Never let a fact go blameless. Anything that is, has a causer who did it. It's always someone's fault for the BlameFinder. Is the water too cold? Who turned off the heater? Is the water too warm? Who turned it on? Who opened the door? Who closed it? Who turned on the light? Who turned it off?
As soon as there's a hint of anything occurring, the BlameFinder wants to know who might be the one who would do it. The BlameFinder is hunched over and ready to pounce. He is always double-checking. There is no pause button on the BlameFinder. The struggle to nail it down is constant and always in motion.
The BlameFinder does not want to solve any problems. He only wants to report them. Once the source of the trouble has been located and assigned, the Blamer rests easy in the knowledge. Until then, everyone's suspicious.
The BlameFinder sizes you up on contact, deciding the possible events of which you might become the source. You may be the kind who drops a glass and shatters it, or the kind who rearranges napkins. You could be just the one to sample the hors d'ouvre before returning it to the plate. Are you the kind who folds things the wrong way, or the kind who places the toilet paper roll facing the wrong direction? The BlameFinder can tell. He can sense the kind of trouble you'll cause.
Cold eyes are the hallmark of the BlameFinder . Cold eyes and a slight squint on impact. You can almost hear the gavel coming down, followed by the icy stare, the mental note, the black book opening and closing. You! You're the one! Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!
It's enough for the BlameFinder to know. He then moves on. Something else is bound to happen any moment, and when it does, someone needs to disover the culprit and file the claim. You can count on the BlameFinder. It will never be his fault.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The Greeter
(also on video)
Sitting on the steps of the factory outlet store, this old man smokes a cigarette and studies the parking lot in front of him. It just goes on and on. He wonders how in the hell he got here. He knows he is old because his knees hurt a lot. The sun is out, the day is cold and the glare in his eyes makes him feel like going back in, but it's only the job in there. The work. He's a greeter. He stands by the door and says hello to anyone who comes in, "welcome to our store". His name tag would introduce him, but no one notices it. Even if they did, they'd have a hard time pronouncing it. Looks like there's way too many letters in that name. Where he comes from, they don't know. He says hello as they walk by ignoring him. He wonders how in the hell he got there. Of course he remembers the airplane, and the airports, and the trains and the bus from the hills past the desert and back to the lake a billion and seventy one miles from here. It was cold and sunny that day too. His grandson brought him over, and just plopped him here, right in the middle of could-be-anywhere. From there to here, the differences are too great to even talk about. The language is the least of it. The cars don't even smell the same. He won't say that he is homesick. He won't say that he is lonely. He just might as well be anywhere. Anywhere at all.
One of these days, he's going to make a friend. Someone will notice him and he will smile and say an even nicer hello than usual. That person, who will remind him of his cousin, perhaps, that person will return his smile, extend their hand, shake his hand, and offer him a greeting in a language he will understand, and on that day, and at that time, he will be happy for awhile.
Sitting on the steps of the factory outlet store, this old man smokes a cigarette and studies the parking lot in front of him. It just goes on and on. He wonders how in the hell he got here. He knows he is old because his knees hurt a lot. The sun is out, the day is cold and the glare in his eyes makes him feel like going back in, but it's only the job in there. The work. He's a greeter. He stands by the door and says hello to anyone who comes in, "welcome to our store". His name tag would introduce him, but no one notices it. Even if they did, they'd have a hard time pronouncing it. Looks like there's way too many letters in that name. Where he comes from, they don't know. He says hello as they walk by ignoring him. He wonders how in the hell he got there. Of course he remembers the airplane, and the airports, and the trains and the bus from the hills past the desert and back to the lake a billion and seventy one miles from here. It was cold and sunny that day too. His grandson brought him over, and just plopped him here, right in the middle of could-be-anywhere. From there to here, the differences are too great to even talk about. The language is the least of it. The cars don't even smell the same. He won't say that he is homesick. He won't say that he is lonely. He just might as well be anywhere. Anywhere at all.
One of these days, he's going to make a friend. Someone will notice him and he will smile and say an even nicer hello than usual. That person, who will remind him of his cousin, perhaps, that person will return his smile, extend their hand, shake his hand, and offer him a greeting in a language he will understand, and on that day, and at that time, he will be happy for awhile.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
The Babbler
He comes at you at the speed of light, when you're already trapped in a corner or otherwise stuck. He starts in right off, jabbering at you like a blue jay at dawn. You cannot believe how fast this guy talks. Do you know the origin of the Baby Ruth candy bar? It's got nothing to do with the Babe. Did you know? It was named for a president's baby. Her name was Ruth. Did you know it came without wrappers at first? Thta's how they did it, I know, this guy told me, it's true.
And so it begins. a deluge of inane insipid chatter. He covers a lot of ground in a very short time. He tells you about the outrage of street-cleaning no-parking zones and the tickets they give, do you know how much it adds up to? Fifty dollars every other week that would be like a lot over time. He discusses the horror of the mess created by the fall of autumn leaves. If that was my tree, I'd cut it down so fast it would make your head swim. If I only had a chainsaw. You want me to cut that down? I could do it. You know how they sell those things? By weight. What do I want with a heavy one. Give me the lightest model I say. I hate those leaves. What a mess. And why Lincoln's on the left of the penny. And the ink never dries on the dollar. And nostalgia, you can never forget about Elvis.
And movies in general, you remember that guy? The one who was in that movie one time, you know the one. The guy with the face and the hair. He had that thing that he did, remember? 1941 I think, or maybe it was '52.
This bent over little old man with the eyes bugging out of his head and the stream of pure crap pouring out of his mouth, do you know what he said? Do you want to know what he told me? It's true.
Everything he knows he learned from standing in lines and pestering the other people there.
You feel you can't breathe. Is this how you wanted to spend your day off? You're not even waiting in line. It was supposed to be some kind of party. Then you think, wait a minute, I could just walk away, and this guy would not even notice. You do, and he doesn't. You look back and you see he just turned and attacked the next body around. It goes on.
For seventy years it goes on.
And so it begins. a deluge of inane insipid chatter. He covers a lot of ground in a very short time. He tells you about the outrage of street-cleaning no-parking zones and the tickets they give, do you know how much it adds up to? Fifty dollars every other week that would be like a lot over time. He discusses the horror of the mess created by the fall of autumn leaves. If that was my tree, I'd cut it down so fast it would make your head swim. If I only had a chainsaw. You want me to cut that down? I could do it. You know how they sell those things? By weight. What do I want with a heavy one. Give me the lightest model I say. I hate those leaves. What a mess. And why Lincoln's on the left of the penny. And the ink never dries on the dollar. And nostalgia, you can never forget about Elvis.
And movies in general, you remember that guy? The one who was in that movie one time, you know the one. The guy with the face and the hair. He had that thing that he did, remember? 1941 I think, or maybe it was '52.
This bent over little old man with the eyes bugging out of his head and the stream of pure crap pouring out of his mouth, do you know what he said? Do you want to know what he told me? It's true.
Everything he knows he learned from standing in lines and pestering the other people there.
You feel you can't breathe. Is this how you wanted to spend your day off? You're not even waiting in line. It was supposed to be some kind of party. Then you think, wait a minute, I could just walk away, and this guy would not even notice. You do, and he doesn't. You look back and you see he just turned and attacked the next body around. It goes on.
For seventy years it goes on.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Parking Lot Cowboy Bouncer
He sits there on the tailgate of his pickup truck, daring you to park. Got official bank business? You'd better. This here parkin' lot's just fer bankin', he growls. Just fer Western bankin', that is.
He's got his cowboy hat tilted just so. Is that tobacco he's chewing? Holy shit, somebody still does that! Day in, day out, this here parkin's just fer bankin'.
There's other parkin' roun' the corner. Yeah, so why can't the friggin' bank customers park over there?
This here parkin' lot's re-served.
If you ain't bankin', they gonna tow yo' ass.
Damn straight.
Okay, so I went into the bank and snuck out the side door where the bouncer couldn't see me. Came back twenty minutes later.
Fine day for bankin', I told him.
Reckon so, he replied.
He's got his cowboy hat tilted just so. Is that tobacco he's chewing? Holy shit, somebody still does that! Day in, day out, this here parkin's just fer bankin'.
There's other parkin' roun' the corner. Yeah, so why can't the friggin' bank customers park over there?
This here parkin' lot's re-served.
If you ain't bankin', they gonna tow yo' ass.
Damn straight.
Okay, so I went into the bank and snuck out the side door where the bouncer couldn't see me. Came back twenty minutes later.
Fine day for bankin', I told him.
Reckon so, he replied.
Friday, October 27, 2006
The Mailbox Cleaner
He sneaks around the neighborhood, looking for junk. Any kind of junk, but nothing that would pay. He's not interested in recycling. He's not about waste management. He's just into the redistribution of junk. There's an aesthetic sense about him. He sees the world as a random collection of items, each insignificant, but each with a place. The place it belongs always changes. His work is never complete.
He's logged into the world. Here I am. And being logged in, the world is his canvas, and its objects all his to arrange. Big items don't move. He will not hurt his back. An experiment once with a pinball machine was enough to establish that rule. Cars are all junk but he pays them no mind. There, a shoebox, a red one, why is that in the doorway? It doesn't belong in that spot. No one sees so he grabs it and stuffs it inside the big yellow bag he is carrying around just for that.
PLain old trash isn't good. It should just be picked up. It's not junk it's just garbage, it's crap. He will only seek out the real lost and real missing, the real out of sorts sort of a thing. Like a key that's on top of a mailbox. That's something you don't see every day. That key must go somewhere. Else.
He's not shabby, you know, he doesn't look bad, doesn't smell. He's eccentric, okay, rides a unicycle at times. He shaves every tuesday and thursday. His clothes have been washed. His shoes have been shined. He looks very much sixty years old. He has lived in the city forever. He knows every door, every alley. Down that way he thinks he just might find a place for this out of place shoebox, yes, there. Right next to the mattress tucked into the dumpster, and the green carpet sticking right up. Green and red, red and green, small and big, big and small. He steps back, takes a look, like you would in museums. Does it fit? Does it go in this light?
The kids call him names and he likes it. 'Mailbox Cleaner' one said and it stuck. One thing's as good as another when it comes to what you call things. He likes his potatoes deep fried. And salty. And buttered. No chives.
He's logged into the world. Here I am. And being logged in, the world is his canvas, and its objects all his to arrange. Big items don't move. He will not hurt his back. An experiment once with a pinball machine was enough to establish that rule. Cars are all junk but he pays them no mind. There, a shoebox, a red one, why is that in the doorway? It doesn't belong in that spot. No one sees so he grabs it and stuffs it inside the big yellow bag he is carrying around just for that.
PLain old trash isn't good. It should just be picked up. It's not junk it's just garbage, it's crap. He will only seek out the real lost and real missing, the real out of sorts sort of a thing. Like a key that's on top of a mailbox. That's something you don't see every day. That key must go somewhere. Else.
He's not shabby, you know, he doesn't look bad, doesn't smell. He's eccentric, okay, rides a unicycle at times. He shaves every tuesday and thursday. His clothes have been washed. His shoes have been shined. He looks very much sixty years old. He has lived in the city forever. He knows every door, every alley. Down that way he thinks he just might find a place for this out of place shoebox, yes, there. Right next to the mattress tucked into the dumpster, and the green carpet sticking right up. Green and red, red and green, small and big, big and small. He steps back, takes a look, like you would in museums. Does it fit? Does it go in this light?
The kids call him names and he likes it. 'Mailbox Cleaner' one said and it stuck. One thing's as good as another when it comes to what you call things. He likes his potatoes deep fried. And salty. And buttered. No chives.
Friday, October 13, 2006
The Terrible Gardener
Nothing she plants ever grows, but you will always find her out there, in the garden. She dug up the old stuff that used to bloom, ridiculous roses with colors and smells, tulips of every shade, azaleas, impatiens and sage. They had the habit of having been planted by someone else, and so they had to go.
She has made a path through her weeds, a path made of rocks with sharp edges that wobble. No one ever uses this path. Instead, they tiptoe and crush the surrounding ivy.
There are trees in the yard, all sickly and small. They don't really belong in this climate.
She has pots full of plants that had started out nicely - but that was before she bought them. In the nursery they thrived and looked forward to futures of sunlight and water and growth. Once home they began to shrivel and droop. She talks to them lovingly each night.
Here and there are projects abandoned, a vineyard, a shrubbery, a greenhouse. All lie fallow from behind the grey walls and are mercifully hidden from traffic.
The children pass by and peer through the hedges. Doesn't anything ever thrive in that place? Oh yes, things with thorns and with poisonous berries, things the deer hate and gophers don't dig. Dandelions especially call the yard home, and ivy, and tree-choking vines.
She has specialty gloves and specialty tools. She especially loves the wet weather. She can dig and get muddy, and wallow in roots, and generally wreak devastation.
She has made a path through her weeds, a path made of rocks with sharp edges that wobble. No one ever uses this path. Instead, they tiptoe and crush the surrounding ivy.
There are trees in the yard, all sickly and small. They don't really belong in this climate.
She has pots full of plants that had started out nicely - but that was before she bought them. In the nursery they thrived and looked forward to futures of sunlight and water and growth. Once home they began to shrivel and droop. She talks to them lovingly each night.
Here and there are projects abandoned, a vineyard, a shrubbery, a greenhouse. All lie fallow from behind the grey walls and are mercifully hidden from traffic.
The children pass by and peer through the hedges. Doesn't anything ever thrive in that place? Oh yes, things with thorns and with poisonous berries, things the deer hate and gophers don't dig. Dandelions especially call the yard home, and ivy, and tree-choking vines.
She has specialty gloves and specialty tools. She especially loves the wet weather. She can dig and get muddy, and wallow in roots, and generally wreak devastation.
Friday, September 22, 2006
The Fawner
The Fawner hides in a corner at meetings, where she can be heard but not seen. She makes the smallest noises but they grow on you. She murmers approval at every breath. Mmmm. Ooooh. Wow. She cannot help herself, if the speaker is powerful and important. Everything he says is deserving of assent. Oh. Okay. He may not hear her, consciously, but deep down somewhere something hears, and knows, she approves, she thinks he's wonderful. He likes that.
I see, she barely whispers. My goodness, oh wow, oh gosh. She's a babbling brook of consent. She especially loves presentations, with charts that go up amidst bullet points. Interesting. Oh. Oh yes.
She can also jump in without notice, if she needs to prove herself competent. She had failed to answer the previous question, but oh my never again. Now, when someone else answers, she leaps up on board, repeating their words just slightly after they're said, and then she'll tail off, and let the other go on. Did you see how she defers? She is gracious, and now everyone knows she is smart.
She has "emotional" intelligence.
The Fawner is easily impressed. Anyone in a position of authority can be nodded at. The boss is to be complemented on every occasion. She plays no favorites, has no bias. You can be young or old, man or woman, black or white, if you're in charge, she's right behind you, all the way.
I see, she barely whispers. My goodness, oh wow, oh gosh. She's a babbling brook of consent. She especially loves presentations, with charts that go up amidst bullet points. Interesting. Oh. Oh yes.
She can also jump in without notice, if she needs to prove herself competent. She had failed to answer the previous question, but oh my never again. Now, when someone else answers, she leaps up on board, repeating their words just slightly after they're said, and then she'll tail off, and let the other go on. Did you see how she defers? She is gracious, and now everyone knows she is smart.
She has "emotional" intelligence.
The Fawner is easily impressed. Anyone in a position of authority can be nodded at. The boss is to be complemented on every occasion. She plays no favorites, has no bias. You can be young or old, man or woman, black or white, if you're in charge, she's right behind you, all the way.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Micro Man
Pay close attention. Details are the essence of the matter. This philosophy can be applied to anything and everything. Micro Man is the master of minutia. Give him an inch, he'll take it, one millimeter at a time. Give him an hour, he's got you all day long.
If you ask him a question, be prepared for a voluminous response. If you ask for advice, you'll never hear the end of it. Micro Man not only knows the details, he knows the details of the details. He always gets to the bottom of the problem, and then to the bottom of the bottom. Don't be in any hurry. Micro Man is not.
Did I mention that whatever it is it must be perfect in every way? Otherwise, Micro Man will throw it out. He'll keep going and going until he gets it right. There's no other way to stop him. Words have no effect.
At work the Micro Man drives everybody crazy. His projects are always late. His meetings are always eternal. His emails are measured in pages. He considers every angle. He discuses every consideration. He plans every plan and plans the planning of those plans. Infinite regression is no stranger to the Micro Man.
Sometimes he can be stumped. Getting dressed in the morning can be hard. There are advantages and disadvantages to every possible combination of wearable items. Likewise, meals are problematic. Where another might just grab something and go, the Micro Man can not. It is fortunate that he has but one possible route to drive to work. When two approaches yield identical results, he can by stymied completely. He must find the optimal solution or die.
When dealing with the Micro Man, you must become a Micro Manager yourself. Don't say anything that may give him an opening. Don't ask him for anything, especially if there are time constraints. Don't start a conversation he will not be able to complete. Think before you speak to him, and then think twice. Will it be worth it? How will I be able to get away?
Micro Man is a time-eating trap. You might see him glancing over, hoping to ensnare. Look away! Look away fast. You have better things to do.
If you ask him a question, be prepared for a voluminous response. If you ask for advice, you'll never hear the end of it. Micro Man not only knows the details, he knows the details of the details. He always gets to the bottom of the problem, and then to the bottom of the bottom. Don't be in any hurry. Micro Man is not.
Did I mention that whatever it is it must be perfect in every way? Otherwise, Micro Man will throw it out. He'll keep going and going until he gets it right. There's no other way to stop him. Words have no effect.
At work the Micro Man drives everybody crazy. His projects are always late. His meetings are always eternal. His emails are measured in pages. He considers every angle. He discuses every consideration. He plans every plan and plans the planning of those plans. Infinite regression is no stranger to the Micro Man.
Sometimes he can be stumped. Getting dressed in the morning can be hard. There are advantages and disadvantages to every possible combination of wearable items. Likewise, meals are problematic. Where another might just grab something and go, the Micro Man can not. It is fortunate that he has but one possible route to drive to work. When two approaches yield identical results, he can by stymied completely. He must find the optimal solution or die.
When dealing with the Micro Man, you must become a Micro Manager yourself. Don't say anything that may give him an opening. Don't ask him for anything, especially if there are time constraints. Don't start a conversation he will not be able to complete. Think before you speak to him, and then think twice. Will it be worth it? How will I be able to get away?
Micro Man is a time-eating trap. You might see him glancing over, hoping to ensnare. Look away! Look away fast. You have better things to do.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
The Born Loser
The Born Loser has no fear of failure. He embraces it. He lives for it. Behold the Magic of Failure. Were it not for mistakes, he advises, how would you ever get anything right? He has a point, we all agree, but why try to fail, why aim to lose? It's the way, he replies.
The way is gained by daily loss, loss upon loss until at last comes rest. Lao Tzu said this, very long ago. The Born Loser takes it to heart. Every day, to fail at something, he decides. This is my goal. But what can I lose today?
It's all right, he says, you can make the same mistakes over and over and they still count. It's all good, he declares.
You can forget everything your lovers tell you. That way it's always fresh when they repeat the same old stories.
When you've never been somewhere before, how do you expect to get there? It seems impossible! The Born Loser is convinced he will never arrive.
He prefers the questions that cannot have answers. What was there before The Beginning? Where is Everywhere? If God created everything, what created God? Or, tell me again why everything needs creating. He doesn't see the point.
A watched pot never boils, he's told. Never? He's alarmed.
He has plans for a business venture. There are certain to be no customers. He will not be able to afford the rent. The storefront will remain empty. Not a sign outside. Not an item within. "It's the new economy", he explains.
He is always in love. She never knows who he is. Literally. Safer that way, and guaranteed to fail. You gotta like those odds.
It's like riding a bicycle. Down a hill. Without any brakes. Right into a stone wall.
The Born Loser will tell you all his hopes and dreams, if you let him, but don't be discouraged. He hasn't got a chance. He can never win. It would spoil all the fun.
The way is gained by daily loss, loss upon loss until at last comes rest. Lao Tzu said this, very long ago. The Born Loser takes it to heart. Every day, to fail at something, he decides. This is my goal. But what can I lose today?
It's all right, he says, you can make the same mistakes over and over and they still count. It's all good, he declares.
You can forget everything your lovers tell you. That way it's always fresh when they repeat the same old stories.
When you've never been somewhere before, how do you expect to get there? It seems impossible! The Born Loser is convinced he will never arrive.
He prefers the questions that cannot have answers. What was there before The Beginning? Where is Everywhere? If God created everything, what created God? Or, tell me again why everything needs creating. He doesn't see the point.
A watched pot never boils, he's told. Never? He's alarmed.
He has plans for a business venture. There are certain to be no customers. He will not be able to afford the rent. The storefront will remain empty. Not a sign outside. Not an item within. "It's the new economy", he explains.
He is always in love. She never knows who he is. Literally. Safer that way, and guaranteed to fail. You gotta like those odds.
It's like riding a bicycle. Down a hill. Without any brakes. Right into a stone wall.
The Born Loser will tell you all his hopes and dreams, if you let him, but don't be discouraged. He hasn't got a chance. He can never win. It would spoil all the fun.
Monday, August 21, 2006
The Spouse Complainer
The catalog is extensive. He puts it on display like a coffee-table book. Guests will be subjected to it, and you can't beat the price. Included in the index, alphabetically of course, is every flaw, every mistake, every single thing that's wrong with her. With DSM diagnostic references attached.
Her childhood led up to this. Her parents were involved. It was years in the making, way over budget, and intended, all along, to ruin his life. Until the day he met her, everything was roses, and things were still okay, for awhile. And then the real her.
She's the kind of person, he will tell you, when she leaves the room, who thinks it's all about her. She doesn't know anything about boundaries. Saying things to other people that are really none of their business. Telling them his secrets. Saying bad things about him behind his back.
Not only that, she can't even cook a decent pot of rice.
She has no empathy.
She's lacking something essentially human.
You wonder how she did on the Voight-Kampff test, but you don't say anything. You wonder if it's rude to squirm.
She's not fit to be a mother, or a wife, or a friend, or a teacher, or an employee, or a cowherd, well, maybe a cowherd.
Have you heard her try to sing?
Yes dear, he says, as she asks for help in the kitchen. She's useless in there, he informs you as he departs. He is the one who has to do everything. You look at your own spouse and mouth the words, can we leave now?
You wonder if it's rude to scream.
Her childhood led up to this. Her parents were involved. It was years in the making, way over budget, and intended, all along, to ruin his life. Until the day he met her, everything was roses, and things were still okay, for awhile. And then the real her.
She's the kind of person, he will tell you, when she leaves the room, who thinks it's all about her. She doesn't know anything about boundaries. Saying things to other people that are really none of their business. Telling them his secrets. Saying bad things about him behind his back.
Not only that, she can't even cook a decent pot of rice.
She has no empathy.
She's lacking something essentially human.
You wonder how she did on the Voight-Kampff test, but you don't say anything. You wonder if it's rude to squirm.
She's not fit to be a mother, or a wife, or a friend, or a teacher, or an employee, or a cowherd, well, maybe a cowherd.
Have you heard her try to sing?
Yes dear, he says, as she asks for help in the kitchen. She's useless in there, he informs you as he departs. He is the one who has to do everything. You look at your own spouse and mouth the words, can we leave now?
You wonder if it's rude to scream.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Beast Master
Beast Master barks out commands like it's nobody's business - the ring of authority fills the neighboring streets. At his word, windows come crashing down, doors slam, the population disappears. The empty streets are testimony to the loudness of his voice.
Animals cringe at the sound, and mere children cower. His footsteps approach. Even the skunks are hiding in the drains. All listen to him roar.
HENRIETTA!
ARTHUR!
The dogs pay no attention. They roam around the yard as if no one was there. Beast Master is beside himself with rage. The toddler will pay for this, not to mention the newborn. All must quake before his voice. Not for nothing did he graduate with honors from loud talking school.
Mrs Beast is a meek one. The girls still have some spirit. But for how long is anybody's guess.
NO!
COME HERE!
STOP THAT!
And my favorite
DID YOU HEAR WHAT I SAID?
Oh yes. We heard. Everybody heard. Everybody knows. Beast Master is a rager. Beast Master is a bully. Beast Master is highly ineffective.
Welcome to the neighborhood.
Animals cringe at the sound, and mere children cower. His footsteps approach. Even the skunks are hiding in the drains. All listen to him roar.
HENRIETTA!
ARTHUR!
The dogs pay no attention. They roam around the yard as if no one was there. Beast Master is beside himself with rage. The toddler will pay for this, not to mention the newborn. All must quake before his voice. Not for nothing did he graduate with honors from loud talking school.
Mrs Beast is a meek one. The girls still have some spirit. But for how long is anybody's guess.
NO!
COME HERE!
STOP THAT!
And my favorite
DID YOU HEAR WHAT I SAID?
Oh yes. We heard. Everybody heard. Everybody knows. Beast Master is a rager. Beast Master is a bully. Beast Master is highly ineffective.
Welcome to the neighborhood.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Responsible Man
If it wasn't for Responsible Man, nothing would ever get done. Who is there to do it? If it weren't for him, the kids would never sleep, and the wife would never wake up. If he didn't prevent it, the kids would eat all the pastrami. That stuff's expensive! If he didn't put his foot down, the wife might pick up the kids after school, and they had never agreed to that. He will pick up the kids. She might forget or somehow do it badly.
Around the office, Responsible Man makes all the coffee. Others just make a mess, or some thin brown goop that tastes like sand. He also sorts the recycling. What would happen if a bottle remained in the can bin? Not to worry. It's been seen to.
He signals before he turns. He looks both ways before crossing. He brushes his teeth in every conceivable direction. There has never been a flaw in his various performances. He never gets tired of instructing. This is the way to do this. That is the way to do that. You there, in the corner, listen up! He would like to give gold stars to good listeners.
He is generous with his time. If the guy in Austria can't get the printer working, he'll be glad to harangue him about running the script. Did you run the script? I sent it to you. Did you get it? Did you run it? Why didn't you run it? Did it work? Why didn't you run the script?
He's taking care of business. Every day and every night. Responsible Man gets home in time to do everything for everyone there, before he gets back online to do everything for everyone there. He checks his emails often. He checks his voicemails often. He wishes there was something else he could check as well. He wishes he could read people's minds because then he could help them sooner. He could help them before they even know they need his help. But they will. Oh yes. They will.
Around the office, Responsible Man makes all the coffee. Others just make a mess, or some thin brown goop that tastes like sand. He also sorts the recycling. What would happen if a bottle remained in the can bin? Not to worry. It's been seen to.
He signals before he turns. He looks both ways before crossing. He brushes his teeth in every conceivable direction. There has never been a flaw in his various performances. He never gets tired of instructing. This is the way to do this. That is the way to do that. You there, in the corner, listen up! He would like to give gold stars to good listeners.
He is generous with his time. If the guy in Austria can't get the printer working, he'll be glad to harangue him about running the script. Did you run the script? I sent it to you. Did you get it? Did you run it? Why didn't you run it? Did it work? Why didn't you run the script?
He's taking care of business. Every day and every night. Responsible Man gets home in time to do everything for everyone there, before he gets back online to do everything for everyone there. He checks his emails often. He checks his voicemails often. He wishes there was something else he could check as well. He wishes he could read people's minds because then he could help them sooner. He could help them before they even know they need his help. But they will. Oh yes. They will.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
People Who Are Always Against Something
You see them at every peace march. They have far too many bumper stickers on their cars. If they can't think of a new cause, they'll recycle an old one. Recycling is good for the environment, after all, and since there is nothing new under the sun, never mind.
How come they never report the good news from the war zones? Like, how many people did not get blown up that day.
Those people are always against something. It's either something big and important (Stop killing people, for Christ's sake!) or something small and trivial (how come P & H go together even though everybody knows that those two put together always makes the F sound, so what the heck?). And what is up with those H's anyway - they're often silent, and when they're not, they make no sense. Ha! How come we never protest this duplicity of the H?
Those people. They're even opposed to folks naming their babies whatever they want to! What is up with that? If someone wants to name their boy Pioneer, why not leave them alone? (even if those parents cannot even bring themselves to call him Pioneer, but always refer to him as Kiddo). And Pioneer is such a cute little baby! Who cares what his name is? It could be worse. It could be Ralph.
Those people who are always against something are now even taking a stand against people who are always against something!! Stop the Madness. Bring the troops home now. And while we're at it, no more of this P & H Togetherness. It's an abomination.
How come they never report the good news from the war zones? Like, how many people did not get blown up that day.
Those people are always against something. It's either something big and important (Stop killing people, for Christ's sake!) or something small and trivial (how come P & H go together even though everybody knows that those two put together always makes the F sound, so what the heck?). And what is up with those H's anyway - they're often silent, and when they're not, they make no sense. Ha! How come we never protest this duplicity of the H?
Those people. They're even opposed to folks naming their babies whatever they want to! What is up with that? If someone wants to name their boy Pioneer, why not leave them alone? (even if those parents cannot even bring themselves to call him Pioneer, but always refer to him as Kiddo). And Pioneer is such a cute little baby! Who cares what his name is? It could be worse. It could be Ralph.
Those people who are always against something are now even taking a stand against people who are always against something!! Stop the Madness. Bring the troops home now. And while we're at it, no more of this P & H Togetherness. It's an abomination.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
The Hobbits
They liked to be crammed together in the very smallest room. The more of them there are, and the tinier the room is, the happier they are. Even better if there are no windows. They are talking all the time, and try to never leave the room. When one goes out, the others talk even louder to make up for him. They know each and every detail about each other. Nothing can be hidden. Since they also control every little thing about the company, they know everything about everybody else as well.
You don't even know they exist, down there on the ground floor, behind the receptionist. You thought that was the shipping room. Cleverly disguised. The heart of operations beats concealed from prying eyes. Peel back the door, and there they are, like termites in a stump. They look up with beady glistening eyes. Fresh meat! A new guy. They tell you all about your password (it's not secure enough), your cubicle (don't get too cozy, we'll be moving you again soon), your bicycle in the basement (did you find that thing in a dumpster or what?).
Standing there and nodding, you get a glimpse behind the scenes. A moving map along the wall shows all activity, everybody everywhere and everything they do. It shifts and moves, a tapestry of life, in this case, GPS devices. They know exactly where you are.
It's superficial data, but they can mine and sort. They see tendencies, exceptions, unusual patterns in the night. A red spot twinkles on the wall. One notices, jots it down. Another winks and tells you they're on top of it, no worries. The noise is deafening, a clatter of keys and songs and voices, always voices., chattering.
Close the lid and walk away. Better not to think too much. Tomorrow they will still be there, and even when they tear the building down someday, they'll be the last ones out, clinging to the wreckage, scampering like roaches among the ruins and the bricks.
You don't even know they exist, down there on the ground floor, behind the receptionist. You thought that was the shipping room. Cleverly disguised. The heart of operations beats concealed from prying eyes. Peel back the door, and there they are, like termites in a stump. They look up with beady glistening eyes. Fresh meat! A new guy. They tell you all about your password (it's not secure enough), your cubicle (don't get too cozy, we'll be moving you again soon), your bicycle in the basement (did you find that thing in a dumpster or what?).
Standing there and nodding, you get a glimpse behind the scenes. A moving map along the wall shows all activity, everybody everywhere and everything they do. It shifts and moves, a tapestry of life, in this case, GPS devices. They know exactly where you are.
It's superficial data, but they can mine and sort. They see tendencies, exceptions, unusual patterns in the night. A red spot twinkles on the wall. One notices, jots it down. Another winks and tells you they're on top of it, no worries. The noise is deafening, a clatter of keys and songs and voices, always voices., chattering.
Close the lid and walk away. Better not to think too much. Tomorrow they will still be there, and even when they tear the building down someday, they'll be the last ones out, clinging to the wreckage, scampering like roaches among the ruins and the bricks.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
The ShapeShifter
You never know about this one. On any given day she could be anywhere from nowhere to all over the place. In the morning she slips through the cracks in the deck. By evening she's stuck in the chair. If the scale is dusty, she might not make it through the door, but if the scale is clean, you might not see her sneak out.
Take her to dinner, and it might be croutons and water or maybe it's pasta and beer. The ShapeShifter is never the same weight twice. You never can tell about her.
Better not question too closely. She could be touchy or not. She's either obsessed or couldn't care less. She veers from size to size without so much as a warning. At least she could give us a sign! Her friends would like to know what's up.
The ShapeShifter glides from program to program, from What Would Jenny Do, to Watch What You're Doing, to I Can Do This By Myself I Know I Can. It's vegetable medleys for dinner and lunch, and a crust of bread for breakfast.
She's beautiful big and beautiful small, she's beautiful in between. She never thinks so, though. She has pants for every occasion. She even has names for them. If it's summer it's time to get in shape. If it's winter, it's also the time. In the spring she has much to look forward to. In the fall she never looks back.
The ShapeShifter changes from morning to night, she fluctuates day after day. You smile and you nod and you say "why yes, dear", whenever she alludes to "the fact".
Take her to dinner, and it might be croutons and water or maybe it's pasta and beer. The ShapeShifter is never the same weight twice. You never can tell about her.
Better not question too closely. She could be touchy or not. She's either obsessed or couldn't care less. She veers from size to size without so much as a warning. At least she could give us a sign! Her friends would like to know what's up.
The ShapeShifter glides from program to program, from What Would Jenny Do, to Watch What You're Doing, to I Can Do This By Myself I Know I Can. It's vegetable medleys for dinner and lunch, and a crust of bread for breakfast.
She's beautiful big and beautiful small, she's beautiful in between. She never thinks so, though. She has pants for every occasion. She even has names for them. If it's summer it's time to get in shape. If it's winter, it's also the time. In the spring she has much to look forward to. In the fall she never looks back.
The ShapeShifter changes from morning to night, she fluctuates day after day. You smile and you nod and you say "why yes, dear", whenever she alludes to "the fact".
The Old New Guy
The Old New Guy is cautious. He's been The New Guy too many times before. Always getting stuck doing the dirty jobs. Always volunteering because he wants to make friends, fit in, get along. Not anymore. Let them do their own dirty jobs, he tells himself. He defeats the New Guy expectations. They want me to smile, but I won't. They think I'll be nice but I'm not.
The Old New Guy settles into his desk and surveys his surroundings. Which one of these people is going to be trouble, he asks himself. Usually the first friend you make is the one person no one else likes. That's why that person's so friendly to the new guy. The new guy doesn't know the history, he doesn't know better. If you don't watch out, that first one will be coming around every day and wasting your time.
They expect you to make the coffee, he reminds himself, so he announces that he's kicked that little habit. There, that'll do. They expect you to bring in some doughnuts, so he lets it slip out that he's been on a diet these days. No obligations. No welcoming lunches. The Old New Guy's sorry but has other plans that day and the next.
It's not like the end of the world if you don't get along right away. Give it time. Let it sort itself out. The Old New Guy sits back and watches, he finds out who's who and what's what. He overhears snippets of gossip. He monitors the [social] group emails. He hears who's the loudest, who's most annoying. He prefers the people who don't always smile, who don't need to know who he is right away. In meetings he volunteers nothing.
He'll ask a few questions, especially the boss and the one guy who seems the most threatened. Put fears to rest. Seem interested. Involved. Keep the head down, do the work, do it well. And then, when the situation is ripe - he'll give it a week, maybe two - and when no one expects it at all, he decides how he wants to fit in; and he does, like a lion among deer, on the prowl.
The Old New Guy settles into his desk and surveys his surroundings. Which one of these people is going to be trouble, he asks himself. Usually the first friend you make is the one person no one else likes. That's why that person's so friendly to the new guy. The new guy doesn't know the history, he doesn't know better. If you don't watch out, that first one will be coming around every day and wasting your time.
They expect you to make the coffee, he reminds himself, so he announces that he's kicked that little habit. There, that'll do. They expect you to bring in some doughnuts, so he lets it slip out that he's been on a diet these days. No obligations. No welcoming lunches. The Old New Guy's sorry but has other plans that day and the next.
It's not like the end of the world if you don't get along right away. Give it time. Let it sort itself out. The Old New Guy sits back and watches, he finds out who's who and what's what. He overhears snippets of gossip. He monitors the [social] group emails. He hears who's the loudest, who's most annoying. He prefers the people who don't always smile, who don't need to know who he is right away. In meetings he volunteers nothing.
He'll ask a few questions, especially the boss and the one guy who seems the most threatened. Put fears to rest. Seem interested. Involved. Keep the head down, do the work, do it well. And then, when the situation is ripe - he'll give it a week, maybe two - and when no one expects it at all, he decides how he wants to fit in; and he does, like a lion among deer, on the prowl.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
The Best Friend
He looks at you with sad eyes when he sees you talking with someone else. He is the one you love. He is the only one who loves you truly for who you are. No one else even knows the real you, so why are you talking to them? What do they have that he doesn't have?
Do you remember the time when he was there and only he? Don't you remember what he said and what he did? You laughed, and it was just the two of you. Those were the days.
There were no girls back then, remember? Girls wouldn't even look at us. They laughed at our names, our shirts, our shoes. Girls were bad and even now, that woman you married, do you really trust her? She doesn't know what you've been through, or who you've been, and what it took. She's only seen your wallet and your car.
That look he gets it drives you nuts. Leave me alone, you shout, for just one minute, will you? please? For heaven's sake. You remember all the times he tagged along, you couldn't get rid of him, always in the way, underfoot. You felt sorry for him. No parents at home who cared. No other friends. He helped you with your homework, helped you get a job one time.
That was long ago. This guy's gone nowhere. Look at you, you're on your way, you've got some irons in the fire. Things are going to change and soon, but this guy's got to go. Look at him sulk because you had the nerve to answer your bloody phone when it rang!
He steps aside, hangs back. The Best Friend knows but can't accept. You don't like him anymore. Those days are gone for good. Do you have to fucking move to another state? Christ! He shows up like an idiot dog, with his stupid grin, his dumb ideas, his worn out welcome - "yo yo Yo".
Yo fucking yo.
Goodbye.
Do you remember the time when he was there and only he? Don't you remember what he said and what he did? You laughed, and it was just the two of you. Those were the days.
There were no girls back then, remember? Girls wouldn't even look at us. They laughed at our names, our shirts, our shoes. Girls were bad and even now, that woman you married, do you really trust her? She doesn't know what you've been through, or who you've been, and what it took. She's only seen your wallet and your car.
That look he gets it drives you nuts. Leave me alone, you shout, for just one minute, will you? please? For heaven's sake. You remember all the times he tagged along, you couldn't get rid of him, always in the way, underfoot. You felt sorry for him. No parents at home who cared. No other friends. He helped you with your homework, helped you get a job one time.
That was long ago. This guy's gone nowhere. Look at you, you're on your way, you've got some irons in the fire. Things are going to change and soon, but this guy's got to go. Look at him sulk because you had the nerve to answer your bloody phone when it rang!
He steps aside, hangs back. The Best Friend knows but can't accept. You don't like him anymore. Those days are gone for good. Do you have to fucking move to another state? Christ! He shows up like an idiot dog, with his stupid grin, his dumb ideas, his worn out welcome - "yo yo Yo".
Yo fucking yo.
Goodbye.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Adrenaline Girl
Breathless, of course, but never in a hurry. Adrenaline Girl doesn't need to breathe. Her heartbeat generates enough oxygen on its own to power a small village. She wills her beamer over the mountains, and you'd better hang tight. Don't be squeamish or she'll drop you off the edge. No time for small talk. The Girl is on the move.
Give her a minute, she'll do a hundred things. Give her an hour and the sky's the limit. She never looks back. Adrenaline Girl powers past obstructions, obfuscations, concrete barriers, anything at all between where she is now and where she is now. And now. She's already there.
The Girl could hold a job but the job could not hold her. She's done so many different things, why bother with a resume? If you need to know, just ask. Have a need? Consider it done. She has already solved your problem before.
There is no detail too insignificant to be overlooked rapidly and forgotten. Adrenaline Girl does not require memory. She can process on the fly. She whips around the corner, and everything is new. She holds no grudges, burns no bridges, she doesn't even remember your name.
You can catch her in your rear-view mirror, but only for a moment. Then she's gone and you don't know which way she went. Time moves ahead. People come and go. Quickly. Always quickly. Don't stop now. Just go.
Give her a minute, she'll do a hundred things. Give her an hour and the sky's the limit. She never looks back. Adrenaline Girl powers past obstructions, obfuscations, concrete barriers, anything at all between where she is now and where she is now. And now. She's already there.
The Girl could hold a job but the job could not hold her. She's done so many different things, why bother with a resume? If you need to know, just ask. Have a need? Consider it done. She has already solved your problem before.
There is no detail too insignificant to be overlooked rapidly and forgotten. Adrenaline Girl does not require memory. She can process on the fly. She whips around the corner, and everything is new. She holds no grudges, burns no bridges, she doesn't even remember your name.
You can catch her in your rear-view mirror, but only for a moment. Then she's gone and you don't know which way she went. Time moves ahead. People come and go. Quickly. Always quickly. Don't stop now. Just go.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
The Pre-Bereaver
The Pre-Bereaver is sad before it happens. He knows it will all end badly. He's seen this kind of thing before. He understands. One cannot be too careful.
No ounce of prevention can avert it. No pound of cure will relieve. These things happen. They are bound to.
The Pre-Bereaver has a special day each week he sets aside for mourning. It takes time to savor each loss, every failure, the end.
Do not ask what is the matter. It's nothing, really, he will say. He is never completely out of pain.
Large attempts are doomed. Small affairs are best put off. The time is not propitious.
He consults his little gray notebook. Every awful event is duly noted. He sighs. It was meant to be.
At the airport, his flight is delayed, then cancelled. He misses his train. The busses hardly ever run at this time of night. The car is in the shop. No wonder, then, he never arrives.
At the store, they just ran out. The special on the menu is nothing that he likes. He prefers crab. They only have salmon.
The clothes won't fit, and then they'll shrink, but it's just as well, because he would've looked terrible in them. He's never been photogenic.
You will know him when you see him. At the office party, he's the one in the corner, consulting his watch.
His wife will never leave him. He needs her too badly.
His sons never call. Their girlfriends don't know they have a father.
The greatest tragedy - he fell in love when he was very young, and since then, nothing else has ever come close. He adores his wife, and she is the only recipient of his smiles.
No ounce of prevention can avert it. No pound of cure will relieve. These things happen. They are bound to.
The Pre-Bereaver has a special day each week he sets aside for mourning. It takes time to savor each loss, every failure, the end.
Do not ask what is the matter. It's nothing, really, he will say. He is never completely out of pain.
Large attempts are doomed. Small affairs are best put off. The time is not propitious.
He consults his little gray notebook. Every awful event is duly noted. He sighs. It was meant to be.
At the airport, his flight is delayed, then cancelled. He misses his train. The busses hardly ever run at this time of night. The car is in the shop. No wonder, then, he never arrives.
At the store, they just ran out. The special on the menu is nothing that he likes. He prefers crab. They only have salmon.
The clothes won't fit, and then they'll shrink, but it's just as well, because he would've looked terrible in them. He's never been photogenic.
You will know him when you see him. At the office party, he's the one in the corner, consulting his watch.
His wife will never leave him. He needs her too badly.
His sons never call. Their girlfriends don't know they have a father.
The greatest tragedy - he fell in love when he was very young, and since then, nothing else has ever come close. He adores his wife, and she is the only recipient of his smiles.
Friday, June 02, 2006
The Roundabout
The Roundabout sweats a lot, in every situation. He is unusually salty and moist. On winter days he wears both scarf and hat. In summer he wears suits. He is always the last to squeeze into the subway car, with much commotion and apology. Everyone makes way for The Roundabout and hopes he moves along so they're not stuck standing next to him.
You can tell by the look in his eye when he's about to launch. The Roundabout begins every conversation with exasperation. Several blinks of a countdown, and then the request. He wants to ask you a question, only one, and he promises it won't take more than a moment. He bursts into the office and is always in a hurry. You'll be glad when it's over, but it won't be unless you're lucky and something else comes up, because once he starts the Roundabout cannot be stopped.
He only wants to ask one question, but he will never ask that question. Too many other questions intervene. He has to back up and preface it and tell you why he needs to ask that question. This entails a story, which is long and involved and makes no sense whatsoever. At first you might have guessed what the question was going to be, but soon you give up trying. You have no idea.
Soon he switches tracks, then switches tracks again. He sweats some more as he realizes he's forgotten why he's pestering you. The story he's recounting is too complex. He gets lost and cannot find the way. He sits there in your office, sputtering, blustering, pretending that he's getting there. You of course have other work to do but you can't get around this obstacle, this blockage, this living exclamation point.
There will come a time when you deliberately don't invite him to some function, and he'll be sad. You'll wish you'd thought of it sooner, because after this he no longer appears at your door. He knows that you don't like him, and all those questions were merely pretexts for a visit. He had wanted to be your friend. He's sorry to have been such a bore. He has big sad eyes. You wish he'd look away.
You can tell by the look in his eye when he's about to launch. The Roundabout begins every conversation with exasperation. Several blinks of a countdown, and then the request. He wants to ask you a question, only one, and he promises it won't take more than a moment. He bursts into the office and is always in a hurry. You'll be glad when it's over, but it won't be unless you're lucky and something else comes up, because once he starts the Roundabout cannot be stopped.
He only wants to ask one question, but he will never ask that question. Too many other questions intervene. He has to back up and preface it and tell you why he needs to ask that question. This entails a story, which is long and involved and makes no sense whatsoever. At first you might have guessed what the question was going to be, but soon you give up trying. You have no idea.
Soon he switches tracks, then switches tracks again. He sweats some more as he realizes he's forgotten why he's pestering you. The story he's recounting is too complex. He gets lost and cannot find the way. He sits there in your office, sputtering, blustering, pretending that he's getting there. You of course have other work to do but you can't get around this obstacle, this blockage, this living exclamation point.
There will come a time when you deliberately don't invite him to some function, and he'll be sad. You'll wish you'd thought of it sooner, because after this he no longer appears at your door. He knows that you don't like him, and all those questions were merely pretexts for a visit. He had wanted to be your friend. He's sorry to have been such a bore. He has big sad eyes. You wish he'd look away.
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