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.

Dear Blog

Dear Blog,
I miss you, too. No, I haven't forgotten about you. In fact, I look forward to spending some time with you real soon.
-Love,
Me

Autumn Leaves Start to Fall

Dave wrote on Facebook today:

"I love seeing the vacuum truck come by to suck up the leaves piled at the curb. Nice to know I'm getting value for my tax dollar here in Fabulous Ferndale!"

Long story short, one of his friends commented that it was socialism. To which Dave responded, "Not at all. The proper scope and role of local government is vastly different from that of the federal government. I'm perfectly fine with paying for these services on the local level. However, I would not be at all comfortable with federalizing leaf pickup."

To wit I chimed, "Especially because at the end of the Federal Leaf Removal/Autumn Amelioration and Remediation Act of 2011 is a rider for $3Tr in subsidies to clearcut/logging companies and tariffs imposed on all leaves fallen from any tree not deemed to be indigenous to North America. It would cost each taxpayer $66.00 per year, create a new division of government as an adjunct to the Department of the Interior so that it could communicate effectively with the Department of Agriculture. And even though a tariff on a leaf is uncollectable, it will be placed on the revenue line of all future budgets. Of course, much of that income will be spent beefing up audit, enforcement and collection of said tariffs, so we will never see any of that "new money". A new Labor Union, (no doubt with a clever acronym like LEAF), would arise to make sure the people operating the dangerous machinery out there in the wilds of suburban America would be compensated properly with wages, benefits and a virtual guarantee that they could not lose their jobs as a result of ineptitude. After all that, there would end up being more leaves in my lawn and even less likelihood that I will ever feel any kind of "Social Security.""
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Listen to Eva Cassidy sing the Nat King Cole classic, Autumn Leaves... a worthwhile 4:41 seconds of your life if ever there was one. RIP, Eva.

Real Problems

I stayed up way too late to watch the Lions game and I am paying for it. Perhaps it was because I was drinking. A little at first to quell the anxiety of what I felt would be a tough game. Then during the game because of the 12 flags in a row the refs threw. And still more at the end as a celebratory gesture for another win and the new 5-0 Lions. After all, if they are going to work that hard out on the field, I should at least pay them back by celebrating their toils. It's only right.

The predictable outcome for a person of my age is that today, I have no aptitude. On top of the general haze due to lack of sleep and an abundance of the sweet nectar of Bourbon County, Kentucky, I am also having a bad allergy day. I was asking for that, since I had the audacity to mow my lawn yesterday without immediately taking a full body pressure wash and decontamination bath immediately after.

But that isn't even it. Today is the last of the really nice days. Probably for the proverbial "forever". Sunny, 70's. Calm. A wonderful swan song. I predict I will be burning wood in the fireplace within the next 10 days.

I just keep looking out the window. I have been going outside to check the mail every 45 seconds since 9:30 this morning. It actually came 2 hours ago. I keep going back to check. Maybe he missed something the first time.

Since I am snorking and horking because of the allergies, I am taking a day to do research and write some newsletters and press releases, rather than trying to talk to customers. That seems like a good activity. Too bad I put all the outdoor furniture away, or I would go outside and write. Oh well, better to do it in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt than in long johns and a spacesuit in the middle of a blizzard.

C'est la vie say the old folks... it goes to show you never can tell.

You never can tell what the next day, or week, or year will bring. The big stuff is evident. A baby misses its due date, a neighbor undergoes chemotherapy as a last ditch effort to stave off paralysis just that much longer, another re-shingles his roof only to find his chimney is being held up solely by the power of prayer, a couple college freshmen have a difficult transition away from home, A good friend flies across country to see a man about a job.

All of these and so many more are going on around us right now all over the backdrop of the incredible late season beauty.

So, I chose to put summer away in September not knowing the first half of October would be like June. Doesn't seem like a real problem after all, eh? We do the best we can with what we have and don't sweat it when we don't get it exactly right. This weekend, someone taught me a saying:

"It isn't how high you fly, or how far you fall, but how well you bounce."

Bounce with me, friends. I promise not to notice if you climb too high or fall spectacularly just so long as you promise to extend me the same courtesy. When we're done bouncing, I'll help you up, you can dust me off and we'll leap again not caring where we land.

America's Roller Coast

Climbing quickly into the cold night, I thought to myself;
"I may be about to die, but at least I am sitting down." We had been waiting for two hours to ride Millenium Force. Check out the video, here... good stuff

Still higher we climbed and I glanced around and saw the lights of the bay and of the other amusements below. I could hear the shrieks of joy and terror, but could not make anything out, since my specs were in a locker 1/2 mile below me. At least, that's what it seemed like.

I made casual conversation with the girl next to me who was unknown to me. "Have you done this before?" That may have sounded like a pickup line out of context, but here it was perfectly normal. She smiled and shook her head in a sheepish no. "I'm scared as hell", came the reply.

That's when the train we were riding crested the top of the hill and we succumbed to gravity as we descended the first hill into the inky unknown, subsumed by the darkness and overwhelmed by the screams of joy and terror.

Funny thing about a roller coaster. the only thing you can think of is being on the roller coaster. There is no worry about bills, or pills, or where you parked. The minutiae of life is meaningless as your mind tries to make sense of what is happening to your body.

Unlike in the rather rosy picture, we rode this thing in the pitch dark. It was darker than dark, since there was fake smoke being made to set the mood for Cedar Point's Halloweekends. This ride capped a long day at the park for us, which was unfortunately crowded. The weather was perfect after all. Too bad about a million people had the same idea at the same time.

We were at Cedar Point with Abbie, who was a student we know from church and now attends Oberlin College, just a stone's throw away from the park. Emily and I love the park, and we're fond of Abbie, too, so it all seemed like a nice excuse for a weekend excursion.

We only got to ride four coasters. The lines were long. But we had a lot of fun talking and just hanging out. Pun totally intended. Millenium Force's drop is 300' at 90 degrees and a little more than 70 miles per hour. Good stuff. It is rated in the top 3 coasters in the world. I'd have to agree, it is my second favorite ride I have ever been on.

My sentimental favorite is Raptor.
Smooth and fast and relentless, it was our first ride of the day. I wished we could have stayed to ride it one more time in the dark. It is amazing in the dark. Hard to believe this ride was introduced in 1994. It is still thrilling today. This video of it is also worth watching.

I know the moves of this coaster like a race car driver knows his home track. I can close my eyes and "fly" this coaster any time I want to, such is my love for it.

Emily forgot how high it was, then forgot the entire last section of barrel rolls. She screamed bloody murder the entire time. Great fun.

There are certain pursuits that only a few can understand. While a lot of people ride roller coasters, it is still a small-ish number compared to the general population. I am proud to be in their numbers.

Next year, I WILL go on Top Thrill Dragster. It WILL be the first line I get into and there will be no more excuses...

Emily, Abbie... You in?

Indian Summer, Or: Traditional Post Equinox Temperate Weather Pattern Spanning a Finite Period of Days

Indian Summer, a racially insensitive name for such a wonderful phenomenon. But, whatever you call it, it is here and it is wonderful. All too brief, Indian Summer is the much appreciated last gasp of summer before the cold dead breath of winter blows upon us for the next, oh, eternity.

We mid westerners make hay during Indian Summer... literally and figuratively. The outdoor furniture gets "put up" as we are fond of saying, the grill goes into the garage, closest to the door so that if we get one of those rare nice Thanksgivings, we can pull it out easily, the classic car gets put on blocks and covered, the hose gets purged and rolled away, storm windows replace screens and the cutesy little bric-a-brac thing your wife puts in the fire place gets replaced with real wood.

The changing of the seasons in the wild wild mid west heralds harshness. Cut your wood now, English, or you will be burning Great Ganny's credenza before the first snow fall. Even the lazy amongst us, (yes, I AM talking about me), realize it is now or never and are forced to move, however begrudgingly to get these things done.

It is a matter of some importance. Last year, for instance, I forgot to purge the water line to my outside spigot. In doing so, I knocked out the use of an entire bathroom all winter, flooded my basement a little and cost myself a hundy to have that valve replaced. Ahem... replaced... again.

This is no foolin' type of stuff. As we do this, the neighbors all laugh and talk and wave goodbye. Hopefully, we say, for the whole winter, for the only thing that brings us together in the winter is a big snow. Big snows bring the neighborhood together. Doors get knocked on to make sure people aren't starving, cold or dead. Gangs of people help shovel drives and get cars out of their heavy white ensconcements. Hasty potlucks are organized. If you do it right, the main course is booze and a card game. The food is incidental if you are properly focused. beside, if it's a late winter snow storm, a little starvation is usually just what the doctor ordered since we all look like bloated pasty dough oozing out of our sweaters by that time.


Indian Summer reminds me that again I did nothing to fix my drafty windows all summer. I was too busy keeping busy. I do all my living in the 8 months of the year that isn't snow covered. during the 4 months of doom I can be found in the corner rocking in the fetal position murmuring incantations to any god or demon who will hear me beseeching them. Would I sell my soul for a warm winter? A dozen times over, yes!

But, here, in Indian Summer, the 70 degrees and sun belie what is coming in the distance. The grass is deeply green, the fall colors are just beginning to pop and it is, in a word, perfect. In fact it's perfect to work on windows to make them more weather fast. Not gonna happen. I'm far too busy for that. But, if I weren't, now would be perfect.

In fact, we really should move Halloween to the first week of October, because historically, trick-or-treating is done with fat coats over costumes and umbrellas to deal with the cold rain that almost always falls here near Halloween. It's like a million little Gene Kellys wandering the streets with pillow cases. I am certain that no baby sized Butterfinger is worth hypothermia, but then again, I am not a kid.

Tonight after work, we are taking one last sojourn in the Corvette for ice cream and a little color tour. Not too long since we have to pack for a long, long weekend away from home. we have to clean the house before our house sitter gets here so she doesn't know we live the way we do. We're not close enough for full disclosure just yet.

I reckon Indian Summer is a little like the small rocky islands off Newfoundland that trickled slowly away as Charles Lindbergh gently climbed and made his way slowly east, ever closer to the middle of the frosty, unforgiving north Atlantic, where there were no rocks, no chance of survival at all if it all went tits up. Each island must have felt like a last chance for refuge. Each one an opportunity to feel safe one last time.

And so it is with the days of ever decreasing length. Each one a siren song begging to be visited upon forever. Each one passing by below, just out of reach, until finally, the last one passes by underneath. And you are on your own.

Sports and the Triumpful Spirit

I'm going to have to bang this out for the grim specter of things to do looms large over me like a buzzard looms large over a stranded motorist in the desert. How's that for simile??

I just want to take a moment to talk about sports, which is pretty boring. I really am getting more into sports the older I am. I don't see a likely reversal of trend on this, either as sports, like a soap opera, finds a way to keep its audiences.

This is the first time in my "sports memory" the Lions have been 4-0. They have been very exciting to watch, almost like the Colts of a few years ago. They are proving to be a second half team, not really doing anything until the third quarter and then doing it all. It used to be the Lions could only put together half a game... the losing half. Now they are still only playing half a game, it's just the winning half.

Ws are Ws, no matter how ugly. The last two have been ugly, but oh so satisfying and very entertaining. I am not insinuating that the NFL is fixed, but if it is, kudos to the writers and the actors, you have me rapt.

The Tigers are playing the hated Yankees and that series is tied after an auspicious beginning. I am not a baseball fan, since loving baseball requires a level of attention and devotion I don't possess... for it or any sport. But the Tigers, again have garnered my attention for their late-season rally and hard work to capture their division.

The Yankees. Well, I don't hate the Yankees because they ever did anything to me. I mean, again, I am not a baseball fan as such. But I tend to root for the underdog and the Yankees are not, nor can I conceive of a time in their storied franchise will they ever be, considered an underdog.

So, for you Yankees fans, I will not trash talk. I will not woot and holler with a Tiger victory, nor cry with defeat. I simply can't do so with any kind of authenticity. But I will say this; may the best team win. I hope my team is the best team.
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So, what? Sports. Big deal. But this is Detroit, my adopted second home, holder of a piece of my heart, big sister to my beloved Grand Rapids. Troubled, down, besieged and hurting. Sports is a metaphor of life to be sure, but here it is more real. The city herself and the people who love her toil and strive to make the phoenix rise from the ashes of the once proud ruins and decay.

Victory, in any form, is welcome and I believe more affective here than almost anywhere. I liken it to the New Orleans Saints playing after Katrina and the whole country rooted for them. Detroit needs this. Detroit needs the positive attention, the national exposure and the shot in the arm that comes with successful sports franchises.

Detroit fights to win, because Detroit is fighting to stay alive. Detroit wants it more. I pray they go get it!