Enter The Plankton
If I’m lucky!
Spoiler alert: I’m not exactly the world’s greatest conversationalist.
For the curious, the opening line above is an example of my patented Start-By-Telling-Them-How-You-Suck approach to writing. You can buy a pamphlet describing the technique – and much, much more – for only three easy payments of $19.99. -Ed.
As the holidays cascade down upon us like a perfect storm, I’m already anticipating how I’ll surf that wave and/or navigate the complex maze-like quagmire of quicksand in quixotic fashion.
The holidays means lots of group settings of social interactions. Historically I do not fare well in these and opt instead to spend my time studying in minute detail the nearest potted plant. I’m bringing my magnifying glass just in case.
Since I remain ever hopeful, however, I’ve been role-playing various stratagems in my mind that might increase my odds of getting the occasional word in edgewise. Or I could give up in advance and just play the lotto.
A normal conversation consists of the following:
Person A: Me.
Person B: No, me!
Person C: Bloody hell to both of you. Me, me, me!
Person D: Did I ever tell you about me?
Person E: Did you say something?
Person F: … Apple’s tri-tone sound …
Person A: Ahem. You weren’t listening. I say again …
Every once in a while as the conversation morphs dynamically through these shifting realities, I may actually have something interesting to add. I hate it when that happens.
Person A: Yeah, there are a lot of elephants in Thailand
…. 20 minutes and 420 topics later I finally awkwardly interrupt and take my dream shot …
Me: An elephant sat on my head once.
Everyone: What the fuck are you talking about?!
Yeah. About that potted plant.I’ve heard that one thing that helps make you seem interesting is to ask questions about the other person. Especially if you can appear thoughtful and fake sincerity in the process. If successful, your only job is to tlean back, stay silent, let their mouth do all of the work, and celebrate a job well done.
I’m looking forward to trying this out. To that end I have prepared some questions in advance.
My only worry is that the conversation will run through a googolplex of permutations before I get my first chance to speak. That would be bad and could go down like this:
Person A: So, can you tell us what’s new with your son?
Me: Eeeeiiiiii!
… swift kick to the nards …
Me: I was gonna ask that question!!
Person B: Someone dial up the whambulance!
Lastly, sometimes the floor is occasionally dished my way. If and when that happens I should be ready. Usually this is a provactive attempt to surprise me so much as to induce heart attack. Assuming I survive long enough, I usually succumb to the intense pressure. The stress of filling that space is simply too high. I usually stammer out something like, “Goo goo gah gah.” Then everyone shrugs, wonders why the hell they bothered to give me a chance, and resumes talking about the fractal shapes of their bunions.
Also, something about the spirit of the season and it’s better give than receive but I can’t remember any of that crap right now. I’ve been much too busy with the pre-conversation planning.
I just hope I’m not over-thinking it. Perhaps I should limit my dreams to the Ribbon of Participation.
Poopy vacation planning #poop
That’s one brown shirt.
Did I mention poop yet?
This is the story of a stranger doing all of the travel planning for the final day of our vacation. And we owe it all to poop.
Quick history lesson: It all started on the second day of this blog. I wrote a post entitled Gold Nugget Economics where I espoused the commerce philosophy held by most bosses that everything they produce is a solid gold nugget and everything made by anyone else is poop.
I didn’t set out with a poop agenda on my new blog but there it was on Day Two. What can I say? It fit my economic theory perfectly. Before long the word had been used in several posts. It became a trend. Eventually it became my #1 tag. It was officially a thing.
At that point I did what anyone would do. I vowed to do whatever it took to make sure it stayed #1. Forever. And I would literally move mountains to keep that promise to my loyal reader.
Fast forward to our vacation in Seaside, Oregon this week. We rented a beach house with good friends. We were walking down the main drag. The women folk were shopping. We men were wandering, lost and bored and wondering, “Why the hell aren’t there any fucking benches in this town?” It’s almost like they didn’t want people sitting when they could be spending their money on the quintessential beach crap like fudge, salt water taffy, wind toys, plastic implements of sandcastle construction and nautical-themed nicknacks.
It was then I spied the shirt hanging in front of the cheesy t-shirt shop. “I pooped today.” Houston, we have a problem.
The Perfect Swarm
It was raining in the canoe on the bay lake. A hard rain. The kind of rain that encouraged my wife try like hell to bail water with her coffee cup.
Two days earlier…
It was a Friday. The crew and I assembled in the aft quarters to review the weather reports. They said there was a 10% chance of rain on Saturday and a 30% chance on Sunday. We decided to depart on Sunday.
One day earlier…
On one hand it was a good decision to delay because it gave us an extra day to perform dry runs. We ran equipment checks and drills. Our first trip had caught us unprepared. I’d be damned if that was going to happen on my watch.
We took some time on Saturday and got the rigging down to a science. That last portage had almost killed us.
While the canoe was out of the garage, we decided to go home improvement on this old house. For some strange reason we were tired of dry dock consisting of the canoe precariously balanced on the refrigerator and an old bookcase.
How To Have Fun In A Canoe
Lean in the same direction as your companion. This is also known as “swimming.”
A one-hour construction project was about to go 500 percent past deadline.
Continue reading →
What are you working for?
C: Hey, Hyppo. What’s with that “$1” text floating about your head?
H: That? Pay it no mind. That’s just my retirement number.
C: Retirement number?
H: Yeah. It’s like a goal. It represents the amount of money I’ll need to comfortably maintain the lifestyle I want after I retire.
C: And it’s only one dollar?
H: Think that’s too high? I’m trying to keep it real. I’ve got 12 cents in my pocket. Only 88 more cents to go!
C: Good god, man! What’s your plan? You gotta have a plan!
H: It’ll involve a lot of recycling and reuse. And curbs. And a shopping cart. I have my dreams.
—
What are you working for? Sustenance or subsistence? The next weekend? A paycheck on Friday? Enough money to get your wife and/or husband that fancy dress in the store window? Just trying to hold on to the end of the current shift? Or do you have bigger fish to fry?
I have two pensions. I worked at a company 16 years. I started at the bottom and worked my way up. The first 11 years as an employee and then five years as a member of management. That’s 11 years in a union and five years as a company man.
There was a grand tradition at the company. The owner was a legacy and the company grew as it was passed down from generation to generation. Finally it was owned by the Old Man. He liked to pork his secretary. So he married her and then died. It was a bit of a promotion for her. She become the owner of the company. She retired and passed it down to her adopted son who was a bit off kilter and not quite right in the head.
He was also, for a time, on the Forbes 400 list of richest Americans.
Soon after he sold out to the foreign investors. The end of the company’s legacy and tradition. I’m sure the Old Man’s father would be so proud.
Meanwhile the company was subjected to remarkable shrinkage. And that guy on the Forbes list? He croaked while driving his $2 million car.
In another part of the galaxy, a guru was wondering about his financial future. He had no savings and social security was under siege from all sides. What if, he thought, both of those aren’t there when I need them? The legendary promise of a three-legged stool seemed more like a pogo stick. Then he remembered. His pensions!
He called his union. Yep, the pension was good. They’d send him a statement and even had his current address. Nice.
He tried to call his former company. Oops. Problem. He couldn’t find any place to call. Finally he located a phone number on the internet but it turned out to be some poor sap’s personal cell phone. It must suck to have that phone number. So far he’s been unable to find any trace of his company pension.
For those keeping score:
Union: 1
Company: 0
The guru rested easy. All was right with the world. He had half a pogo stick and some stranger out in the world was most likely enjoying his swimming pool.
It Was Almost Like A Song
I’m not going to lie to you. This image has nothing to do with this post except it will one day be featured at a funeral home in place of my face for my Wake Me Up Before You Go Go. I will remain anonymous to the bitter end.
Nothing too heavy today…
And, regarding my beloved chemical suit, I leave that to … what? Are you kidding me? None of you get that. I’m taking it with me. Bury me in it!
—The Last Will and Testament of Tom B. Taker, Chapter 1, Section A, Article 1
As most of you know, I have been busy most of the last few decades planning my wake. A wise man in a Stephen King movie once said, “Get busy living or get busy dying” and I took to that advice to heart like a leading a guru to tequila and telling him not to drink.
Of course this planning primarily took the form of picking out songs that participants (guests? attendees? celebrants? wakers? invitees? z-list celebs?) would, at least once, get to enjoy my eclectic taste in music.
I thought it was a pretty good plan. Besides, nothing pleases me more than the thought of people coming together to remember my life and having to listen to some random songs while they are left to ponder, “What the hell is this crap supposed to convey to us about Tom?” Ha ha ha! Suffer!
Then, this week, in the name of research, I attended the memorial service for a gentleman I knew and I thought to myself, “See? This is what happens when you fail to plan and allow your loved ones to pick the music on your behalf.”
Actually, I didn’t really know the man that well. He was the father of one friend and the husband of another. After attending the service I have to say I regret not knowing him better. He was a great guy, the kind who would give away the shirt off his back, always with a warm smile at the ready, and the sort who could cheer people up even when the chips were down.
I also knew him from the liquor store where he seemed friendly enough as he handed me bottle after bottle for several years before he got sick. See? We just went full circle. From tequila to the liquor store and back again. That’s what this guru calls the circle of life.
This post will document the set list that was used to send this soul on its way back home.
Continue reading →
Getting Down With The Meta-Sickness
It’s the start of a new year. Meh! But it seems as good time as any to review and go over some basic rules that should serve you well in the workplace in the year to come.
Cough, cough.
Ugh. I don’t feel well. So far 2013 has been treating me pretty good. For one day. I could get used to this. Yeah, I’m 0 for 1 on days required to work.
But, get this – by this time tomorrow, 2013 has some decidedly vicious nastiness planned. All good things must come to an end.
What to do? What to do?
I’ve got it. An idea is beginning to germinate. I could – somehow – not go to work. But how? Ask the boss to extend my time off* for an extra day?
Don’t be too hasty. This has to be done in just the right way. And, luckily for you, the expert is here to help. You can thank me later.
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Streets of a Certain Width
Note: I was going to entitle this On The Street Where You Shiv but apparently I already used that for a different post.
I’m not sure why, but the city gave the developer permission to make the streets narrow in the subdivision where I live. How narrow? If you are an expert driver and can balance your wheels on the curbs, you’re just able to navigate a normal sized car while hovering six inches above the ground.
Perhaps I exaggerate just a skosh. I claim the right due to umbrage.
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Shouts from the Abyss 
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