, discontinued, changed for the worse, becomes more expensive or in one case, illegal. But we won't get into that.

My curse is that whenever there is money waiting for me in the mail, it's late. The mailman has been on vacation for two weeks. Last paycheck I was able to pick it up because I was at the office. The mail came at 10 am that day.

Two weeks later, I imagine our lazy worthless, good-for-nothing, chain-smoking, barely literate regular mailman is back. And we are back to the "maybe" delivery system. Perhaps he was not made to take the sleet, snow, dark of night oath. Perhaps he snickered while he did.

Before you are so helpful as to recommend direct deposit: I would that I could, but I can't so don't ask. Some things are the way they are. The mail is late because it owes me money. And that's just the way it is.
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Why are we even going through the pro-forma of "working" this three day week? No one is in the office. No calls are being picked up or returned. I just raced through my entire three day plan in 6 hours. I have one appointment tomorrow, but, were it not for that, I could probably turn off my phone and no one would notice.
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This week is Thanksgiving. Today, I am thankful for the fact I am American and as such have access to well more than I need to survive. My problems are but a trifle as they do not include scouting for a new well for water, stalking prey for food and fighting other men over limited shelter.
I am not being persecuted for my religion, color, gender, political affiliation. I have so much material wealth, I can afford to lavish some of it on pets that perform no useful function to my household.
In fact, my biggest problem is that the mail is late... because it owes me money.

Believe you me, I am ridiculously thankful for my ridiculously wonderful life.

Business Cards/Ringing in the Ears/Inter(mittent)net

I have to admit, I think I have thrown more business cards away than I have given out in my professional lifetime. It's not my fault. The business card cannot be changed quickly and often to reflect how quickly and often reality changes.

For instance, when I stopped representing the disaster recovery company on the West side of the state, I threw away the 1,000 new cards they had just printed for me. It was a pain to shred them so they could be recycled, but that's what I did.

Then for the minority joint venture company, I got 500 brand new high quality cards. And our office address and phone changed. I never even gave one out. 500 more tossed to the winds. I am getting sick to my stomach just thinking of the waste. When I got new ones, I asked them to pay more per unit to get fewer cards, since that card is only passed seldom and under specific circumstances. I just don't want to waste more of them.

Most recently, I discovered my card for the janitorial company had the disaster recovery company phone number listed as the emergency phone number. So those, too had to go. about 300 of the original 500 down the tubes. I just picked up 1,000 new ones yesterday. That can only mean some sort of dramatic shift is right around the corner.

The business card seems so old-timey. Why we haven't switched to a universal virtual card, I don't know. In fact, smart phones should have a short-cut button that automatically transmits your card. There should be a standard format across platforms. Easy. No waste. Nothing to carry (or forget to carry).
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Add tinnitus to the ever-longer list of maladies from which I am suffering. This one is a special kind of hell. It is omnipresent and disturbing.

I have been reading a bit and there are a number of causes of tinnitus and a number of manifestations. It could be accompanied by hearing loss, trauma, high blood pressure, stress, aspirin use, blockage, or any other of a seemingly endless list.

What that means to me is that "they" basically don't have a clue as to the true nature of this disorder and are compensating by throwing the kitchen sink at it.

As usual, the internet is full of homeopathic remedies that supposedly work, though the sites that are mostly medical in nature hedge on the effectiveness of these. There is some promising research involving an iPod like device with an additional sensory output that attaches to the user's tongue. This attachment pulses along with the music (any music apparently will do) and somehow retrains the auditory cortex to recognize only actual signals instead of those that are elusive.

Some tinnitus can actually be physically heard by trained ENTs, (sorry, Otolaryngologists). I went to a website with sound clips of various types that have been heard and replicated. I have almost exactly what that site describes as "High Frequency Buzzing". It is uncanny how close, even in actual frequency my reality is to that sound clip. I doubt I could even hear it if it were any close.

On top of my normal issues with sleeping, this is now taking its toll. Wearing headphones and listening to music (quietly, I assure you) when I am working alleviates most of it. But that is only so much of my life.

I guess I'll talk to the doc and go see an ENT and see if there is a specific pathology involved with my case. If not, I'll start trying the herbal remedies that are out there and see if by some miracle they work on me.

I hold out little hope for success. It just reminds me that if I knew I was going to live this long, I would have taken much better care of myself.
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Intermittent internet is plaguing my home. I have done all I can without spending money. Comcast says it isn't their fault. I believe them, since our TV is working fine. It's just the internet.

Likely it's my geriatric modem. I already shored up all the connections and reattached the grounds that were left unattached when the plumber came this past spring. But, the problems didn't start way back then, so I suppose that was wishful thinking.

The wire does go through a lot of tree limbs and it is windy today, but again, TV is fine. Just internet is affected. Add it to the list of stuff I don't have time or money to fix.

Apropos of Nothing

Emily and I have decided that the phrase "apropos of nothing" would be the perfect epitaph for her tombstone. Don't get me wrong, I am not hastening her to the grave. In fact, my plan is to be long gone and recycled into soylent green by the time she even catches a cold.

And beside all that, we both want to be cremated, not buried. All this is beside the point, though. The point is that Emily has a personal style of communication that confuses and befuddles me sometimes. Hand on heart, it befuddles me all the time. Well, not all the time, but more than some of the time. Much of the time? Often times? See, even I'm confused now.

Here is an exchange from last night as close to verbatim as I can remember it:

Em "Did you get the e-mail your mom sent?"
Bill "No. Wait, when did she send it?"
Em (a little testy) "Bill, I had 62 e-mails, I don't know."
Bill (matching the testiness) "What was the e-mail about?"
Em "CHRISTMAS!" (she said as though I was privy to the conversation she was having with herself and just now let me in on.)
Bill "Oh. No. I didn't get it."

This is a typical exchange in our household. Em will ask me the vaguest of vague questions and it's my job to drill down to the actual answerable question that exists somewhere within the morass, like a needle in a haystack.

By the end, she feels I am being difficult and I feel like I'm stupid for not knowing the answer to her questions, like:
Em "Did I tell you what Jenny and I did on Friday?"
Bill "No."
Em "I thought I told you we went to Macy's and I got that deal on a dress for the Christmas party."
Bill "Oh, yeah, you did tell me that."
Em "So how come you just said I didn't?"
Bill "If you knew you told me, why did you just ask me again?"
Em "So I could tell you that..."

And then we get to the actual story.

Which for as vague as the question portion of the game is, lies in the starkest of stark contrast to the mind-numbingly excessive amount of minutiae that is to follow.

Em "While we were there, this girl was wearing this gingham shirt... Well, not really 'gingham', I guess, more of a sort of monochromatic plaid on twill. It was really nice, but it didn't fit her very well. She was kinda, pear shaped. She just got bigger the farther you went down.
"So, anyway, we were behind her on our way to look at the mens' store for you and we passed housewares. They have the blender I want on sale until Thanksgiving."
Bill "Uh, ok. Um, and what about the lady with the ginger swill?"
Em "What?"
Bill "The fat lady who you went in great detail of describing! You said you followed her to the housewares department."
Em "No, we were following her to the mens' store and stopped at housewares. Didn't you listen?"
Bill "Yes! What about the lady and the shirt?"
Em "Nothing. I just liked the shirt."

And scene.

I don't ask where to my hair went and where from the gray in my beard came. It's all right here in front of me.

She comes by it honestly. We all come by our foibles and idiosyncrasies honestly. In this case it is a direct DNA link to her father who obsesses over the smallest details of a story and never really gets anywhere. The one thing they have going for them is that they are both pretty entertaining and have good senses of humor, so there is a bit of a reward for your patience. And they both take my jesting with good humor when I point these things out.

I am one to talk. I will take a three minute story and turn it into a Homeric tale entirely out of scale with the reality of the situation. However, I do so in a calculated fashion that is meant to all tie together throughout. It's like a riff.

Maybe that's what it is supposed to be with Em. She is riffing with me; and I am just not in on the joke. Or maybe, since I tend to be pretty quiet around the house she forms her questions and stories this way in order to force my participation.

Maybe I will never know. But I have to go. Em just hollered from the other room that "the thing is blinking on the box again!" Only goodness knows what she's talking about this time.

By the way, I let Emily read this before I published it so she would know it's all in good fun. She laughed until her sides hurt. So don't go all Gloria Steinem, Gloria Allred, Glory-Glory-Hallelujah on me.

Moments of Clarity

I have discovered that I am at the very most a few moments of wisdom and clarity punctuated by a whole lot of mediocrity. Like a blanket that is mostly monochromatic brown, but displays occasionally and without a warning, a shock of color randomly woven into the sea of nothingness. Sometimes there are some pretty big brown stretched with no color in sight.

I was reminded of this this morning when the owner of my company wanted me to refresh everyone on my vision at the end of my meeting by reading what I had written. As I had a seizure (because this was an unrehearsed ad lib and rare departure from our disciplined agenda), I had to admit, "I have no idea what you are talking about."

What he was talking about was something I wrote on an internal report about three weeks ago. I had forgotten. He read it for me to the group and I recognized it as being my own. I recognized it as sounding like it was written by someone who was not only able to simply and effectively convey the desired sentiment, but also do it with great eloquence. I am usually able to see past the relative goodness of whatever I do to focus on the zits and pocks; but this time I was caught off guard and my internal nay-sayer was off yelling at himself in a mirror somewhere.

It actually took me by surprise how good I thought it was. This little ditty was not spoken about at the time. It was an internal report after all. But here, the biggest of wigs is quoting... me.

I don't think I could write that today. At least not right now. Maybe if I ever shake loose the many cob webs that are still inhabiting my head on account of the weekend. I was basically in a gastronomically induced coma out of which I am trying to claw with approximately none of my might.

As of now, I am seeing a pretty unobstructed sea of brown. the problem with being able to forge chestnuts out of disparate thoughts is that people start to think you are pretty smart. And then the old adage about the more people talk the less intelligent they become kicks in and everyone realizes that while you might come out with one in the clutch every here and there, you are pretty much drooling on yourself the rest of the time.

Sometimes, the best things I say come without my intervention at all. I will hear it as I say it, just like the person I am talking to. I am often just as surprised as you are. Today I would be surprised and delighted to have a moment of clarity. Of course, I'm not sure I would recognize it if it hit me between the eyes.

Someone Had to be First

I was first out of the poker tourney last night. I went all in on two pair and didn't see the flush of my opponent until it hit me smack in the head.

There is an old joke my neighbor told to me when I was growing up. It's a bit dated, but it will set the time and the place nicely.

You walk into a bathroom and there on the stools sit Dolly Parton and Princess Diana... which one should you bet on? The answer? Princess Diana because a Royal Flush always beats a great pair! Ha!

Ok, it's a terrible joke. Don't even bother to ask how I would get past all that security to get into a ladies restroom. The whole premise falls apart because Dolly Partons boobs haven't been nice in eons and Princess Di, did. But as odd as it may seem, the punchline of this joke came true last night.

The good part is I got to come home earlier than I thought. The better news is I dodged the deer and the dreadful drivers and made it home in tact and in good spirits.

Speaking of good spirits, that was the prize for being first out- a free drink, which I declined on account of my 120 mile drive home. I think that was smart thinking on my part.

In life as in sports someone has to win and that means someone has to lose. It's a platitude, but it is indeed the truth. This is why I get testy with people who are angry at the wealthy just because they are wealthy. We can't all be first, no matter what Ms. Smith taught you in second grade.
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I heard a couple platitudes over the last day:

People spend their entire lives either avoiding pain or seeking pleasure. I believe that is an oversimplification. And I believe it is indelicate. I don't like this particular piece of psychobabble. You can keep the nickle, but I am not taking the advice.

There are three kinds of people in this world. Those who make things happen, those who watch things happen and those who wonder what the hell just happened. This is apparently the work of Friedrich Nietzsche, but I think it's a little kitschy for Nietzsche. And, I also think it is an oversimplification. I wouldn't argue with Herr Nietzsche on the topic because he scares me a little and because I don't think he lost too many arguments in his lifetime.

Figures never lie, but liars do the figuring. Go figure.

Measure twice, cut once. I personally like... I keep cutting it and it's still too short.

Better late than never... better never late.

Of all, that last one has informed my life most. Punctuality is next to godliness. Hey, is that a new platitude?
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Goodbye! Don't Forget Your Ears!

I'll bang this out real quick as I have a date with the highway here in 20 minutes. I have a big prospect to see today for a follow-up meeting. Usually these are make or break type of meetings. I am going it alone, too, which is fine with me. My 'backup' usually screws things up.

I don't have a really big ego about most things. However, my ability to present is not one of those. I guess ego isn't even the right term, so much as well-earned confidence. I get told all the time presenting is my "gift". I don't disagree and I end up taking the point on these things anyway because I show up more prepared and more confident than my colleagues and I am also just better at extemporaneous presenting should the need arise.

So I am armed with all I need. Data, Concepts, Structures, Costs, Implementation Plans, etc.

The only thing I need is my ears.

Sometimes, I forget my ears.

It is an old axiom, probably as old as verbal communication itself that goes something like "You have two ears and one mouth... use them in that proportion."

There is a sign on the wall of our bathroom at the office that says "the quieter you are, the more you hear." Of course that seems to me a veiled threat in that particular room wherein all who dwell are presumably there for one of but three or four reasons, none of which are especially quiet. In this case, said room is about as sound proof as a drum. What exactly is that sign alluding to? Are people listening to me go to the bathroom? I am being as quiet as I can be? Is what I am hearing someone putting their ear to the door?

Back to the point. My charge-taking skills are well honed in relation to my shut-up and let the customer take you where they want to go, skills. I try to coach myself and work on it, but I find it hard to fight off the energy that I get naturally from these meetings.

I really like them. And I really like to do well. And I have control issues, (which by the way I come by honestly- and while it's not nice to point fingers, if I did, which I am not, they would be aimed squarely at my Mother, whom I love), which means in order to perceive myself as having done well, I need to control the meeting.

Only I don't. And I know this because it's true. But still, it doesn't make it any easier for me to shut up and let someone else drive.

I will fill you in after the meeting, but today is the day. I am going to sit placidly until the prospective customer speaks. And if they do not, my only question will be... "What would you like to talk about, today?"

Wish me luck. I have a 2 hour car trip to coach myself before go time.
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After my meeting, I will be playing poker. This will be the second time in as many weeks that I have played. I will be playing again next week.

Unlike the monthly friendly game I have inserted myself into, tonight's is a networking event. So, ostensibly, I am playing poker for work.

Hate the game, not the playa.

Falling

Falling down is hard, falling back is awesome. I am no great fan of the time change. The sun comes up and goes down. Our manipulation of the clock is simply mans' micromanaging things well beyond his control. It is an antique of a bygone era and should be stopped immediately.

Not immediately. After this Saturday. I love to fall back. I celebrate falling back. I would like to have one more hoorah before sending the whole mess into obscurity, forever.

Falling back is the best kind of falling next to falling in love and I would even say its better because falling in love is messy, sometimes. Not so with falling back. Falling back is always awesome. For everyone.

Early to bed, early to rise? You get an extra hour of sleep.
Workaholic? You get an extra hour to work.
Bon Vivant? That's one more hour 'til last call my bumbling booze filled friend.

Emily and I shall celebrate with a bottle of spirits and some good movies. I believe a crackling fire is in order to set off the mood nicely. I see blankets with cats upon them and stocking feet sticking out the end to feel the warmth of the fire.

It is a rapturous thing, this extra hour. Like a bank error in my favor leading to an unexpected windfall (please don't sue me, Parker Brothers), we savor the wonder of the extra hour. I could go so far out on a limb as to say we should simply keep falling back once per year as a little reward for our year of toil. But, like all good things that leads to problems. The early to bed early to rise person within reminds me that we would all be up all night and sleeping all day. That's no good.

So, they give us this gift, but then in only 5 months they take it back! Why do they take it back? I realize we can't keep falling back, but springing forward is a bitch! And they can't agree on whether to take it back earlier or later in the Spring. The knock on effect of all this is that my fancy intelligent alarm clock, which is supposed to manage all this time stuff for me, doesn't know what to do and when! The government has literally intruded into my bedroom and plopped itself right atop my alarm clock which is right next to my head as I sleep. Creepy.

I don't want them to take it back. Leave it! Let me enjoy the afterglow of that one extra hour without the part where I have to pay it back. Falling back is like finding a $20.00 bill in the pocket of a winter jacket. It was lost and forgotten and is now found and loved. It would be wrong for your coat to come to you after winter and say, "Dude, where's my $20 bucks?"

What's the harm in leaving it? In the long days part of the year more people would be driving to and from work in sunshine leading to fewer accidents. We could turn on our lights later saving electricity and greenhouse emissions... are you listening Democrats? It won't cost a thing to implement and won't anger anyone worth paying attention to. Are you listening Republicans?

Furthermore, I could turn off the now worthless feature on my super smart alarm clock and just set the time and forever be done.

Fall Back Forever! Spring Forward Never! Occupy Big Ben! Say it with me now...

Dexter and the Lone Ranger Walk Into a Bar...

Pages. Pages and pages. I am producing pages like a college student. Pages and pages and none of it anything I can be proud of. Not really anyway. Just a bunch of professional mumbo jumbo that isn't representative of my personality or ability. Ever feel like that? Gee, I did a great job and that is really good work. And yet, so what?

Well, it has made sitting and writing a blog post something I am loathe to do, as opposed to something I love to do. The work/life balance is not but hubris at this point. Let us hope it is a pendulum that will swing back through nirvana on its way to boredom rather than a permanent tipping point, as proposed by Malcolm Gladwell. I don't make enough money to be permanently tipped.

I am an all purpose player at this point in time with my company. Limited resources and a deep restructuring make it so. After all, I am the last man standing. I sort of feel like the guy who has been feeding the crocodile and finds himself out of food. Nice kitty.

For instance, I am not a marketer. I have not studied marketing. I am not a particularly creative person with respect to spotting trends, advertising, out of the box thinking, and such. What I am good at is presenting our business to potential clients, networking with groups and individuals to create business opportunities, making proposals and assisting with creating the business model for the project. These are all viable strength and as yet have not been completely replaced by computers. In fact, I have found a way to augment my skills using technology. Not a bad thing, I'd say.

Now I am all of a sudden the marketing person, too. News to me. I have a two company three state marketing plan to develop, submit and present. In less than a week. It will be fine, I'm just a little freaked out right now. I'll simply use my cunning intellect to get me through this while navigating the politics and morays of our complicated corporate culture.

I'm screwed.

I like reading the Dexter novels by Jeff Lindsay. For those of you not aware of the books, there is an eponymous show that is popular enough that I think even my mom has seen it. For those of you who don't know what eponymous means, it means selfsame. If you don't know that, I weep for you. Buy a dictionary. Doesn't need to be a fancy one. Just a paperback Websters will do.

Anyway, Dexter is a benevolent serial killer of sorts. He gets himself into all sorts of trouble. Many chapters end on cliff hangers like the old serials my dad told me about as a kid, featuring the Lone Ranger in an impossible situation and some sort of tag line beckoning you back next week to see if he would get out of this mess.

Dexter always uses his brains, his skill, and well the implausible level of good luck the universe throws his way. Good karma... serial killer; strange bedfellows indeed. The genius here, is that the people Dexter is up against are an order of magnitude worse than he is, so you, the reader have no choice but to back the antihero. At the end of the day, you feel good about it. Sure, people died. Bad people.

I feel that way sometimes committing professional murder when it suits me. I will have to commit professional murder next week, by magnifying the implausibility of using me as a utility player and giving this project to me on short notice. Because it's going to suck, and blame needs to be spread, lest I die for sins of another. The people I have set out to kill in the past, (we're still speaking in metaphor here friends, don't call the cops), deserved it. And I would only kill "up", meaning I wouldn't hang a colleague or a subordinate out to dry. Ever. But a boss? May as well have a target on his shirt.

But now, I don't work for a boss. I work for the boss. This is looking more and more like a murder-suicide.

Now, I am in a position where I am out of my expertise. I am on my back foot, trying to put a pass on the numbers of my double covered receiver in a collapsing pocket with the sun in my eyes. There isn't any time on the clock and the front office is itchy to make the playoffs.

Just like in the Lone Ranger and the Dexter books, it doesn't look good for the home team. Stay tuned for our next installment to see if our hero has what it takes to make it through.

On a positive note, I'm playing poker tomorrow. So that's cool.