A Cotton Candy Sweet As Gold Christmas Parade Miracle

I attended the Richmond Christmas parade with Lara and Megan at 10:15 this past crisp Saturday morn. On the way there we walked by the Richmond Coliseum and I pointed out to Lara the tree that was in the building across the Coliseum’s entrance.  A car then came screaming down the street headed the wrong way. As if the fact that none of the signs were legible to the driver, there were also directional arrows for traffic flow painted onto the street.  Surely the driver must’ve known what was up.  I shrugged it off, guessing that perhaps they had thought that 10:15 on a crisp Saturday morn was a fine time to imbibe mimosas and get behind the wheel.

We were a block away from the parade street when we saw a mother and child briskly walking away from the parade with the mother hollering on her phone.  “The answer is NO. I told you NO! Why you gotta keep asking me when I feel that way?”

Perhaps it was the Christmas spirit moving through my sarcastic and jaded bones, or the kid who was being dragged along, but I felt like performing an act of kindness for the woman in some way.

“Looky here, Big T,” I pictured myself grabbing the phone and saying into the receiver, “No means no, you dig?”

But if experience has taught me anything, it’s usually that my version of helping people results in them getting royally pissed off at me. Besides, who wants to be pummeled when you’re a block away from a Christmas parade full of hope and goodwill? That would just make for an awkward story. “Say, what happened to you, Trey?” “Oh, I went to the Christmas parade and got beat up. Pass the salt?”

I hopped across the street with Lara and Megan and folded out the camp chairs.  The Christmas parade was slated to start at the Science museum about 2 miles away, and we had arrived somewhat late so that by the time we would set our chairs up, the Christmas parade would be close and prevent us from wondering aloud if the street we were on was the one that had the 12 homicides in a 10 day stretch that allowed Richmond to become the US’s number one homicide capital, leaving the mediocre runner up slot to be pawed all over by Detroit and Saint Louis.

Nothing much happened for the next 30 minutes, so we began people watching, and it was heartwarming to see all the different people lined up without caring a jot for who they stood next to. The lady with a purple streaked pompadour and tattoos covering every inch of skin? Why, she was standing next to a small child wearing a hat in the shape of a chimpanzee’s head, and they both turned to each other and smiled.

 Things got interesting when we saw a family making their way through the street on hoverboards. Instead of deftly snaking their way through the crowd with smug looks on their faces (“Walking? Hah! How plebian! Out of the way, you!”), they were moving in a herky-jerky fashion with their knees bent, and their eyes wide eyed and glassy with fear.  My concern about the safety of the boards was confirmed when the wife’s hoverboard decided it had had enough of carrying her for the past mile, and bucked her off face forward onto the street. But instead of being sensible and just picking herself and her child up and start walking, she brushed herself off and continued on with the lethal hoverboard.

A large man in a Washington Redskins jacket and a black trash bag full of something, began eyeing the crowd and determined that this was a good place to stand and started to shout: “Cotton candy, sweet as gold, let me see that tootsie roll!” He then started pulling out pre-filled bags of cotton candy from the trash bag and stapling them onto a stick that he had brought.  “Here Big Daddy!” he boomed to Megan, “Here’s some cotton candy! Watch my stuff! I’ll be right back!”

Megan stared down at the cotton candy with a look on her face that said, “What the hell just happened?”

“Don’t even think about eating that until he comes back!” Lara said.

Suddenly the crowd started clapping and cheering, and the Christmas parade began making its way down the street.  After the first two floats, I noticed something odd about it. “No candy being thrown out?” I asked Lara. “Probably for safety. They don’t want kids to run out into the street and get run over.”

Call me old fashioned, but when I was growing up, a Christmas parade always had candy for the kids, but the kids would always go home empty handed.  It was a very cyclical manner of candy giving, I suppose, but we came to view it as yet another Christmas celebration.  Our grandfather would take us to the parade, and the EMTs and hospital staff would always be the first to start, followed by the Kiwanis Club.  They would begin tossing out hard candy that we would scoop up with gloved or mittened hands.  Next would come the police, followed last in line by rows of fire trucks.  The fire trucks would wait until just the right moment before laying on their air horns and all the children would drop their fistfuls of candy and slap their palms to their ringing ears. 

“I don’t understand why you children always drop your candy every year. It’s not THAT loud!” my grandfather would state. “Can we go home? I’m thirsty” I would cry.  “Of course it isn’t Thursday! It’s a Saturday!” he’d reply.

I shook my head in a wistful manner, reminiscing on my Christmas past.  What other kinds of fun were these kids missing out on? And besides, who was going to teach them that axiom “The lord giveth, and the lord taketh away with a mighty blasting of horns?”

Something seemed strange about this Richmond Christmas parade. It wasn’t just the floats driving past that had little to do with Christmas, like the Celtic cloggers decked in purple, or the marching bands that played Jidenna’s “Classic Man” and Silento’s “Watch Me.” It was something else. The floating, inflated Kermit seemed to share my feelings. Instead of drifting down the street, standing pat and waving his hand in season's greetings, he was hunched over with a hand on his stomach as if recovering from a serious bout of Montezuma’s Revenge, and another hand on his face as if he were saying, “Oh god, I can’t believe I was talked into this. No, I’ll be fine, just get me to the end of the parade!”

Was this what I had come to see? A woman get bucked from a hoverboard? A gender-blind man selling a seasonally inappropriate candy? A 15 foot high amphibian in gastric distress? What this parade needed was a Christmas miracle to restore my faith in all the future Christmas parades. But alas, my heart dropped when the end of the parade came and the only Santa I saw was on an HCA float, lying still and entirely comatose on a gurney next to a smiling and alert Mrs. Claus.  A long pause followed, and I turned to Lara and said, “I think this is their way of saying Christmas and the parade are officially dead. Let’s head home.”

As we folded up our chairs and started walking off, music began playing and another float came on by! The parade wasn’t over! Christmas wasn’t dead! Did it matter if the people on the float weren’t sure what was going on? Or if they had no signs to inform the public that they weren’t just grabbed off the street at the last minute as a filler for the parade? Of course not! What I had just received was my Christmas parade miracle at exactly the right moment. Lara and I held hands as we watched the parade continue to ramble on by, before deciding to leave early and beat the traffic.

Thus Saith The Law

"Alright class, now settle down, settle down. I'm so glad all of you can make it heah in this abominable weather. Because in addition to being alive, it means you can keep on giving this fine institution your tuition money. Now, befoah we begin, I would like to thank that individual who placed a moose hat outside my office door. That is quite a fine specimen of that magnificent animal, and it's a shame that my wife won't let me wear it around the hawse.
Now, we left off with intentional torts, and we'll work our way through contracts and strict or absolute liability. Just a reminder for the intentional torts, that baseball player case that I described. Bull Moose Jackson, or it could've been Puny Pete or Slimy Sam Jackson for all I remember, was warming up in the bullpen and had to endure that most heinous unpleasantry. No, I'm not referring to in-laws visiting and then their car won't start when they're supposed to leave, I'm referring to heckling. Jackson had been traded quite a bit in the league and the heckler kept saying things like, 'Jackson, I'm surprised you know how to get home at night since you've been traded so often,' 'If it weren't for gravity, you'd have trouble hitting the ground,' 'I've read War and Peace quicker than your fastballs have gone over the plate.'
Well, Jackson had one more pitch before he got up on the mound. But something went awry! He became so confused, that instead of pitching to the catcher, he turned 180 degrees and watched his errant ball bounce off the face of the heckler! Well, Jackson said what you and I would probably have said under those same circumstances: 'Oh gee whiz! How in the world did that just happen? The earth's rotation must be kickin' today!'
Ah, but this is a case of intentional tort. We already covered the criminal aspect in the previous class, so we won't go over that here, but the heckler in this case is faced with a situation. The good news is that he will never have to worry about brushing his teeth ever again. The bad news is that his very favorite teeth are down the back of his throat. What do you do? You'd make the argument for an intentional tort and force Puny Pete to pay for the damages to your favorite teeth.
Now, this leads into a case that features that wonderful institution Virginia Tech. And this case would probably have Thomas Jefferson decomposing in his grave. Wait, I meant rolling in his grave, I'm sorry. But it features libel, of a most serious nature. A university administrator committed some sort of offense in the eyes of a student newspaper editor. Now, it wasn't really an offense, but the perception was there. So, he used his position as editor of the newspaper to put the administrator's full picture above the fold, and this is extremely serious, now, with the words in bold, 'DIRECTOR OF BUTT LICKING' right below the fold. The Supreme Court of VA declined this libel case on the grounds that it should be common knowledge that there's no official post in VA Tech's administrative capacity for butt-licking.
For a contract, you have to have an offer, acceptance, and consideration. Let's say I want to have a hawse built, and there's a graveyard in my backyard. Here, let me draw it for you. See? Right there. But it's not just any graveyard. There's something odd about it. The mounds are about 10 feet wide, and rather large, and the headstones have rather unusual names on them. Names like 'Jumbo' and 'Mojambo.'
'Well that's interesting,' I tell myself. 'Their parents must've been those free spirited types.'
So anyway, I have the contractor build my house, and all is well and good. But as I'm sitting down to watch Lawrence Welk for the evening, there's a loud knock at my door. I'm not expecting company, so I ignore it or hope that my wife will answer the door. But then there's a loud crash and a pack of peripatetic pachyderms crashes through my living room! Did you all understand that? I said, WILD AND ENRAGED ELEPHANTS ARE INTERRUPTING LAWRENCE WELK IN MY HOUSE! As it turns out, that graveyard in my backyard is an elephant graveyard and my house is directly in their path! Now, I didn't know about it, and the contractor didn't know about it. It was not part of the contract. It was not part of the consideration. Generally, these things are settled by either a gentlemen's agreement or by amending the contract due to the circumstances. Um, this case, or situation rather, was based on a movie called Elephant Walk that featured Elizabeth Taylor. It's a good movie. And then when the elephants start tearing down the chandelier it becomes an even better movie.
And now we move onto strict liability. Strict liability means that even if you do absolutely everything correct, and through no fault of your own, something goes wrong within your area of responsibility, you are still responsible. Let me illustrate this for you. Let's say I have a 200 foot tall magnolia tree. That's a big tree. It's too big, in fact. I'm very concerned that the neighborhood kids might try to climb this tree and reenact Jack and the Beanstalk, but simply wind up hurting themselves. So I hire a tree removal service to come out. They take one look at it and say, 'Well that's just too damn big,' and then hand me a card for a demolitions expert. 'Gee,' I say, 'I'm not too sure about this, but if he's the top dog in his field, who am I to argue?'
So the demolitions expert comes out to my hawse, determines he needs about 300 pounds of TNT to get rid of this mammoth tree, and sets the timer and detonation wires. He does everything right. No mistakes. But as soon as he pushes the plunger, a bluebird happens to fly by the tree. But wait! A few hundred yards down the road, there's a tractor-trailer carrying several atomic bombs! And they're armed, because the airmen who were supposed to de-arm them forgot! The bluebird goes flying across and into the windshield of the tractor-trailer and now I no longer have to worry about my tree or debating a meals tax or a new baseball stadium in Shockoe Bottom because there's now a giant crater where it would go. The demolitions expert did everything correctly, but because of strict liability, he is still responsible. All right, now, for next class we'll go over 'Machine Gun' Kelly, Ma Barker, and 'Squirrel-Toothed' Alice. Ya'll have a nice weekend."

Fun with History

For the last couple of days I've been reading a book by Patrick Dillon detailing the so called Gin Craze that London went through in the early to mid-eighteenth century. It was very interesting in describing how it began from the Dutch development of distilling wine to becoming widespread problem, and then to slowly declining. What was most interesting were the vivid descriptions of the usage of gin and its effects. Most people weren't just getting drunk off of gin; they were drinking it until they would pass out, work only enough to get money to purchase more gin, prostitute themselves until they could purchase gin, and then sell the clothes off their back to acquire even more gin. Parliament passed several different Gin Acts, but the most restrictive one effectively outlawed gin with absolutely no change in gin consumption.
Mr. Dillon doesn't ignore the parallels that England experienced to the USA's 18th Amendment which prohibited alcohol, and then the subsequent drug wars in both countries, but points out the similarities in terms of the actions the governments took and the similar ineffective results.
I never remember history being this exciting. The USA went through a whiskey rebellion in the late 18th century because of a tax imposed on distillers. The only problem is that the government conveniently ignored the fact that they were taxing a bunch of pissed off people, who then physically demonstrated just how pissed off they were. This sounds exciting, doesn't it? And I think most of history is, but the history I remember was extremely different, especially 11th grade US History.

Mr. Merret was our history teacher with a penchant for pleated pants, striped shirts, and garishly colored ties. He would walk in as we would be seated and say, "Awrightnowchirrenletsgitstaaahted." This would always prompt a couple of confused stares and "huh's" to be muttered, so he would take a deep breath and repeat, "Ah saaaaaaid awrightnowletsgitstaaaahtedlearningboutthathistooooory!" Bloody rebellions were summarized down into the simple facts that they had occurred and were put down and that life continued. Occasionally some point would excite Mr. Merret and he would start waving his arms around which would hike up his shirt and display his fleshy white belly. But more often than not, we had to make our own fun in history class. And consequently get into trouble.
"CAMERON! BRADLEY! WHY are y'all taaaaahlkin'? Ithoughtisaidididntwanttohearno taaaaaahlkin'!"
"Oh, we weren't talking Mr. Merret. We were singing."
"...Oh. Ok. Now as I was sayin'....CHAAASTOWN wastheporthathadthemostsugarexportsin-"
"Mr. Merret, where is Chastown? Isn't it in Bolivia?"
"OfCOURSEitsnotinBolivia! This is US HISTORY! It's in So' CarolIIINA!"
"Oh, ok, Charleston."
"Yes! That's exactly what I saaayed! Now if we-CAMERON! BRADLEY! WHY are y'all taaaaahlkin'!"
"We were just discussing the Hawley-Smoot Tariff Act, Mr. Merret."
"Yes! And what an act it was!"
"....Oh. Ok. Nooooww second to port Chastown was Nawlins."
"...That's in...Idaho?"
"NO IT'S NOT IN IDAHO! HOW CAN A PORT BE IN A LAND BOUND STATE!"
"Well, there's no such thing as a dumb question! Where is it?"
"It's in Looseyanna."
"WHERE?!"
"IT'S RIGHT THERE ON THE MAP! RIGHTTHERENEXTTO ALYBAAAAAMMA AND TEXASS!"
"Oh! Louisiana! Ok, I think I understand now. I'm going to make a hundred on the next test, don't you worry Mr. Merret!"
"[indecipherable mumbling] Awright, now if there aren't any more questions, can we PLEASE continue?!"
"Mr. Merret, why didn't economists step in and point out that a tariff act would effectively raise the current prices of goods in addition to lowering consumer surplus? Why didn't they point this out? Why didn't the Federal Reserve Bank step in sooner for the Great Depression? WHY DO FOOLS FALL IN LOVE?!"
Mr. Merret would pause, face flushed, and would begin waving his hands, exposing his belly, "AH CAIN'T DEAL WITH ALLTHISNONSENSEYOUCHIRRENAREEXPOSING ME TOOOOO! Y'ALL DRIVE THE POPE TO DRAAANK!"
And it was usually at this point that the bell would ring and we'd all hightail it out of there before detention could be awarded. So although the history was rather dull, the process of learning it was the most exciting.

A Dog and His Morals

Morals are most burdensome things. Half the time people carry them all over, never getting a rest from them and never needing the use of their morals. It isn't until they reach their twilight years and begin pondering that they never had much use of their morals and that if they shed them thirty years ago, perhaps they wouldn't be so tired now. The other half of people get their exercise by wrestling and grappling with their morals every chance they can get; usually on the weekends and in dimly lit pubs and seedy bars.
But of all the animals that are the most moral and honest, the dog is top in that he has no morals to speak of. At first it sounds strange and downright backwards to make such a bold statement as this, but make time and hear me out. A dog is not burdened by morals like the rest of us. He knows he has no morals, but doesn't attempt to disguise unlike some of us, and makes no attempt to seek some out.
The dog came into this world naked and figures that that's the way he was meant to be and conducts his day's business au naturale. He isn't burdened like we are, in that we cloak our hides in various get ups and fashions of the day, perhaps to conceal how much hair we've grown in certain areas or poor decisions with ink and needle. But a dog is happy to greet people and old friends naked and revel in that fact, whereas if we just stepped out of the bath, we immediately clothe ourselves or wrap up in several towels before we dare think of seeing company.
A dog isn't burdened with tiresome conversation or events. Often when we see children fidgeting at some event or activity, we also see the mother telling them to be quiet, behave, and act like they're having the times of their lives and be sure to thank the host or hostess when the event is over, even if they'd rather climbed trees or run pell-mell underneath the tables. And often one of us has experienced a run in with an old acquaintance who proceeded to talk our ears off when we wish at the moment that they would hurry up and drop off as that would give us a reason to excuse ourselves and carry on. But a dog is just as likely to fall asleep at these events or during these conversations with no ill will meant, and possibly give a light nip to warn not to bore him so again. He doesn't have to carry out a lie but instead lets the observer know exactly what he wishes and what he thinks of such things.
When we meet strangers, we smile and nod, even without knowing who they are, where they're from, or if they've just escaped out of Sing Sing with the intent of coming across us and doing us in. We're conditioned, despite all logic or reasoning, to be nice to people we don't know a thing about. A dog doesn't have that burden of acting nice, but will run the stranger right out of town or up a tree until he thinks it over and decides that he probably won't do any harm, or that as long as the stranger stays there, he won't bite him. If a stranger gives the dog a bit of food or a pat on the head, the dog realizes that he has a friend for life, since any man that is kind to animals is sure to have a good heart.
A dog isn't burdened by what time of night it is. If he believes that the household is in danger, he has no qualms about raising cain and letting all know that a twig snapped outside of the window, or the wind blew quite vigorously, or that you were snoring too much for his tastes. If we were to attempt acts such as these, we'd be saying "sorry!" a thousand times over, whereas if you point out to the dog that no burglars are outside, he will glance at you and soon fall asleep since you are clearly boring him.
A dog isn't burdened by what some may deem gluttonous behavior. While we clink wineglasses and slowly, methodically masticate our food to a pace that would make a turtle impatient, a dog takes quick note of his growling insides and devours as much food as possible while attempting to make off with yours when your head is turned. It isn't so much that the dog wants your food, but he figures that if you're taking that long on it then you must not be terribly hungry to begin with.
And so, a dog is the most moral animal that I know of. If a man were to attempt all of these acts that I just described, he would be declared insane. But when a dog attempts and succeeds at such things, we beam with pride at his lack of morals, pat him on the head and declare with truth and conviction, "That's a damn good dog!"

Ignorance Is Bliss

Way back in the day when I was a junior in high school, I was taking AP English/Lit my fall semester. We were just wrapping up The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn when a fellow student in my class mentioned a one man play that he was part of that revolved around Huck Finn. He asked if he could perform part of the soliloquy for the class. My teacher agreed. So we all hunkered down and anticipated a good performance.
We were NOT disappointed.

"All my life revolved around the stage, and my dream, nay, my destiny was to see my name on Broadway's marquis under the title of Huckleberry Finn. Auditions were coming up in a month, and I rehearsed every day knowing my good work would be rewarded. I would burst out of the tub, saying, "HI! I'm HUCKLEBERRY FINN!" Whenever I would get home from school, I wouldn't just walk through the door, but I would make an entrance, 'HI! I'm HUCKLEBERRY FINN!' But one day I had a huge break. My parents were having a Broadway producer over for supper that night. This was my big chance. I dressed up in filthy coveralls, painted freckles on my face, and I waited until he came in and yelled at the top of my voice and lungs, 'HI! I'm HUCKLEBERRY FINN!' But I knew that success wasn't built on rote memorization of lines, but also improv and dancing! So I began to do a soft shoe number as the producer looked on with a blank face. I began doing a tarantella, and then whirling like a dervish, screaming, 'I'M HUCKLEBERRY FINN! I'M HUCKLEBERRY FINN!' I collapsed, out of breath, drained of emotion poured into that performance, and the producer looked at me and then at my parents and said, 'Gee, I didn't know your son was special.'"

At this point the student paused and looked around at the captive audience in the classroom. No one was laughing. I remember thinking to myself, "Boy, that punchline stinks!" With no response he continued.

"SO! You don't want to laugh. DON'T YOU PEOPLE UNDERSTAND THAT THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DO WHEN YOU ENCOUNTER SOMEONE TELLING A VERY GOOD JOKE! YOU KNOW WHAT, I CAME UP HERE AND POURED MY HEART OUT FOR YOU BASTARDS AND THE LEAST YOU CAN DO IS JUST TO APPLAUD OR PERHAPS EVEN SMILE ON YOUR !$#%!@ FACES! I'M HUCKLEBERRY FINN! AND THAT DOESN'T EVEN GET A LAUGH! WELL, YOU KNOW WHAT?! I'M GOING PLACES! WHEN YOU MORONS ARE AT YOUR MISERABLE, SOUL-SUCKING, 9 TO 5 JOBS AND WONDER WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN, YOU'LL OPEN UP THE DAMN PAPERS AND SEE MY FACE UNDER THE WORDS 'BIG STAR.' NOW LAUGH!"

At this point he went around the room and pointed at people, screaming "LAUGH! LAUGH! LAAAAAAUGH!" I was completely enthralled. This was great!
After about 5 more minutes of this, his face went from a puce color to its normal hue, and he ended with his arms wrapped around his chest and stared at the floor, and mumbled to the teacher, "Well, that's about it."
I stood up and applauded along with rest of the class's stuttering clapping. As we shuffled out of the classroom, one of the girls in the class turned to me and whispered, "Oh my god! I can't believe that just happened!" I turned back to her and said, "I know! What an act! That guy is going straight to Broadway!"

It wasn't until much later that I realized he'd figuratively flipped his lid. But during that performance, I was utterly spellbound, utterly ignorant, and utterly happy.

The Beginning

The setting is three weeks after the merger happened. The comptroller and financial analysts and operations analyst are sitting on crates around a fire in a barrel. A tin can with a string through the end of it is within arm's reach for the comptroller. The comptroller is wearing a suit with food stains and holes poked through it, along with a toboggan on top of his head. He appears not to have shaved for several weeks. All the other analysts look similarly shabby.

Comptroller: Alright, dadgummit, let's get this meeting started. Alright, we're here as a follow up to our meeting last week when we settled on securing investors and raising capital for the purpose of starting a limited liability corporation to try and regain some sort of financial stability and to wreak havoc on those sons of guns who dirty dogged us. So, let's just start off with an update of how everyone is doing with their investors and capital. Aaaand I'll start over on my left.
Financial Analyst 1: [sniffs and wipes nose on her sleeve] Whatever. Doesn't matter. Siegel was right. I should've just taken the severance package.
Comptroller: Uh, ok. I'll take that as a negative reply for raising capital. Any investors?
Financial Analyst 1: Any investors? We're in the middle of downtown! All my friends work down here and they shift their eyes away when they see me! But I still yell that it could happen to them too! Nobody wants to touch me! I have the financial plague!
Comptroller: [throws hands in the air] Ok! Ok! Look, dadgummit, I was blindsided by this too, but you know what? Whenever I see one of my associates who has their mouth drop to the floor at my appearance and then asks me if I got run over by a garbage truck, do you think I just give up and quit? NO! I walk over there and give them a big hug until they give me money to get away from them...partially because of the smell, and partially because they feel sorry for me. But I have seen their fear! Their fear is a powerful thing! They know that what happened to us can happen to them! And yet they do not voice it, but deep down they are rooting for us, with the knowledge that if transgressions against us are committed, we still have the solid know-how and tenacity to overcome terminations and absolutely no equity to build another LLC that will wipe that stupid other corporation who railroaded us right off the financial map!
Siegel: [through tin can] Oh my god. Dan. That was beautiful! You need to come over where I am and teach these hobos a thing or two about that sort of eloquence.
Comptroller: Why? What's the matter?
Siegel: Well, you know how I've got a bunch of hobos working as independent contractors for raising cash? Most of them can handle doing the signs up correctly but when they're asked what sort of business we are, most of them just talk about our goals being to get rid of all the aliens that have infiltrated our government and to develop a new psychic mind control program to enslave the aliens living in the Titticaca Galaxy.
Comptroller: Oh, that's really...odd. How has that worked out for you?
Siegel: So far, so good. They've raised lots of donations so far, but I think the donors aren't getting it. I explained to this one guy yesterday in a Geo that right now we're primarily concerned with getting some sort of equity in a heavy industrial manufacturing plant.
Comptroller: Does this story have an end? Sorry, sorry. What did he say?
Siegel: Well, to cut it short, he thought I was an alien and attempted to reverse probe me to authenticate my terrestrial existence.
[There is a pregnant pause on the line and an awkward silence with confused and disgusted looks shared amongst the analysts and comptroller]
Siegel: I didn't let him. I hoofed it out of there. But I need people who can just explain it like you did on what our business goal is. I feel like we'd be raising more cash that way, and possibly finding a potential seller for equity.
Comptroller: Ok, but how much cash have you raised?
Siegel: Well, we've got about $98.57 but it's mostly in pennies and nickels. And they're all kind of sticky.
Comptroller: Ok, well keep doing what you're doing. It's obviously working, I mean, reverse probing aside. Stay out of that line of work.
Siegel: Yes sir. Do you want me to remain dialed in for the remainder?
Comptroller: Yeah, that'd be best. I want you to remain in the loop. Alright, McJames, I know you were tracking down a couple of leads for investors and you had a meeting with one of them, is that correct? [McJames nods his head] Yeah? Ok, so how did that one go?
Financial Analyst 2: I met with Smelton and Barney, LLP and explained that we wanted to leverage some sort of deal for equity in a target company.
Comptroller: Well, really the goal is to either create a company or take over an existing company with its own customer and manufacturing base. Right now we absolutely need the equity for loans and to get our feet on solid ground.
Financial Analyst 2: Well...if we took over a company, how would that be righting a wrong? I mean, wouldn't we just be screwing some poor schmucks over just like how we got screwed over?
Comptroller:....That's not the point. Finish what happened.
Financial Analyst 2: Anyway, they said that it was a bad idea for right now with everyone being nervous about the upcoming fiscal year. No one wants to sell their stock if it's doing relatively well or if they're expecting growth, and no one wants to acquire equity in a failing company, so we're sort of at an impasse for investors. Oh, plus they said the way we handled the merger kinda got us blacklisted among venture capitalists.
Comptroller: [grinding teeth] Dad....Dad...DADGUMMIT!
Siegel: I see junk bonds in the near future.
Comptroller: They're not junk bonds! They are high yield bonds!
Operations Analyst: Can we hurry this along? My shift at Burger King starts in 30 minutes and I'd like to check up on my portfolio before I start.
Comptroller: Yes, yes. Alright, you're next I believe. Siegel, this is our operations analyst, in case you wondering.
Siegel: I know who he is, sir. [whispers] Nimrod.
Comptroller: I heard that. Don't make me shout into this can and blow your eardrums out. Anyway, what do you have for us?
Operations Analyst: I've looked into the potential market and it's going to be obsolete in about 5 to 7 years. Microchips and sensors will be the way to go. Electronics vice mechanical. I think we were acquired through a lack of foresight on their part, or they possibly expected that switch to happen at a much slower pace. It's picked up quite a bit since we were terminated, mostly due to falling prices on electronics and sensors. But microchips, solenoids, sensors and control software...that's where the future is headed. It makes sense, too, after an initial capital investment, you'll be able to control your machinery through software with a minimum of people and a team of mechanics instead of having hundreds of operators at each piece working a PLC.
Comptroller: Hm. Ok. What we bring to the table, is that transmutable to any other industry?
Operations Analyst: Nah, everyone is making the switch, it's not just our industry. I mean, you can track packages not just at distribution centers, but through GPS transceiver units affixed to the packages. It's just a new world forming out there. And heck, I remember when I was lucky to receive a package in under four weeks.
Comptroller: Dang. Who here knows anything about gadgetry and gee-whiz stuff?
[Silence]
Siegel: Look, Dan, sir, I-WILL YOU GET OFF ME YOU SMELLY, STINKY MAN, I DON'T NEED ANOTHER-[Silence]
Comptroller: I hope he's not getting a reverted probe or whatever it was.
Siegel: Sorry, they get agitated sometimes...Look, we know we're good at creative thinking and coming up with uncommon solutions due to our uncommon minds. Why don't we start manufacturing or producing some sort of helmet or something to drown out alien mind control? I know there's a large market for it in my region, and I think they'd be willing to pay for whatever price we're asking. Plus the hobos could sell them with their contacts and be able to demonstrated its effectiveness at the same time.
Comptroller: [Looks around] That's a thought. I like it. There's only one problem and that is that there are no DADGUM ALIENS.
Operation Analyst: Hold on, we could just market it as a novelty item. I think it could work. We know there's a market there if Siegel's been able to raise that much cash. It could work and I don't think that market's been tapped. We'd have no competitors.
Comptroller: [Sighs] Well...Alright, we'll do it. But I don't want a word of this getting out to anyone, colleagues or otherwise. Dadgummit, we'll be the best manufacturers of the alien helmet probers this side of the galaxy! Ok, meeting adjourned, thanks for taking the time out of your busy schedules to stop by my office and joining in the teleconference. That last one was for you, Siegel.
Siegel: I know that [whispers] dummy.
Comptroller: I HEARD THAT!
Siegel: Well, gotta go!

The Worst Christmas Songs

We're in that time of the year where you can't escape Christmas music. Whenever you drive in the car, it comes on the radio. Whenever you turn off the radio, there's music playing in the store. Whenever you leave the store and go back home, there are holiday jingles playing on the television. Whenever you turn off the television, you have the horrible songs still bouncing around your head. I've experienced quite a bit in my life, but there are certain things that make me want to claw at my face whenever I hear them.
And just to clarify, I claw at my face every single time I hear these songs.
1. "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas"
    Every little girl's dream is to have a wild, dangerous African animal for Christmas which is notorious for being extremely aggressive and flinging its feces everywhere to mark its territory. Oh? It's not? Well apparently it is for this horribly misinformed little girl. I don't understand how people think this song is cute. What the hell kind of a Christmas would they expect if this actually played out? What the hell kind of sicko parents or Santa would allow this to happen? I have a horrible image of a house with gaping holes in it, people flattened like pancakes, and feces absolutely everywhere. Street hardened policemen would poke their heads in to get a glimpse of the carnage, and immediately turn away to start puking and yell "OH THE HUMANITY!" Plus, what's with the creepy girl's voice? I know it's a child singer, but it still freaks me out. I'm pretty sure I know the reason why. After studio executives spent a day and a half of being told "that's a stupid idea for a song" by 8 year-olds, they clearly went with plan "B" and got an adult female to sing the song with a mask of helium hooked up.
2. "Dominick the Italian Christmas Donkey"
   As if to differentiate that the song is NOT about a reindeer, the singer drove the message home with all the subtlety of a Mel Brooks' comedy. "HEEEEEE-YONK! HEEEE-YONK" is peppered throughout the song along with "JIGGITY JIG!" which isn't preceded by the old standard, "Home again, home again!" And then the singer can't remember the first words to each verse, so he just randomly fills empty air by yelling "LA LA LA LA LA LAAAAAA!" which apparently are sounds that only Italian Christmas donkeys make as opposed to those other jackasses. To be fair, Italy's Santa Claus legend does have him riding a donkey.  But if the Italian Santa had to ride a donkey named Dominick that sounded like an animal version of Ned Flanders ("Hidely ho! HEEYONK JIGGITY LA LA JIG!"), he would've traded him in for a Ferrari. Or a Fiat.
3. "Santa Baby" by Madonna.
   Madonna had a string of hits in the 80's and then 90's, but she's successfully transformed herself from an 80's sex icon to a real-life walking mummy these days. This song was recorded in the 80's by her, and she naturally wanted to try something different than her usual sultry approach. So she sung like a person who's just come out of a wisdom tooth extraction and still fully feeling the effects of the anesthetic. It really is different as a Christmas song, but you only listen to it halfway before you find yourself wishing that you could tell her, "Madonna, look, an 'A' for effort, but maybe you could just try singing it normally?"
4. "The Christmas Shoes"
    There's just something about this song that makes me want to crawl into bed and stay there for a week. I can't quite put my finger on it. It could be the street urchin protagonist in the song attempting to buy some sort of nice shoes, (he doesn't say what kind, but I always picture Air Jordan's or whatever Kobe Bryant's hawking these days) for his terminally ill mother, while his father is so overcome with grief that he's oblivious to everything and allowing his Oliver Twist of-a-son to roam around the city. It could be that the protagonist doesn't have enough money to buy the shoes and has to resort to begging instead of picking up aluminum cans and taking them to a recycling center. It could also be that the song sounds suspiciously like Elton John's "Can You Feel the Love Tonight?"
5. "Happy Xmas (War is Over)"
    I understand what peace is fully. It's the absence of war. And I understand what Yoko Ono is. It's the absence of singing ability. Japanese and Chinese music sound atonal to me but that's because their musical scales are different from the western twelve note scale. And yes, the women singing do sound a tad like cats singing. But it works with their music. What doesn't work in this song is Yoko in the background warbling "WAAAAAR EEEEES OOOOOVAAAAH! EEEEEF YOUUUUUU WAAAAAAN IT! WAAAAR EEEES OOOOOVAH! NAAAAAAAAAAOOOOAAAAA!" I see it in my mind right now. John's hunched over at the console of his recording studio and the sound engineer is listening to the playback and says, "I don't understand, John! We've recorded this fifteen times and every single time once it gets to the chorus, I hear a high pitched whine in the background! It's not the equipment...but what is it?!"
6. "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree"
    Don't get me wrong. My issue with the song isn't the lyrics but with Brenda Lee's vocal cords which seem to be suffering the same debilitating disease as the little girl who sings "I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas." I mean, the Hall and Oates cover of this song was fine. Except for the video where John Oates gets all gussied up in a dress for the holidays. And the long, personal gaze that was shared between Darryl and John. That just makes me feel voyeuristic. And then I hear their cover and I start thinking about John in the dress and the stares that they gave each other. Actually, you know what, my beef is with the whole song in general, past to present and future.

I Had a Dog Her Name was Pepper

Usually when I think about where puppies come from, an image of a mother dog licking her little 'uns as they nuss her forms in my mind. But when I think about where my old dog Pepper came from, a black, slimy, oily creature crawling out from a rock or a swamp is the only way I can see how she was spawned.

We first got her back in the late 90's and we fittingly named her Pepper because her coat was flecked with white and black. The first couple of days she adjusted to the new environment but I remember one night vividly because she was lonely and wouldn't stop barking. I let her inside and she slept on my chest with her head tucked under my chin the whole night. "Perhaps this isn't so bad," I thought. And indeed it wasn't.

But later that morning I noticed something was off about her. When my golden retriever came in, happy to greet me, Pepper provided her own salutation by jumping up and biting the golden's tongue. And thus started the beginning of a wonderful friendship that subjugated my golden retriever's legs for Pepper's target practice and Pepper provided...come to think of it, it was just a one way relationship with Pepper getting the most out of it.

"Oh that's so sweet! See how they're playing?" my mother cooed. My sister Hope and I shared a worried glance as Pepper did her damnedest to rip the legs off of our poor golden retriever while growling "RAWR RAWR RAWR RAWR!" and with the golden jumping to try and knock Pepper over to get away. This went on for about a year until Pepper got spayed. Then she just sort of half-heartedly attacked our golden retriever and would occasionally wrestle with her, but you could tell that her heart wasn't into it and that she was just doing it for old time's sake.

But this wasn't the only incident that tipped us off that Pepper was different. After one morning of not seeing Pepper, I asked my dad if he had seen her at all.

"No, I haven't seen her [RAWF!]. I mean I can [RAWF!] hear her pretty clearly but I don't [RAAAAAWF!] see her at all."

"Well, [RAWF RAWF RAWF!] maybe she's just up close to the house [RAWF RAWF!], right up under the windows or something."

"She [RAWF!] could be."

"You know what? [RAWF RAWF RAWF] It [RAWF] sounds [RAWF] like [RAWF] she's [RAWF] under [RAWF] the [RAWF] house! [RAWF RAWF RAWF!]"

My dad and I grabbed some flashlights and pulled off the covers to the crawlspace and saw Pepper coated in dust and dirt and happy to see us. She came running out, leaped into the air, and then ran over and started chasing our golden retriever around the yard. My dad and I didn't see any openings in the crawlspace. Hope suggested that Pepper had attempted to use her magic and teleport, but instead of winding up in a McDonald's greasetrap like she had originally planned, she wound up under the house.

It was around this time that we realized Pepper was slowly trying to communicate with us. Whenever she wanted something, she would slowly extend out her right paw, touch us with it, and continue to do this until we petted her or got her what she wanted.

"What a smart dog!" we'd exclaim, and then look outside to see Pepper running in circles, viciously trying to eat her tail.

Intelligence was completely contradictory with Pepper. If she were outside and begged for food, sometimes we would give her some just so she would stop touching us with her paw. And if she really liked the piece of food, she would rush inside as soon as we would open the door, and then immediately lay down on her back. The first time I attempted to pick her up in this position she clamped down on my hand like a vise. A vise with sharp pointy teeth. After that we just coaxed her out with food, but the end result was the same. She got an extra piece of food and we got to enjoy all of our digits for yet another day.

Her breath started getting worse. A lot worse. "Get away from me dog, you've been eating garlic!" My dad would say. Naturally we gave her rawhides and nylabones to get the plaque off of her teeth, but the chicken liver flavor wasn't agreeable to her, so she would bury these in the yard until they acquired a musty, rancid flavor. "What is she carrying in her mouth?!" "It looks like an evil root!" We could practically see the saliva flowing out of Pepper's mouth as she carried an unraveled jet black rawhide to one of her hidey holes to enjoy in private. It seems we had an answer to her foul breath.

Or so we thought. One day I saw Pepper eating something in the liriope bushes on the outer edge of our yard. "That's weird," I thought, "there's nothing over there; that's just where they use the bathroom." Of course it didn't occur to me that dog refuse is indeed something. My older sister went running out, yelling "PEPPER THAT IS SO GROSS! STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!" and Pepper did indeed stop and ran straight to Katie. Katie picked her up with the intention of putting Pepper inside so that she could get over whatever craving she was having for feces. Pepper was just really excited to see Katie and began licking her all over the face. "EEEEEEWWWWW" Katie cried and deposited Pepper on the floor while she ran to the bathroom to start pouring rubbing alcohol all over her face. Pepper looked around, saw me, and made a straight beeline for me. "AAAAAH! GET AWAY! GET AWAY!"

I took off. No way was that dog going to lick me after what she just ate. I ran from the living room to the dining room. Pepper thought it was a game and met me at the other door. "AHHH! GET AWAY! GET AWAY!" We played ring around the rosy with the piano, the dining table, the coffee table, the kitchen island, and individual chairs. Pepper was having the time of her life chasing me. I was running for my life, convinced that any part of my body that she licked with her tongue would develop some incurable fungus that would begin to rot and require immediate amputation. I finally jumped up on the kitchen table with Pepper staring up at me, convinced that we would remain like this until judgement day.

However my mom heard all the ruckus downstairs and found me biting my nails while hunched over on top of the kitchen table muttering, "humminahumminahumminahummina."

"YOU get off the kitchen table. YOU get outside right now." We both complied. But we explained what happened to our mother who suggested that we take Pepper to the veterinarian. "And make sure to clean Pepper's ears out before we take her, Trey."

I attended to the duty with a pair of Kleenexes. Pepper didn't seem to mind, but it was pretty gross considering the amount of hard, sable bits of ear wax that wound up on the tissues. My sister and mom took Pepper to the vet, and the vet suggested putting meat tenderizer on their dog food to prevent Pepper from eating her used food. Then he got down to brass tacks, muzzled Pepper, and began cleaning her ears out with a q-tip. "Oh gosh, your ears are dirty, girl!" the vet exclaimed. My mother and sister looked on in horror as q-tip after q-tip came out coated with some sort of coal tar. "I don't understand, my son said he cleaned her ears yesterday." "Well, dog ears are kind of s-shaped. The outsides of them look pretty clean."

And with that he turned to throw away all of the dirty q-tips. Pepper began shaking her head and loose ear wax flew everywhere, including on my sister's lip. "Thanks," she said, "by the way, you don't have any rubbing alcohol do you?"

I heard all about it when I got back and retold the story to Hope. Hope got a knowing look on her eyes and silently lead me to the garage where we had Pepper's chair. Pepper originally had a bed, but when my dad moved one of his old orange, green, and yellow striped upholstered chairs into the garage, Pepper claimed that as her little castle and would sleep in it every night. "It all makes sense now," Hope whispered, as if discovering the reason behind a thoughtless crime. I looked at the seat of the chair. A black, tarry substance in a Pepper-shaped ring was on the seat. I got a twig and poked at it. It was very firm but still gummy. "I think we've found an alternative for drilling crude oil," I remember thinking, as we could shear Pepper every summer and squeeze the tar out of her fur and just have that refined into asphalt and diesel fuel.

But alas, this alternative fuel was not to be. Pepper died shortly thereafter and was buried next to the legs of our gold retriever. I would often think about her fondly, remembering all the times I would pet her, and she would gently bite me to show her appreciation. Three years later, I was flipping through Popular Science and read an article about MRI research being conducted with dogs. The dog in the picture was getting a treat from a scientist, but the dog looked exactly like Pepper. Maybe, just maybe, I thought, when we interred her into the earth, she emerged from another swamp in California, looking for something stinky to eat and a pair of legs to bite.

If Youtube Comments Were Truthful.

 

The Merger

The setting is conference room with five people hunched over a telephone in the center. A man in a charcoal gray suit is punching in numbers on the phone and glances nervously at the other people.
Comptroller: [whispering] "Where's Siegel? He knows this is an important teleconference meeting"
Analyst: "I saw him in the parking lot screaming his head off, 'Why God, WHY?!'"
Comptroller: "Ah, great, that's just what we n-"
Phone: "Dan, are you there?"
Comptroller: "Yes, I'm here, we're all here. I have my three financial analysts sitting with me here, and my operations analyst, and we're just waiting on our lead project manager who should be with us shortly."
Phone: "Oh. Having trouble tracking your people, huh Dan?"
Comptroller: "That's...not it at all [whispering] you lousy, no good, rotten-"
Siegel: "Hey! I'm here! Sorry I'm late! I got tied up with something."
Comptroller: [whispering] "Where the hell have you been?!"
Siegel: [whispering back] "I had to confront my fears in the parking lot! This merger is a bad idea! A BAD IDEA!"
Phone: "Ok, I thought I heard your project manager's voice. Can we please start now?"
Comptroller: "Yes, of course. Alright we're here to discuss some of the final details of the merger and prospectus for this. My regards for our CFO he couldn't make it here today."
Financial Analyst 1: [whispers] "Where is he?"
Financial Analyst 2: [whispers, points to his head] "Hospital pysch ward."
Comptroller: "The merger is still planned to take place next Friday the 28th at 10:00 AM EST. We've inventoried our product lines and bought back 20,000 shares of common stock with the expectation of selling them back once we get our new business plan implemented and in operation which should take approximately 8 months."
Siegel: [whimpers]
Comptroller: "In the mean time, my financial analysts have determined our stocks are still retaining their value and are still being traded at approximately 10% above their sticker price despite, I mean, even after the news of the proposed merger broke. Um, Ms. Longfellow do you have anything to add?"
Financial Analyst 1 holds up a picture of people jumping out of a high rise building: "No, I have nothing to add."
Comptroller: "Alright, McJames anything with regards to corporate bonds or commercial paper?"
Financial Analyst 2 holds up a picture of a smiley face with tongue hanging out and x's for the eyes.
Comptroller: "Ok! He's looking at me right now and giving me the thumbs up! Our rating's still good! Fantastic!"
Phone: "Yeah, we got their reports and looked through them and it's definitely good work. I passed them on to my team and we've decided our best plan once the merger is finalized to maximize profits on a smaller budget for your area."
Comptroller: "Ok, care to share with the rest of the class?"
Phone: "Not until the merger's complete, Dan."
Comptroller pounds the table with his fist which causes the phone receiver to jump off the hook. He scrambles to get it back on its cradle.
Phone: "What was that? Did you just drop out?"
Comptroller: "No idea. So we don't have anything to talk about the investment and debt of the company, correct?"
Phone: "Right, let's move on to operations."
Comptroller: "Right, our senior analyst has been working with your senior analyst and he's drafted up a report that's still being hashed out between the two parties, but it brings up several valid points. Peabody the floor is yours."
Operations Analyst: "Yes, thank you, we looked at the possibilities of expanding our old line to accommodate a new customer base that would come with the merger, opening up a new line, or retooling the entire factory for the new products we have scheduled to roll out with the expectation that they'll be the next generation and the old generation will be obsolete, although we still have close to three months' worth of parts which we will be distributing to help ease the transition to the next generation. Expanding our old line would require us to purchase new machinery, employ more people, and the needed rewiring to accommodate another production unit. The only way the finance team and I could determine to implement this is to issue commercial paper for the first year and corporate bonds for the next five years in order to raise the cash for-"
Phone: "Not happening. Next scenario."
Operations Analyst: "Ok, we could open up a new line and have our old one operate at about 50% with the expectation that we would have a slightly reduced demand for our old product, and we would raise the prices on our old product to try and get people to switch over to our newer offering."
Phone: "Ok, that sounds good. I like that. How are you going to pay for the new line?"
Operations Analyst: "Well, we would issue commercial paper for the first year and corporate bonds for the-"
Phone: "EHHH! WRONG! Try again!"
Operations Analyst: "Well the final scenario is that we shut the factory down and begin retooling and replacing worn equipment and get everything set up so that we can start producing in approximately 8 months to coincide with us selling back the common stock that we bought back. We would finance this by issuing-"
Phone: "Ok, I get it. I like the idea of shutting the factory down. For retooling. Let's go with that scenario. What's your predicted growth with that scenario?"
Operations Analyst: "We expect growth to remain flat because of market saturation."
Comptroller spills his coffee all over his shirt while Siegel shakes his head and begins rocking back and forth.
Phone: "Ok. That's not really what I wanted to hear. Dan, is your operations officer on the line?"
Comptroller: "He should be, let me see if I can raise him. Mr. McGillicutty, are you there?"
Operations Officer: "Oh no Ms. Penny. My stapler seems to be out of staples. Can you recharge it for me?"
Secretary: "*giggle* Why of course Mr. McGillicutty, oh darling, why do we play these silly games?"
Operations Officer: "So that we can escape in each others' arms, away from this weary drudgery and cruel, cruel world. Now, take me to the moon and back!"
Secretary: "Oh, you animal! I have to have you! [kissing noises over the phone]"
Comptroller punches out of the line and is grating his teeth.
Phone: "So I can assume your COO is busy right now? All tied up? Has his hands full?"
Comptroller: "Yep. Yep. Yep."
Siegel: "I just have to break in and say something. You thieves think you can just come in here and hand our asses to us!"
Phone: "Well, unlike your company, ours can actually afford to hand you your ass on a silver platter. Anything else to say?"
Siegel looks around and walks out.
Comptroller: "Um, I think we're all done here. Sorry, tensions are little bit high."
Phone: "That's understandable considering the personnel cuts we'll have to make for this merger to be successful."
Comptroller: [whispering] "WHAT?!"
Financial Analyst 1: [whispering] "Hey guys, I'm planning on having a severance pay party tonight at Poor Yorick's. Shots are on me."
Financial Analyst 2: "Count me in."
Operations Analyst: "I'm 78% certain I can make it."
Phone: "Dan, are you still there?"
Comptroller: "Yes, I'm still here. What do you need?"
Phone: "I still really need to talk to your Operations Officer."
Comptroller pushes the button for the COO and only heavy panting is heard.
Phone: "You guys are going to the dogs. I have all the ammo I need. Thanks Dan."
Comptroller: "Thank you too, you [phone hangs up] @!#!@#$%!"
Comptroller looks around for a second and sees the Operation Analyst has drawn a picture of a ship with a bunch of rats leaping off it.
Comptroller: "Well, that went better than I thought."

A Yin for every Yang

Lara and I were sitting down to supper just the other night and she looked slightly worried. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Well, there's this old lady who works at the library...and she hates me for some reason. The first time I noticed it she was chatting up with some other old lady for all of about 5 minutes and then when it was my turn, she looked at me and the smile fell from her face to the floor. She grabbed my books, slammed them on the counter and didn't say a word to me the entire time. And then when I went back a few days later, she saw me again and told me to stop browsing through the books that were about to be reshelved. They were just returned! They weren't in any particular order! I don't know what I did to her or why she marked me like that!"
I reflected on that for a minute before returning to my volcanic heartburn burger and searched the recesses of my memory to see if I'd ever encountered anything like that before.
And that's when my flashback started.
Back in my halcyon days at UNC, a new dining hall, Ramshead, was opened up. Once inside its halls, you were assaulted by various forms of junk food that would guarantee a Freshman 50 instead of Freshman 15. Pizza, hamburgers, fried chicken, pasta bowls, and breakfast all day long were the staples of its fare.
But it also had a decent coffee bar with two tall urns, hot water for tea, and usually hot cider or hot chocolate when it got cooler. I remember walking over to the coffee bar for the first time and seeing him. He looked like an older, uglier, and cock-eyed version of Duke Ellington who glared over the students pulling cups of coffee from the pyramid he'd stacked. I dutifully waited my turn and reached over to grab a mug from the top of the pyramid when he noticed me and spoke: "Uh uh uh. Grab one from the bottom."
I paused. Everyone else was grabbing from the top thus ensuring a stable base was present to support the other mugs. And yet this guy wanted me to grab from the bottom, for what? In the hopes that I might cause his mug pyramid to collapse and proceed to get banned from Ramshead for causing a ruckus? I was on to this guy. Using my jenga skills, I slowly slid a mug from the bottom and poured a cup of joe. My eyes met his. He looked at me. And then his bulbous eyes focused somewhere around my belt.
I got the creeps and looked down too, only to see a tiny speck of coffee that had dribbled out from the spout of the urn. Understanding what his eyes were boring holes at, I began walking away.
"EXCUSEMEEXCUSEMEEXCUSEME! You made a mess! You need to clean this up!" he hollered at me, all while other students were trying to get the spout to stop spraying coffee into their overflowing mugs.
I looked around for a napkin, and not seeing any, I used my hand to try and wipe the drop off the granite counter top, but that only succeeded in flinging tiny brown specks on the floor and the urn.
"AAAAH! Stop that! You need a sponge!" and with that he slinked off to find a wet sponge, and I hightailed it out of there. I'd be more than willing to clean up a spilled drink, an overturned tray, but c'mon, I have to draw the line somewhere or else the first thing you'd see when you walk into Ramshead is me with a bandana on my head waxing the floor with the coffee guy standing over me shouting, "I better see my face in that floor by the time you're through! And next time I won't be so nice!"
I went back to my table and enjoyed the coffee and took it over to the dishes section and felt a horrible feeling. Like icewater in my veins. Like all the happiness and sunshine and fluffy puppies in the world had disappeared. I felt something like an ember on my neck and turned to see the coffee guy over at the coffee bar staring at me with a wet sponge in his hand. He continued staring at me with his eyes, twitched his pencil thin mustache, and then slowly squeezed the water out of the sponge onto the coffee bar.
I wasn't sure whether I should piss my pants or laugh. So I did both.
Walking back to my dorm with my jacket balled up in front of my crotch, I told myself, "Eh, this guy was just looking to push people around. He'll forget all about me the next time I go in and get coffee"
which unfortunately is along the same lines of "I'm sure my ruptured appendix will heal itself," or "perhaps that hooded man with the gun running straight towards me just wants directions."
The next time I went to Ramshead I was sitting down to a quiet supper after a 5 mile swim. I had a pretty decent view of the coffee bar, and was waiting for fresh urns to be brewed and brought out. I didn't have long to wait. I got up and wandered over to pour a mug only to have the coffee nazi walk across the room and yank both urns from the bar and place them under the counter. "Why did you do that?!" I sputtered.
"We need to make more fresh coffee and then we'll start serving thirty minutes prior to securing the ranges and grills."
"But I don't have time to sit around for 45 minutes for just one cup of measly coffee!"
"Measly!?"
"Well, I just want one cup, can you do that for me?"
And with that, he sighed, grabbed my mug, and poured something into it from underneath the bar that was completely out of my sight. He handed the mug back to me, smiled and said, "Enjoy!"
"Thanks," I mumbled and walked back to my seat. I looked at the liquid in my mug. I smelled the liquid in my mug. I took a small drop and rubbed it between my fingers. All of my senses were telling me that this was either used 40W heavy machine oil or coffee that had been boiled for about three days.
"What the heck," I told myself, "I need the caffeine," and poured cream into it. Dark particulate matter began floating up, displaced by the cream, and I took a sip of the substance. It reminded me of hot asphalt tar combined with burnt toast. I gagged it back into my mug and looked around to see if anyone saw that.
The coffee nazi did and he had an utterly disgusted look on his face with mouth wide open.
I gathered my tray while my tastebuds were reeling, and put it in the dishes section when suddenly World War III broke out in my stomach reducing me to take very ginger steps back to my dorm, not failing to notice that new coffee was put out 30 minutes earlier than promised.
After several hours worth of trips to the toilet, I had plenty of time to think and piece the facts together. But nothing definitively made sense. Why had this guy marked me as his mortal enemy? Did I cut him off in traffic? Step on his toe in the Harris Teeter? Was he back in his place right now sticking pins in a voodoo doll's stomach? Maybe he was just stressed out and lashed out at people. Who knows.
After that incident I stuck to eating at Lenoir where the coffee is fresh and piping hot. But with December exams the eating hours at Lenoir were reduced with mostly Ramshead staying open later. I had no choice.
Armed with excessive facial hair, bulky clothing, and a baseball cap, I strode into Ramshead, confident that the coffee nazi wouldn't recognize me. I even passed by him, and he looked up, puzzled and with a far off gaze as if he were trying to remember something, and then shrugged and returned to filling out his timesheet with coffee rings on it.
I snickered to myself and poured a mug of coffee and went to sit in the furthest room of the dining hall and saw that the jukebox wasn't playing. I looked around cautiously and thought, "What the hell?" which is along the same lines of "I'm sure if I ski down this hill I'll miss all those rocks and trees," or "do I really need fully functioning brakes on my car?"
I starting playing Judas Priest, Molly Hatchet, and Foghat, all while sipping my coffee. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw a blur streaming to the jukebox punching all of the motown hits. I peeked over and saw it was the coffee nazi who turned and looked at me. He had fire in his eyes and stormed back to his coffee bar and that's when it hit me. This guy just had it out for me because it was in his nature. He and I were entertwined in destiny's heartless spiderweb. He was my doppelganger, and I was the yin to his yang. And that's when a thought came to me. I marched up to him, put my cup down on the bar and barked, "This coffee is terrible!"
"I'm sorry, sir!" he whispered, to his utmost surprise. I put my dirty dishes away, leaving him puzzling over what just happened, and walked out of Ramshead, confident that I would never drink bad coffee and leave with soiled pants again.

Why Computer Games Stress Me Out and How I Deal with It

I recently started playing computer games again. I often go through spurts where I'll play them frequently, and lay off for a month or two. This weekend I started up again, but mostly as a stress relief on my feeble attempts of replacing my brake master cylinder on my Taurus.
"!@#!@" I'd yell as my wrench slipped off the nut.
"&*^#@" I'd scream as the new master cylinder shot pressurized brake fluid over my transmission case and engine.
"!@#!@" I'd holler as the old master cylinder sprayed fluid all over the inside of the hood and my coveralls.
"You already used that one!" Lara would helpfully add.
I gave up and tightened one of the nuts on the master cylinder and drove to a garage going 15 miles per hour with the added excitement of Death riding shotgun.
Lara brought me back and for this afternoon I've been fitfully turning from my book on Arnold Rothstein to playing a Star Wars game that I'd bought two years previously.
The game is essentially one big capture-the-flag between two large teams with explosions, Storm Troopers, weapons, and Wookies. That in and of itself isn't bad, and a person would think it's a good way to relieve stress, or at the very least relive dorky pre-teen fantasies.
But there's a slight problem with the AI (artificial intelligence) in the game.
I'd often sneak up behind the enemy and get in a good position to wreak havoc on them, only to be undone by my imbecile fellow soldiers.

"HEY! Get out of here! This is my hidey hole!" I'd yell to the blocky soldier who proved to understand what I was saying a little too well and shoved me out into the open where I was easy pickings for the insidious Storm Troopers. I began conconcting back stories to explain this whenever it would happen which usually involved me winning a large sum of money in a poker game the night before from the jackass who shoved me out of my spot. Or, I'd been sleeping with his wife and he'd found out about it and was biding his time until he could seek his revenge. Or he'd soiled his pants and just needed a private place to change.

As you can see, this happened pretty often as the game went on, and I ran out of backstories and just accepted that there was a self-preservation aspect of the AI with the weird quirk that all the other soldiers viewed me as expendable. That's understandable.

But then the dunces just started randomly walking into my line of fire. "Darth Windu? More like Darth Windon't!" I'd cackle as I'd unleash a hail of hurt on dark Jedi and Imperial goons only to be interrupted by the lone moron Republic soldier slowly, ploddingly walk straight into my sights, while the rest of the soldiers with brains went around or behind me. At first I took a sympathetic approach. This soldier clearly had heard about the Rebellion all his life, idolized it, and lied about his age to enlist, and with dewy-eyed innocence, marched straight into battle. Perhaps he was mentally revisiting all the amazing worlds that he had seen after enlisting, while being utterly oblivious to the one where I'd accidentally shot him.

"HEY! Get out of here you dummy!" I'd yell to the computer screen to try and wake the soldier up out of his daze. But either due to shellshock or some sort of deathwish, he'd veer straight into my path of blaster fire. The second time it happened, the dewy-eyed innocent I'd imagined was now just a buck-toothed Star Wars version of Gomer Pyle who went around the battlefield, drawling "SHAZAM!" and after I shot him, "GOLLLEEEEE!" The third time, I imagined that this particular soldier had some strange unexplained magnetism to blaster fire, and imagined him bouncing back and forth between sides like a pinball all the while screaming, "IT'S HAPPENING AGAAAAIN! OHHHH NOOOO! LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS! LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS!" But with the fourth happenstance, I assumed they thought I had superpowers which included a reaction time of .0005 seconds and could clearly see them in time to avert fratricide.

They thought wrong.

This incident quickly devolved into just running out into open space in full view of the enemy and then...running in place. Meanwhile, the Storm Troopers would mercilessly mow the calisthenically oriented soldier down.

"I have to DEAL WITH THIS TOO?!" I'd spout. "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!"

The answer was pretty clear. The Storm Troopers had done their homework and watched a lot of Wile E. Coyote and Roadrunner cartoons and had gotten a big barrel of oil marked ACME, and proceeded to slick down certain patches of terrain. "Hah! Those rebel scum won't know what hit them!" I pictured them saying to themselves while hiding in the inky shadows.

But then I wondered if my soldiers were to blame for this nonsense. I could just see them now, huddled behind a big rock and trying to come up with a plan, "Alright, men, I'm all out of ideas except for one...we run out there...we get within five feet of 'em, and then...WE START RUNNING LIKE HELL IN PLACE!"

When I witnessed the initial event, I tried pushing the stuck/desparate soldier. This only made him start running into circles ("I'm getting dizzy! I'm getting dizzy!") so I attempted to push him again and was promptly rewarded for my efforts by him giving me a full dose of thermal detonator which made me ponder just how many soldier's wives I'd slept with in this stupid Star Wars game or if I was a really good card shark.

This is all compounded by the fact that throughout the game there are various vehicles strewn about which you can commandeer or fly. The controls to work these are rather difficult, and instead of swiftly dealing punishment to Storm Troopers while flying loop-de-loops, I drive like a little old lady with her foot on the brake pedal and the right turn signal on. "Whoops! I think those wing things were extraneous anyway," I'd murmur as I'd plow straight into the ground with my snow speeder. "Where is everybody?!" I'd wonder, as I'd attempt to turn around and slam into the ground, destroying my X-wing. "GET OUT OF THE WAY!" I'd scream as I carromed straight towards a bridge inhabited by Storm Troopers who would heed my warning and beat it, only to be replaced by my stupid soldiers, most likely screaming, "WE CAN'T HEAR YOU!" right up until I'd crash into the bridge blowing myself up with most of my stupid soldiers.

Right now I'm letting my blood pressure drop back down into the triple digits and giving my hoarse voice a rest.

But what can you do? With stupid soldiers like the one in this game, who needs enemies. And with a stress relief like this game, a difficult job is a task I would gladly turn to.

The Shady MacDougal

The Shady MacDougal

There, once upon a midnight quaint, I paced around my septic tank,
over a cur'ous punchline of a joke I'd heard from the night before.
While I plodded, fingers snapping, soon there came a soft tap-tapping
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my own front door.
"Tis some hooligan," I murmured, "knocking at my own front door-
I'll grab the garden hose and run them off like I did before."

Oh yes how I can remember, it was not yet cool, dark November,
And yet the hooligans were already limber; out for Halloween,
dressed up like heroes from days of yore.

I remember encountering a shady macdougal, while I myself was perhaps too frugal,
on a kerchief sale in the department store, of the morrow before.
While I browsed the Chinese silk, the macdougal man of mischievous ilk,
crept behind me and offered to buy the kerchief at a price higher than the store's.
"Shady Macdougal, you should be frugal! There are plenty of kerchiefs to be had, and at your price, for four!"
Quoth the shady macdougal, "Nevermore!"

The macdougal man's gall caused me to think,
which caused my face to turn from tan to pink,
and my brain to screech, rattle, and clink,
as I dug through my verbal swordplay repertoire
"I find it odd a man can be as devil-may-care and full of esprit, especially when these times do deem, that man be as frugal as never before."
"That may be," the shady exclaimed, "but I received my money through ill-gotten gains, I fill my bathtub up with purple rain, and have Prince sing to me through the closed bathroom door!"
"That is preposterous!" I yelled aloud, "Is your head up in the clouds? I refuse to believe your lies that abound all over this department selling floor."
"It's not a lie, it's the stone cold truth! That's how I live my life, forsooth! I wouldn't even talk to you if you were rummaging through the free hand out booth!"
"Oh! Is that so?!"
"NEVERMO'!"
Here we departed much post haste, from that multi-store marketplace. I thought of turning around and saving grace, but I told myself, "Nevermore!"

Late that evening after my meal, I sat down with a book and my mind began to reel from the happenings of that day, as my eyes fell upon the shiny pergo floor.

The phone rang and my heart did jump! I ran up to get it and did bump the receiver end off the hook and onto the faux hardwood floor.
"Hello? Who is this?" I did declare, and as I listened an evil air did permeate throughout the room as I heard a voice say "Nevermore"
"Shady MacDougal!" I heard myself say, "You better stay the hell away! I have mace and a baseball bat to keep you at bay!"
To which shady did say "Nevermore!"
My mouth began to spit and sputter, my heart began to twitch and flutter, my mind raced through the proverbial gutter, in short I began to turn into a nutter, with my mouth forming the words "Nevermore!"

Now I sing Prince to myself, but at least I'm in the best of health, I dance constantly to his records I keep on my shelf, and from whence I shall stop Nevermore!

An Empty Sanctuary

It was damn near midnight when I experienced that sudden thrill that rushed from my stomach up to my spine and into my scalp. I was going over expenditures of the company, namely the costs burdened by transportation of raw materials from my province down to the ports in Bangladesh. A simple glass of port was by my left which I used to refresh my flagging spirits. The crimson hue of the liquid would continually parry my thoughts from the task at hand and thrust to the conversation I’d had previously in the day between a colleague and myself regarding rumors of gems in his province.

His province, located mostly in Rajputana, was located some 80 miles northwest of my post, but seeing as to how he had matters to attend to in the most southeastern portion, he had written me and asked if it would be agreeable to meet. I had readily agreed as I enjoyed his company, and it was tiresome to hear the native tongue from the rising sun until hot dusk. As we sat down to supper that consisted of niceties from Britannia, Reginald, who went by Reggie, made a passing reference to gems in his irrigation dam, and I implored him to continue on with his story.

“We began surveying a new outpost with the hopes that it might contain minerals or metals. Zinc and copper were found, but in such small amounts in the region that it would not be profitable to extract. Cotton or tobacco would be well suited for the place. I was called upon to finish my project in Jodhpur and to commence west for the building of a rather small irrigation dam. We began shortly I arrived, and the workers would do the damndest things imaginable with the soil. They would often take goodly sized rocks, set them aside, and strike them open with their shovels only to find more of the reddish stone inside. And often I would see them putting pebbles in their mouths to clean them, only to take them out and inspect them. I asked one of them why they were splitting the rocks open.

After a few pleas of ignorance in a simpering manner, the worker explained that the gold comes down from the mountains and that they were hoping to find some, of course with the expectation that they would be sharing part of it with the company and myself. I saw their grinning brown faces cracked wide from ear to ear when I‘d look at them, only to turn into a grimace of anger when I’d turn my head. I suspected that they were searching for something, yes, but not gold. But what then? The soil was a good mixture of dirt with clay leading down to a solid bedrock capable of supporting the irrigation dam. But the assayer and myself noted nothing extraordinary with the soil. Any precious metals would have been noted in the initial assay and extruded out.

Well, I was bemused by their behavior. I discussed the matter with my manservant during supper the second night who told me that it was sort of a local legend that centuries ago there existed a beautiful city of sandstone that was completely destroyed by the goddess Kali. Shiva upon seeing her destroying the city, unsuccessfully attempted to stop her total destruction, but in the process injured her. Her drops of blood hardened into rubies wherever they touched the sandstone as she fled into the mountains. Upon hearing that, I was ameliorated. My workers were simply believing just an old legend of some large deposit of rubies buried underneath the dirt. My mood did not last long. The next morning, the third day, the workers began digging up what I recognized as corundum and hessonite. In my line of work, you gain a knowledge of minerals…in case you discover a rich vein or pipe that had been missed by the assayer. The corundum was a dusty reddish color that they quickly tossed aside as soon as they pulled it up. The hessonite was far more valuable to the workers than the corundum, why I can’t possibly fathom.” Here I interjected, “Possibly for jewelry? If they could cut and polish it correctly…” “It would appear to be a ruby. Yes, I see what you mean. I haven’t heard of any man exporting hessonite, however. Perhaps the natives hold some value to these stones. Nevertheless, I took some of the corundum and hessonite to the mineral assayer and the surveyor. The assayer said that the corundum was practically useless, too many impurities, but he said the hessonite was of a good quality, albeit rather small. I was guaranteed a finder’s fee if the company ever decide to attempt mining in my region which I was told would be highly unlikely. They’d discovered a belt of garnets just the other year to the south east and seeing as to how it was still producing, it would be some time before they continued onto my present location. That curiously red granite’s the only thing worth being pulled out of the ground where I am anyhow.

But there it was: the end of the day, and a quite regular interval of hessonite and corundum every fifteen paces which extended the length of the dam. The workers had just finished and were running pell-mell from interval to interval running through the piles of stone and cracking them open with such a fury! A fight broke out over a large piece of a rather reddish hessonite. Something is afoot with that area around the irrigation dam and I sense there might be some truth to that lost sandstone city with its crimson rubies. At the very least, there‘s quite a substantial amount of hessonite and corundum with no geological evidence to support that it‘s a natural deposit.”

And with that the conversation quickly shifted over to the old staple of damning the heat and wondering how one could live in it. I bade Reggie farewell at a quarter past eight o’clock and rode back to my dwelling. All of the major well-kept roads passed through my station and checking in with my office was both a courtesy and a necessity. Often company men needed reimbursement for their initial traveling costs and financing for further transport of their goods. There were several ledgers I kept and if any one had found noteworthy gems or precious metals that had passed through my region, I would have annotated it. I knew a sufficient amount about minerals mostly through inspecting portaged goods and inquiring as to how one goes about finding such things. From this I knew that most corundum taken from the Rajputana region was already crushed and sifted, ready to go to work as an abrasive in some distant factory far from this country. And from this, I also knew that as of yet no one had found a pure enough piece of corundum to be deemed a gem. No, the company decided that it was best for this area to plow, harvest, and grow. Gem and precious metal mining were left to other areas that were far more conducive to placer mining. I suppose the garnet belt discovered was rich enough to be worth the company’s investment, but I had yet to see any of the garnets pass through my district.

When I reached the ledgers I was looking for, I thumbed through the entries taking note of the contents when the “from” location was Rajputana. However, most of the contents were red granite, cotton, tobacco, a few half-tons of crushed corundum and endless bushels of wheat and grain. Nothing could be gleaned to give a possible indication that immeasurable wealth was hidden anywhere near that irrigation dam. It is possible that had gems been found that they were smuggled past me, but the roads through my region were the quickest way to the ports. And besides, any gem in the rough would have been quickly driven down to one of the major cities on the coast and measured and cut and word often spread quickly to the company‘s ears about valuable gems. Several smugglers had been caught using these roads, but their contraband consisted of opium and hashish. Besides, holding on to large gems was foolhardy.

Violence had a tendency to follow them, and I as I took another sip of the ruby port I vaguely recalled hearing of a young prospector who began digging near one of the company’s sapphire claims. The claim had produced an extraordinary 22 carat purple sapphire, and a fortnight later, the young prospector was sifting through deposits right next to the company claim in the hopes of success. His labors were so successful that natives soon heard of it and butchered him like a hog in his pup tent and made off with the stones. The natives were caught and then hung in a just fashion, and the matter was taken to the court with the company declaring that the sapphires belonged to them as the young prospector had stepped over his claim’s boundaries to find the diamonds. The company was awarded the sapphires but the whole incident made bloods boil and soon it was common sight to see prospectors carrying their equipment with double rifles and carbines slung over their shoulders and often one would hear of claims disputes being settled outright by bold violence.

So no, if any gems existed in Reggie’s region, they had yet to be discovered.

I turned the matter over in my mind, thinking about the best way one could go about it, and decided the whole venture foolish and continued onto reviewing the latest transportation expenditures for the week. But every so often, a spasm would run through me at the thoughts of discovering a sandstone city with crimson rubies spilled and scattered about.

When I first came to this country, my post was quite literally in the jungle. It was originally described to me as sort of an outpost job where I would be responsible for compiling all manner of goods and arranging transportation down to the ports. I enquired as to the manner of goods and was told that procurement of precious metals and gems was preferred. However, when I arrived at the post and asked how much precious metals were pulled from the jungle, most thought I was making a jest with them. Rarely a man would come across a few small grains of gold or silver in the streams and certain parts of the rivers, but these findings were infrequent and so small that I suspect these grains were simply used in place of currency with the added reassurance that there would be no hesitation on the merchant’s behalf on accepting this form of currency at the bazaar.

The jungle was an unusual place. No law as far as I know existed in that isolation and it seemed to have a curious effect on most men that came there. No matter the color of their whiskers or the shape of their faces or the manner of their speech, there were always two types of men that existed in the jungle: those that accepted the jungle, and those that refused to accept it. The men who accepted the very fact that the jungle is hostile and forever restless developed a healthy respect for it and seemed to be the most successful. They and the jungle would continually circle each other, anticipating each others’ moves so that neither could deal a blow to the other. The men who refused to accept the jungle would either stumble fool-hardy into an early death, be blind to the fact the natives were composed of flesh and blood who would subsequently kill the white man for his prolonged unusual cruelty and arrogance, or after an extended stay would be whipped all hours of the day by demons no other man could see.

I took another sip of port and watched the blood-red drops slide from the rim of the glass down to the bottom. I sighed, breathing in the hot, dusty air.

I knew the dangers of empty idols. Men coming to my post were often told the same lie of searching for precious metals and were eager to start. I would offer to retain all their placer mining equipment in one of my storerooms while they searched for good deposits, and they would all laugh and shake their heads. But after a week of discovering nothing, some would come back to deposit their equipment and head back to the jungle and commence harvesting huge teak trees and rosewood with decent sized boles. The rest would come back and insist that I tell them were the nearest deposit was and would tower into a rage when I’d inform them that no such deposits exist in my region. They would always storm off into the jungle which gladly accepted them forever.

I changed into my pyjamas and went to bed.

A fortnight went by with no further though of lost sandstone cities with ruby spires, when I received another post from Reggie asking me to dine with him again. I readily agreed.

We met at the same bungalow and began discussing the summer monsoon season that had just started further south of us when the conversation soon turned back towards his dam and fabled lost sandstone city.

“And what of it?” Reggie asked, “The very fact that I’m still here in this country means that we haven’t uncovered priceless hundred-carat rubies in our dig.”

“But the regular intervals of hessonite and corundum? Surely that’s indicative of some sort of civilization or people living there in the past?”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. But shortly after I left you, the workers became worse in completing their work for the day. I had to sack nearly a quarter of them because they refused to obey me after fighting over a bit of plain dusty red glass. They refused to believe that it was glass until I took the butt of my revolver and smashed it to shards. At that moment, most of the workers glanced at the shards and continued their work at a steady pace, very rarely picking through the dirt to pick up a slim beauty of hessonite. But the small remainder put up such a howl that I had to sack them, like I said. And I’d heard later from some of the local policemen that they got into a brawl over the same damned stones with one of them ending up crippled. There could very well be some precious stones hidden under that dirt and sand, but the only money I can see from where I stand is my commission being paid out once the dam is finished and starts irrigating the cotton fields.”

“It’s sadly reassuring that people don’t change,” I demurred, “Would you care for a glass of port?”

　

An Ode to a Grecian Urn

In case you were wondering, the title was inspired by Keats and this is read in the style of Ernie Kovac's character Percy Dovetonsils.

"O Grecian urn! you sit there
  on your august marble plinth
  your skin is red and dusty
  and you've got numerous crackth and denth [you talk about a rhyme scheme!]
 your persons are black and flattened
 as they fight two-dimensional beasts
 paper thin swanths theem to fly away
 followed by paper thin black thable geethe
 a lonesome thought enters my mind
 as I sit in pensive reflection
 could it possibly be your artist had no visual depth perception?"

If things turned out differently

Lara and I are at the American Academy of Forensic Sciences convention. After meeting several of the people here, I can't help but wonder what my life would've been like had things turned out differently and I studied pathology slides and conducted gas chromatography-mass spectrometry for 35 years or so. What kind of crotchety, cantankerous person would I have become?

"Oh, ok. No, I know exactly what you're talking about. Dr. Newell is the leading expert in that field. Really the pioneer for that. You need to go talk to him about it. He can be a little...abrasive."
"Oh, ok...Good morning, Dr. Newell!"
"Yeah, it was a pretty good morning until you started talking to me!"
"Um, Dr. Newell I'd like-"
"You know what I'd like, young man? For you to drop dead and leave me the hell alone!"
"But Dr. Newell! I was hoping-"
"Hope? HOPE?! Fill your left hand up with hopes and dreams and take a crap in your right hand and let me know which one fills up faster!"

And for my recognition of research and hard work? Well, I'll just leave you with this scenario...
"...and this year's gag award goes to Dr. Howard [THAT'S TREY!] Trey Newell for the most crotchety researcher!"
I'd hobble up to the podium, whack the orator with my cane a few times and then grab the microphone and start yelling into it quite loudly: "I don't know what the hell kind of an organization this is handing out awards for me just telling it like it is! By golly if I were half as patient as you think I am I wouldn't even be here at the symposium! Now if you'll excuse me I forgot to take my geritol and fish oil capsules and goldurnit if you people aren't getting my dander up!"

The Art of Diplomacy

You always hear about diplomatic talks, relations, and meetings between countries. And you always see the news reporters at exotic locations saying things like, "I'm here, Bob, at the G Minus 10 Summit where the Rhapsodians and YipYaps are having [pause for drama] diplomatic talks." But when I found out the meaning of diplomacy, it hit me like a 2x4 across the forehead. I'd been practicing diplomacy for years with my sisters!
I'm not sure when it started but I've always referred to my childhood sibling rivalry as the Eastern Carolina Contra-Affair Incident (or ECCAI). And I was young. I do wonder what my childhood would have been like without the ECCAI.

I can imagine my immediate family sitting down to a quiet supper and me turning to my older sister and inquiring, "Dearest Katie, might you please pass the salt?" "Why of course dear brother!" "Thank you kindly," and then turning to my younger sister and asking, "Dearest Hope, I would like another biscuit. Might you pass one?" "Why, certainly." I would then take a big bite of the biscuit, smile, and turn to mother and father and cry, "O mother! O father! I am quite content and happy in this harmonious familial relationship!" Mother would turn to father, after taking a sip of her chardonnay, and say, "What sweet little cherubs!"

But I think if that happened, I'd be the type of guy who plays badminton in his spare time and says things like "Gosh darnit! That kid forgot to double bag the produce again! Why, I've a mind to drive down to the store right now and give him a stern talking to!" In other words, I'd be the type of guy who makes me puke.
In reality, family dinners went something like this:

"Quit staring at my food, Katie" "Quit being ugly, Trey." I'd kick her from underneath the table, usually miss, and kick the shin of my youngest sister who would demonstrate her displeasure at my poor aim by screaming like a banshee and attempt to gnaw off my leg. I was never able to put that feeling in words, but I came pretty close with "AAAAYEEEAAAAAAGAAAAAUUUUGGGGH!" My mother would interject at this point with "YOU CHILDREN STOP THAT RIGHT NOW AND EAT YOUR SUPPER!" while my father would watch the whole thing with detached amusement and wonder if his meals would be quieter if he and my mother had opted for two dogs instead of three little children.

But here is where I truly learned diplomacy. I'd finish my meal, hunched over my plate and guarding my food like a hardened convict in the clink, glowering, thinking horrible thoughts that only a 7 year old's mind could think: "Batface...Butthead...Major Dinglehopper...I hope she scrapes her knee and gets sent to the principal's office tomorrow."
I'd opt to finish my battles later at my convenience while maintaining a somewhat neutral stance at the immediate time. I would have my revenge later. Under the cover of darkness I would conduct night raids, sprinting out at top speed into Katie's room, giving her a pillow across the face at full force. I'd deftly evade capture and egress back to my forward operating base. When the mediator, my mother, would arrive, I'd resume a diplomatic stance again, and maintain that I'd been in bed the entire time and suggest that Katie had a dream that her face was on fire and was attempting to put it out by slamming her head into the pillow. Katie's account differed from mine (doesn't it always?), but who's to blame?
Dealing with my older sister was eventful enough, but I had a younger sister to deal with too. And her teeth and nails were extremely sharp. Rather than risk bodily harm, I took a more diplomatic stance and decided to undertake a PSYOPS campaign against her:

"Trey, have you seen my barbie?" "No, why?" "Well, she's missing." "Strange...Missing...like the way my cookie was missing from my plate last night after I turned my head!"

She usually took umbrage at this campaign with her teeth and nails and it's now a pasttime at family reunions to marvel at the claw-shaped scars on my forearms.
But of course, the ECCAI wasn't in full force the whole time. I'd diplomatically wrangle for ceasefires when I felt my time would be better spent erecting Legos or building forts. Unfortunately, a ceasefire between me and my sisters didn't happen concurrently with the ceasefires between them. I vividly remember sitting in my room reading, only to hear a loud banging noise and the pattering of feet. My door was flung wide open and Katie came hurtling in screeching "HIDEMEHIDEMEHIDEME!" I would nonchalantly point at the closet door and continue reading while she hid, only to be interrupted minutes later by having the door kicked in by Hope with her hair dishevelled, eyes crossed eyed, out of focus, and lips bared back into a toothy snarl. "WHERE IS SHE?!" Hope would bellow. "I have no idea what you're talking about. Right now I'm Sweden." To my embarassment, I would later find out that I meant to say Switzerland. Perhaps that's why she never believed me.
But Hope would always lumber to the door in the distinctive stance she had whenever she was on the warpath, only to have Katie bounding out of the closet door and out of the room to find some other place to hide, and the two would continue until they ran out of steam.
Do I regret learning this very physical form of diplomacy? Absolutely not. It provided a great learning experience for how much pain I could tolerate, and the value of diplomacy, which is just a fancy way of saying to smile at your sister until you're accurate enough to kick her from under the table.