My friend, who greatly enjoys poking fun at my liberal tendencies, tends to send me news pieces that highlight the absurdity of some of my positions on things. In particular, he has seized on Global Warming and the growing hysteria surrounding it. He makes a very adroit observation that popular media and popular media consumption habits tend to greatly distort the facts surrounding phenomenon such as Global Warming. He often mentions disposable diapers as an example. Some of you may remember hearing news reports years ago about what overwhelming percentage of the world’s landfills would be composed of these ecological dirty bombs, and at the time, some of the reporting conjured images of streets in the near future filled with diapers and nowhere to put them because the landfills were already packed full of Pampers. He could very well have also mentioned Killer Bees. In 8th Grade I was ready to move to Canada because I was scared to death that Africanized Honey Bees were swarming my way. His point is valid; we have a natural tendency to make things bigger, more dire than they really are. Maybe it sells papers, maybe it gets attention of research dollars or government money, and maybe it feeds our need to have something to worry about.
The most recent article from him, see link below, deals with the high carbon footprint of eating beef. Due to the energy it takes to feed, transport, and cook and the by-products of all those things, Beef has a disproportionate ratio of pollution to nutrition. By eliminating beef, the article suggests we could cut emissions by significant amounts.
http://www.breitbart.com/article.php?id=CNG.e36a67d49c1127a8c17cc38ed4a4c27e.211&show_article=1
While the research is interesting, I cannot help but find it tiresome. Does everything have to be viewed now from a pair of Carbon-Value Glasses? How far away are we from buying and selling things in a new alternate currency based on Carbon Credits? The goal of the Environmental Movement should not be to grind eco-responsibility into everyone’s face over every decision they make. All that will do is engender resentment and eventually the worthwhile message of conservation will fall on deaf ears. The goal should be, and it is in fact what is being achieved to date, is a raised awareness of Environmental Issues. Being more efficient, being more conservative of all of our resources is good corporate and good individual philosophy – especially in this economic climate. One could argue that common sense and the environmentalists have finally found common ground. Walk into a Kroger and see the number of people using canvas bags, look at the sales of CFL’s. (Although one could also argue we need a return to robust “Fuck It All” American consumerism – if just to lift is out of this current morass.) Regardless, my point is people are getting the message; let’s not nag them to death!
Academic funding is shifting more and more to “green” topics. Scholars who need papers published continue to find more and more obscure things to study, and the news media will pick up the juiciest ones - the more dire, the more sensational, the better. Polar Bears: Extinct In 10 Years! New Orleans: Melting Ice Caps and A Modern day Atlantis! Killer Bees Nesting In Millions of Disposable Diapers! And we will continue to eat it up, eager to feel shittier about ourselves and our world.
I have been puzzling over what drives this phenomenon. This collective need to feel bad about something. Or more specifically why did we all start caring about the Planet? When did a formally small cause, exclusively the domain of so called Hippies and Tree Huggers, become a middle class obsession? What makes a significant percentage of the population rise up and suddenly exclaim, “Oh we’re so bad, punish us! Tell me more about how bad for the Planet my actions are.” Why did all of the sudden people start caring about the Planet? Why do I see 30-50 year olds using canvas bags and buying Hybrids?
Then it dawned on me. Much has been made of the so called “generational shift.” We just elected a black man to the Presidency; the Boomers are stepping down and making way for Gen X or whatever we are. That ushers in all sorts of new things. It’s more than Obama taking the White House Business Casual. We’re going to put our fingerprints on this era in countless ways. Among the countless things we need, we simply must have our very own Guilt. Our Parent’s had Racism. That was OK, but we’ve always wanted our own thing. Besides, our work there is done, just look at who our President is. No we need something else, a new white liberal guilt for a new era.
I got just the thing…the whole world.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
In Defense of Bow Ties
In his new book, David Sedaris disembowels the bowtie by calling it an announcement to the world that you can no longer get an erection. I both love and despise Sedaris because he’s a very good writer, but I feel compelled to defend the bowtie.
I have worn one occasionally. It’s an odd choice, I know. A 80 year old saleman I had the pleasure of knowing once gave me a bowtie as a thank you gift. I wore it in his honor, and kind of liked it. I still wear it from time to time, but I still struggle with it.
It’s geeky to be sure. Certainly I don’t believe it would qualify as sexy. Unless of course paired with a tuxedo. But for daily wear, it’s anachronistic, dorky with a certain Orville-ian under tones. I get a range of responses when I wear one. I get bemused looks, stares. Some will say it’s fun. Some will say, “It’s you.” Which I think might be a back-handed insult.
I’d like to think it marks you a different, thoughtful…the smartest guy in the room. Or perhaps, the geekiest. I remember once in elementary school, at the beginning of my descent into unpopularity, the other kids started calling me a nerd. I was wounded but more so, I was outraged. I thought that secretly I was just as good if not better than any of them. It was ridiculously unfair and innaccurate to call me such a name. I decided after one particularly brutal bus ride home that if they wanted a nerd I would give them one. Clearly they didn't know what a real nerd was. Perhaps I could help them see the difference. And so in deaf to my mother’s pleading, I parted my hair down the middle and spackled it in place with palmful after palmful of mouse until my hair gleamed like plastic. Not satisfied with the effect and eager for more self-inflicted pain, I taped up the nose of my glasses. You want a nerd? You got one.
It was a terrible decision. A classroom of fourth graders is like Lord of the Flies with Erasers and Notebooks in place of Conch Shells. Nobody understood the statement I was trying to make, it only served to cement and justify the original verdict. I never recovered socially and served out my time in public school with the other freaks and geeks.
I consoled myself with the knowledge that I wasn’t really a nerd, that was the label they assigned me. I was much, much more, they were just too blind and stupid to see. In my wildly dramatic pubescent years I would imagine the most popular people in my class realizing the error of their ways in a variety of convenient scenarios. One week it was a terrorist attack at school where I saved the day. Another it was an earthquake or a tornado, always some cataclysmic event that up ended the social structure and created an opportunity for me to shine and recreate myself. To my dismay, the apocalyptic event I fervently wished for never happened. Embittered, I took solace in my own company. While painful at the time, it freed me to some extent from the tyranny of the herd, but also fueled a compensatory superiority complex. Overtime, as my wife and most people who know me will tell you, I fell quite in love with myself. An affair which continues to this day.
Maybe that’s part of what a bowtie is to me: defiant, self -segregating, a little arrogant. I’ll wear a bowtie if I want to, I’ll blaze my own fashion trail. You’ll come to appreciate both it and me if this building’s hit by an asteroid.
Just knowing how to tie one, enforces a feeling of superiority. Men will ask, “Is real bowtie?” I’ll smugly reply, “Yes, it is…I tied it myself. I know lots of things. Grand things. Things you’ll never know because while you were with all the other cool kids, I was at the library….becoming awesome.”
I have worn one occasionally. It’s an odd choice, I know. A 80 year old saleman I had the pleasure of knowing once gave me a bowtie as a thank you gift. I wore it in his honor, and kind of liked it. I still wear it from time to time, but I still struggle with it.
It’s geeky to be sure. Certainly I don’t believe it would qualify as sexy. Unless of course paired with a tuxedo. But for daily wear, it’s anachronistic, dorky with a certain Orville-ian under tones. I get a range of responses when I wear one. I get bemused looks, stares. Some will say it’s fun. Some will say, “It’s you.” Which I think might be a back-handed insult.
I’d like to think it marks you a different, thoughtful…the smartest guy in the room. Or perhaps, the geekiest. I remember once in elementary school, at the beginning of my descent into unpopularity, the other kids started calling me a nerd. I was wounded but more so, I was outraged. I thought that secretly I was just as good if not better than any of them. It was ridiculously unfair and innaccurate to call me such a name. I decided after one particularly brutal bus ride home that if they wanted a nerd I would give them one. Clearly they didn't know what a real nerd was. Perhaps I could help them see the difference. And so in deaf to my mother’s pleading, I parted my hair down the middle and spackled it in place with palmful after palmful of mouse until my hair gleamed like plastic. Not satisfied with the effect and eager for more self-inflicted pain, I taped up the nose of my glasses. You want a nerd? You got one.
It was a terrible decision. A classroom of fourth graders is like Lord of the Flies with Erasers and Notebooks in place of Conch Shells. Nobody understood the statement I was trying to make, it only served to cement and justify the original verdict. I never recovered socially and served out my time in public school with the other freaks and geeks.
I consoled myself with the knowledge that I wasn’t really a nerd, that was the label they assigned me. I was much, much more, they were just too blind and stupid to see. In my wildly dramatic pubescent years I would imagine the most popular people in my class realizing the error of their ways in a variety of convenient scenarios. One week it was a terrorist attack at school where I saved the day. Another it was an earthquake or a tornado, always some cataclysmic event that up ended the social structure and created an opportunity for me to shine and recreate myself. To my dismay, the apocalyptic event I fervently wished for never happened. Embittered, I took solace in my own company. While painful at the time, it freed me to some extent from the tyranny of the herd, but also fueled a compensatory superiority complex. Overtime, as my wife and most people who know me will tell you, I fell quite in love with myself. An affair which continues to this day.
Maybe that’s part of what a bowtie is to me: defiant, self -segregating, a little arrogant. I’ll wear a bowtie if I want to, I’ll blaze my own fashion trail. You’ll come to appreciate both it and me if this building’s hit by an asteroid.
Just knowing how to tie one, enforces a feeling of superiority. Men will ask, “Is real bowtie?” I’ll smugly reply, “Yes, it is…I tied it myself. I know lots of things. Grand things. Things you’ll never know because while you were with all the other cool kids, I was at the library….becoming awesome.”
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Notes from Abroad...
Today is the last day of my Portland adventure. Portland is a different kind of town, with different kind of people. I knew I was in a foreign land when I was walking through the concourse. I have never seen so many dreadlocks, artificially colored hair (in obvious shades of black, pink and blonde), stupid hats on members of both sexes, patchwork skirts, Birkenstocks, Doc Martens and other post-punk /hipster/hippy essentials.
Some other observations:
Station Wagons are cool. Waiting for my ride to the apartment, every other car was a Subaru Outback. A guy in the office has one. I could probably make a fortune buying the things in Cincinnati and shipping them into the Northwest. I also saw people driving glorified golf carts on busy highways, they looked like little Luigi’s from the movie, Car’s.
But as much as they love their Subaru’s and alternative electronic vehicles, the roads are really meant for cyclists and pedestrians. Heaven forbid you turn do anything they perceive as a trespass against them. Hippies may still exist in Portland, but they’re angry hippies. The Peace Sign is apparently a tired relic, the middle finger and salty language rule the streets.
Also you don’t need a crosswalk, its common practice to walk into the road wherever it suits you, apparently cars have to yield. Too bad I almost took out a Patchouli Wearing Dipshit before someone told me that.
The Natural Look is in. I cannot wait to go back to Cincinnati and see a girl in make-up, with her hair combed and in clothes that don’t look like they came from the wardrobe department of Reality Bites.
I was talking to a girl at Starbucks. Apparently there is a Stagnant Air Alert for the whole metro area. As she told me this with a dead serious look on her face, napkins were blowing off the countertop from the breeze.
It’s a neat city. Great people watching, great food, full of natural beauty. But it’s time to come home before I dye my hair or start shopping for glorified station wagons.
Some other observations:
Station Wagons are cool. Waiting for my ride to the apartment, every other car was a Subaru Outback. A guy in the office has one. I could probably make a fortune buying the things in Cincinnati and shipping them into the Northwest. I also saw people driving glorified golf carts on busy highways, they looked like little Luigi’s from the movie, Car’s.
But as much as they love their Subaru’s and alternative electronic vehicles, the roads are really meant for cyclists and pedestrians. Heaven forbid you turn do anything they perceive as a trespass against them. Hippies may still exist in Portland, but they’re angry hippies. The Peace Sign is apparently a tired relic, the middle finger and salty language rule the streets.
Also you don’t need a crosswalk, its common practice to walk into the road wherever it suits you, apparently cars have to yield. Too bad I almost took out a Patchouli Wearing Dipshit before someone told me that.
The Natural Look is in. I cannot wait to go back to Cincinnati and see a girl in make-up, with her hair combed and in clothes that don’t look like they came from the wardrobe department of Reality Bites.
I was talking to a girl at Starbucks. Apparently there is a Stagnant Air Alert for the whole metro area. As she told me this with a dead serious look on her face, napkins were blowing off the countertop from the breeze.
It’s a neat city. Great people watching, great food, full of natural beauty. But it’s time to come home before I dye my hair or start shopping for glorified station wagons.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Ahhh...Travel
It’s been almost a year since I have been a business trip. Foolishly I have been looking forward to going. I miss travel. Or maybe I missed the idea of travel. All I know is, as I started the 2 hour drive to Indy to catch my flight, I was excited.
The ride up was uneventful and I arrived in plenty of time. I went right through security, and found a seat near an power outlet. To the novice traveler, finding a power outlet in an airport to keep your laptop and blackberry going is critical and usually impossible. I plugged in, powered up and prepared to enjoy the free Indy Airport WiFi. Again, another plus because most airports you have to pay for a day pass. Well, you get what you pay for. I had at least 3 tasks which I was counting on delivering while I waited, all of which required broadband access to send. I logged onto the wireless, and was rewarded with a blazing 2MBPS connection. That’s about as slow as dial-up. My browser wouldn’t even open let alone send anything.
To make matters worse, either through cunning planning to discourage siphoning free power or just bad luck, my power supply was right beneath a loudspeaker. Every page, every announcement shook the fillings in my teeth. They also had this strange military style naming convention.
“Can Mr. Jones come to Checkpoint Bravo to retrieve a lost item”
When did I enter the Green Zone? Don’t do it Jones….it’s a trap
“Would the owner of the black Ford Bronco come to Checkpoint Alpha?”
Fuck…are they going to detain him?
I worked away, and as the endless stream of pages and announcements blared on, the blood slowly trickled from my ears.
But, the plane left on time, and I had an exit row so it was all good. Until I landed in Denver.
I had an hour between flights. I always check my departure gate and time off the screens just in case there was a change. Then I physically check the gate. Both my ticket and the screen said B35 – there were people waiting, we had a plane parked outside but no gate agents. I decided I had time to grab a quick plate of dinner. Driving and total transit time to Portland was going to be 11 plus hours, better eat while you can. I grabbed some Chinese Panda or whatever the fuck it is, and sat down at the gate. While I ate some indifferent fried rice and a slimy, sickly sweet honey chicken, I noticed the gate still wasn’t manned. That’s when the fun began.
I walked to the nearest manned Frontier gate.
“Excuse me, where is the flight for Portland?”
“Portland?! That’s Gate 50, you’ll have to hurry?”
Gate 50 was on the other side of the Concourse. I took off running.
Past the foodcourt. Past Gates 40-49. Down a set of stairs. Down a Corridor. All the way to Gate 50.
“Portland?” I ask breathlessly.
“Portland? That’s up at gate 33! You’ll really have to hurry?
“I’m sorry, my hearing was damaged in Indy and I’m still recovering. Did you say Gate 33??? Are you sure?? I was just up there, they sent me here.
“Yes, you better run!”
I blindly followed her command.
Off I went. Down the corridor. Up the stairs. Past gates 49-40. Past the food court. Past Gate 35, where I just was, to Gate 33.
Really Breathlessly and with no conviction whatsoever, somewhat pleadingly, “ Portland?”
“Portland?!”
“Yes… What Gate?”
“55, but you’re really late”
“I was just down there, the screen says 35, they sent me here.”
“I have no control over the screens, the city controls those. It’s definitely at 55,and you need to hurry”
At the time, I was thinking, “Lady, I could give a shit who runs the screens, I don’t need a lesson on airport politics, I need oxygen, a bag to throw up in and perhaps a golf cart!” But I was too winded to fight, and I didn’t have the time.
“Fuck. Call them and tell them I’m coming!”
Off I go. By now, people openly pointing at me and the polite ones are smiling in disbelieve. The assholes are flat out laughing hysterically. None of which I can get upset about, as this made the third time I had sprinted by them, uttering profanities between gasps for air and Chinese belches.
So, back down the stairs, up to Gate 55 (just on the other side of 50 by the way), I get on the plane, and just as I am congratulating myself on making it just in time, the Pilot comes on to announce the flight is delayed. I spend the next 5 minutes catching my breath and convincing my stomach not to forcibly eject the Honey Chicken and the next 20 waiting to take off.
Ahhh, Travel….
The ride up was uneventful and I arrived in plenty of time. I went right through security, and found a seat near an power outlet. To the novice traveler, finding a power outlet in an airport to keep your laptop and blackberry going is critical and usually impossible. I plugged in, powered up and prepared to enjoy the free Indy Airport WiFi. Again, another plus because most airports you have to pay for a day pass. Well, you get what you pay for. I had at least 3 tasks which I was counting on delivering while I waited, all of which required broadband access to send. I logged onto the wireless, and was rewarded with a blazing 2MBPS connection. That’s about as slow as dial-up. My browser wouldn’t even open let alone send anything.
To make matters worse, either through cunning planning to discourage siphoning free power or just bad luck, my power supply was right beneath a loudspeaker. Every page, every announcement shook the fillings in my teeth. They also had this strange military style naming convention.
“Can Mr. Jones come to Checkpoint Bravo to retrieve a lost item”
When did I enter the Green Zone? Don’t do it Jones….it’s a trap
“Would the owner of the black Ford Bronco come to Checkpoint Alpha?”
Fuck…are they going to detain him?
I worked away, and as the endless stream of pages and announcements blared on, the blood slowly trickled from my ears.
But, the plane left on time, and I had an exit row so it was all good. Until I landed in Denver.
I had an hour between flights. I always check my departure gate and time off the screens just in case there was a change. Then I physically check the gate. Both my ticket and the screen said B35 – there were people waiting, we had a plane parked outside but no gate agents. I decided I had time to grab a quick plate of dinner. Driving and total transit time to Portland was going to be 11 plus hours, better eat while you can. I grabbed some Chinese Panda or whatever the fuck it is, and sat down at the gate. While I ate some indifferent fried rice and a slimy, sickly sweet honey chicken, I noticed the gate still wasn’t manned. That’s when the fun began.
I walked to the nearest manned Frontier gate.
“Excuse me, where is the flight for Portland?”
“Portland?! That’s Gate 50, you’ll have to hurry?”
Gate 50 was on the other side of the Concourse. I took off running.
Past the foodcourt. Past Gates 40-49. Down a set of stairs. Down a Corridor. All the way to Gate 50.
“Portland?” I ask breathlessly.
“Portland? That’s up at gate 33! You’ll really have to hurry?
“I’m sorry, my hearing was damaged in Indy and I’m still recovering. Did you say Gate 33??? Are you sure?? I was just up there, they sent me here.
“Yes, you better run!”
I blindly followed her command.
Off I went. Down the corridor. Up the stairs. Past gates 49-40. Past the food court. Past Gate 35, where I just was, to Gate 33.
Really Breathlessly and with no conviction whatsoever, somewhat pleadingly, “ Portland?”
“Portland?!”
“Yes… What Gate?”
“55, but you’re really late”
“I was just down there, the screen says 35, they sent me here.”
“I have no control over the screens, the city controls those. It’s definitely at 55,and you need to hurry”
At the time, I was thinking, “Lady, I could give a shit who runs the screens, I don’t need a lesson on airport politics, I need oxygen, a bag to throw up in and perhaps a golf cart!” But I was too winded to fight, and I didn’t have the time.
“Fuck. Call them and tell them I’m coming!”
Off I go. By now, people openly pointing at me and the polite ones are smiling in disbelieve. The assholes are flat out laughing hysterically. None of which I can get upset about, as this made the third time I had sprinted by them, uttering profanities between gasps for air and Chinese belches.
So, back down the stairs, up to Gate 55 (just on the other side of 50 by the way), I get on the plane, and just as I am congratulating myself on making it just in time, the Pilot comes on to announce the flight is delayed. I spend the next 5 minutes catching my breath and convincing my stomach not to forcibly eject the Honey Chicken and the next 20 waiting to take off.
Ahhh, Travel….
Saturday, January 10, 2009
The Urban Appalachians
My office is in a questionable part of town. Occasionally there is the odd shooting or stabbing down an adjacent alley or inside the local bar. The local community is a blend of recent Hispanic immigrants, black people and the people I recently discovered should be called Urban Appalachians. Now when I hear that term, I think of a fashion movement like the Urban Cowbody Movement, except the fashionable sort in this part of town aren't wearing coonskin caps or over-alls. Neither are they filling their days moonshinin' or outsmarting the Revenuers. The only the thing vaguely Appalachian about these people is an accent and speech pattern that might have originated in the mountains, but on the way here was drug through several trailer parks and an Eddie Murphy special.
Regardless of what you call them, they do make for great people watching.
The window from my cube over looks a parking lot for a Check N Go, which must be some sort of rallying point for several of the local Urban Appalachians. Most days around 4:00pm, if I am lucky, I'll see a 12 year old Maroon Chevy Lumina, all beat to shit, with no hubcaps and a busted tail light .
The last time I saw it a few weeks back, it sat there idling with the windows cracked. I could see at least 4 people in the backseat, and two in the front, The girl in the front seat's probably 14 and she's bumming a cigarette from her mom. Everyone in the car is smoking in fact it looks like the car's smoldering from all the smoke wafting out of it. Up comes a two more people to the car, one on crutches. The passengers get out, more smoke billows from the doors, everyone but the girl is overweight, the women have terrible bad highlights. They look like a pack of fat hyenas.
To my surprise, they all try to pile back into the car. Now there's 5 people in the back seat, some one riding in the lap of the front passenger seat but they can't close the door because the crutches are in the way. Not to mention they're all sizable people.
So they pop the trunk, and the trunk is so full of junk that stuff literally springs out. Clothes, cans, pop bottles, paper. The wind catches a plastic Walmart bag and a few empty cigarette cartons and they swirl around the parking lot. Nobody makes an effort to pick them up. The injured party hobbles to the back, and tries to jam the crutches into the trunk. The girl, cigarette clenched between her lips, hops out with her school back pack and helps her force down the trunk lid. They all pile back in and lurch into traffic.
I often wonder where they were going. Why they all needed to go there, and why they all needed to be there at the same time. The bus stop was on the opposite corner. I'll tell you right now, if I walked up to that car, and it was my ride? No way. I be all like, "Look, there's already 4 of you fat bitches in this backseat. My ass is hurt. I'm on crutches. I don't need this shit. I'm taking the bus. I'll see you at Denny's in 15 minutes."
I wanted a image to go with this entry. By the way, you won't believe what comes up on google if you type in Fat White Bitches. I had to go wash my eyes. Now the images below, aren't what I wanted but you might need to see them
Regardless of what you call them, they do make for great people watching.
The window from my cube over looks a parking lot for a Check N Go, which must be some sort of rallying point for several of the local Urban Appalachians. Most days around 4:00pm, if I am lucky, I'll see a 12 year old Maroon Chevy Lumina, all beat to shit, with no hubcaps and a busted tail light .
The last time I saw it a few weeks back, it sat there idling with the windows cracked. I could see at least 4 people in the backseat, and two in the front, The girl in the front seat's probably 14 and she's bumming a cigarette from her mom. Everyone in the car is smoking in fact it looks like the car's smoldering from all the smoke wafting out of it. Up comes a two more people to the car, one on crutches. The passengers get out, more smoke billows from the doors, everyone but the girl is overweight, the women have terrible bad highlights. They look like a pack of fat hyenas.
To my surprise, they all try to pile back into the car. Now there's 5 people in the back seat, some one riding in the lap of the front passenger seat but they can't close the door because the crutches are in the way. Not to mention they're all sizable people.
So they pop the trunk, and the trunk is so full of junk that stuff literally springs out. Clothes, cans, pop bottles, paper. The wind catches a plastic Walmart bag and a few empty cigarette cartons and they swirl around the parking lot. Nobody makes an effort to pick them up. The injured party hobbles to the back, and tries to jam the crutches into the trunk. The girl, cigarette clenched between her lips, hops out with her school back pack and helps her force down the trunk lid. They all pile back in and lurch into traffic.
I often wonder where they were going. Why they all needed to go there, and why they all needed to be there at the same time. The bus stop was on the opposite corner. I'll tell you right now, if I walked up to that car, and it was my ride? No way. I be all like, "Look, there's already 4 of you fat bitches in this backseat. My ass is hurt. I'm on crutches. I don't need this shit. I'm taking the bus. I'll see you at Denny's in 15 minutes."
I wanted a image to go with this entry. By the way, you won't believe what comes up on google if you type in Fat White Bitches. I had to go wash my eyes. Now the images below, aren't what I wanted but you might need to see them
Friday, December 19, 2008
Cubicle Tales
Where I work, the men have a special bathroom we reserve for major transactions. The reason being is we frequently have guests in the building and nobody wants to walk into a seriously polluted bathroom before a sales presentation. It's kind of a mood killer.
For the past several months, someone has been stealing all the TP in the Men's Room. Now the only reason we ever go to this room, by necessity, requires the use of toilet paper. Realizing a second too late that there is none can cause major problems. Not too mention if you do catch it in time, you have to do the walk of shame with 4 or 5 rolls in your arms down the hall, past the receptionist,on the elevator and then into the bathroom. Nothing like meeting your 10:15 appt in the elevator, while you have an arm load of TP. "Hey, I'll see you in about 20! Are you ready to be impressed...by my presentation?"
Yuck!
It's bad enough that when the elevator stops, everyone knows you're going to take a shit. After all, the bathroom is the only thing on the floor. But when the elevator stops, and you got off with an armload of toilet paper, every assumes its about to get hella messy in there - like you have Cholera or ate wicked bad Mexican.
For months we assumed girls were raiding our bathroom to stock theirs, because we never saw girls doing the walk of shame. We even hid toilet paper in secret places, and eventually that too turned up missing. I went in there yesterday, to discover the toilet paper I just stocked the day prior was missing. In a rage, I walked into the lady's room, and they had like 20 rolls neatly lined up and ready for immediate use. I took 6, and decided to tell the other guys so we could contemplate and plan our revenge.
Later that day, my boss walked up to me and he had that, "I need to talk to you about something vibe." So I stopped working and asked him what was on his mind. He then proceeded to ask about the bathroom situation and whether I had noticed the toilet paper was missing. I told him I was all over it, I knew who was doing it, and it was game on.
He then said, " No....I've been taking it, because you guys cannot put the toilet paper on the dispenser."
I was shocked. This has been going on for months! Rather than just say, "Hey guys, it bothers me that you don't do X, can you fix it. He deliberately stole TP in some demented, passive aggressive gesture! I could see it being a little funny for a week, but this has been going on for almost a year! This is where I work? How busy is my boss, if he has time for goofy shit like this?
Am I wrong in thinking this is outrageous? See Poll.
For the past several months, someone has been stealing all the TP in the Men's Room. Now the only reason we ever go to this room, by necessity, requires the use of toilet paper. Realizing a second too late that there is none can cause major problems. Not too mention if you do catch it in time, you have to do the walk of shame with 4 or 5 rolls in your arms down the hall, past the receptionist,on the elevator and then into the bathroom. Nothing like meeting your 10:15 appt in the elevator, while you have an arm load of TP. "Hey, I'll see you in about 20! Are you ready to be impressed...by my presentation?"
Yuck!
It's bad enough that when the elevator stops, everyone knows you're going to take a shit. After all, the bathroom is the only thing on the floor. But when the elevator stops, and you got off with an armload of toilet paper, every assumes its about to get hella messy in there - like you have Cholera or ate wicked bad Mexican.
For months we assumed girls were raiding our bathroom to stock theirs, because we never saw girls doing the walk of shame. We even hid toilet paper in secret places, and eventually that too turned up missing. I went in there yesterday, to discover the toilet paper I just stocked the day prior was missing. In a rage, I walked into the lady's room, and they had like 20 rolls neatly lined up and ready for immediate use. I took 6, and decided to tell the other guys so we could contemplate and plan our revenge.
Later that day, my boss walked up to me and he had that, "I need to talk to you about something vibe." So I stopped working and asked him what was on his mind. He then proceeded to ask about the bathroom situation and whether I had noticed the toilet paper was missing. I told him I was all over it, I knew who was doing it, and it was game on.
He then said, " No....I've been taking it, because you guys cannot put the toilet paper on the dispenser."
I was shocked. This has been going on for months! Rather than just say, "Hey guys, it bothers me that you don't do X, can you fix it. He deliberately stole TP in some demented, passive aggressive gesture! I could see it being a little funny for a week, but this has been going on for almost a year! This is where I work? How busy is my boss, if he has time for goofy shit like this?
Am I wrong in thinking this is outrageous? See Poll.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Booty: A Call to Action
From the time we are very young, we obsess over sex. We think about it constantly, even long before we know what it really is. When we finally do get to experience it, we have no clue what to do. A point that is surely much more disappointing to her, than it really is to the young man at the time. The phrase, "That's it?" comes to mind as she ponders what just happened and says a silent goodbye to her dearly departed Flower.
And so most of guys out there enter the world of copulation with, shall we say, something lacking.
Over time, with lots of practice and late night cable, (and for today's generation) the Internet, we get better....or so we think. We get married, we have careers, we have children. Our lives are busy. Yet still the quest continues. Not surprisingly, we still find ourselves coming up short.
It's the weekend. The optimal time for couples to "reconnect." We don't have to go to work, we don't have to get up early the next day. Finally you get the kids to bed. You sit on the couch watching football. Perhaps you didn't bother to shave. You may have forgot to shower. "Fuck it", you said after waking up, "It's Saturday." You're wearing dirty jeans and a nasty t-shirt with food stains on it. Drinking cheap beer and belching loudly while using your fingers for a Q-tip. Occasionally you might fart unapologetic ally, I know I do. By the third High Life, we're all starting think about a little about "Sumpum, Sumpum...you know wut I'm sayin??" Which unfortunately maybe precisely how we phrase it to our respective wives and significant others. Looking over, we realize the object of our affection has fallen asleep.....again.
Yet, we never stop at that moment and seriously wonder why. I mean, look at us in all our manly majesty. Who couldn't wait up for that?! The time has come for change.
Let me be clear here, I am not speaking of a little man-sculpting and a dab of cologne. I preach a more holistic gospel. We have to create an environment that rather than encouraging failure, fosters the successful pursuit of poon. We can no longer seriously expect our women to transition seamlessly from, "Married With Children" to "The Red Shoe Diaries." No more can we Bundy it up all day, and then expect to go David Duchovny all night. We must groom! We must bathe! We must pretend to have manners!
It's not 1953, Gentlemen. If we expect dinner, Men, we must set the table.
Now if you will excuse me, I must go and clip my toe nails.
And so most of guys out there enter the world of copulation with, shall we say, something lacking.
Over time, with lots of practice and late night cable, (and for today's generation) the Internet, we get better....or so we think. We get married, we have careers, we have children. Our lives are busy. Yet still the quest continues. Not surprisingly, we still find ourselves coming up short.
It's the weekend. The optimal time for couples to "reconnect." We don't have to go to work, we don't have to get up early the next day. Finally you get the kids to bed. You sit on the couch watching football. Perhaps you didn't bother to shave. You may have forgot to shower. "Fuck it", you said after waking up, "It's Saturday." You're wearing dirty jeans and a nasty t-shirt with food stains on it. Drinking cheap beer and belching loudly while using your fingers for a Q-tip. Occasionally you might fart unapologetic ally, I know I do. By the third High Life, we're all starting think about a little about "Sumpum, Sumpum...you know wut I'm sayin??" Which unfortunately maybe precisely how we phrase it to our respective wives and significant others. Looking over, we realize the object of our affection has fallen asleep.....again.
Yet, we never stop at that moment and seriously wonder why. I mean, look at us in all our manly majesty. Who couldn't wait up for that?! The time has come for change.
Let me be clear here, I am not speaking of a little man-sculpting and a dab of cologne. I preach a more holistic gospel. We have to create an environment that rather than encouraging failure, fosters the successful pursuit of poon. We can no longer seriously expect our women to transition seamlessly from, "Married With Children" to "The Red Shoe Diaries." No more can we Bundy it up all day, and then expect to go David Duchovny all night. We must groom! We must bathe! We must pretend to have manners!
It's not 1953, Gentlemen. If we expect dinner, Men, we must set the table.
Now if you will excuse me, I must go and clip my toe nails.
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