Complete and Utter

2010-01-17T08:28:00.000-07:00

yesterday i saw a tv ad for an acid reflux medication called Aciphex. close your eyes and say that without looking at the word. what does it sound like to you? it suddenly turns from acid reflux medication to some sort of enhancement for your posterior.

2010-01-08T22:43:00.002-07:00

nipples on men. seriously....why?

dubious names for pubs

2009-11-17T20:10:00.002-07:00

the stinky beaver

the spotted cock

old wrinkled dick's

the sagging loin

2009-10-30T23:27:00.001-06:00

the famous Salt Lick bbq restaurant in Texas. on the menu, vegetable plate:

baked beans

cole slaw

potato salad

2009-10-08T20:36:00.002-06:00

there are few things more comical to me than people who think they are a little more neato than everyone else. like the people at work, for example, who park their vehicles diagonally across two straight-on parking spots in such a manner that no one can park right next to them and put a ding in the door of their mediocre transportation device.

but what's funny is, now all the neatos have begun parking right next to each other diagonally just as close together as they would in the straight-on slots. and the thing is, the parking places at work are really very generously sized to begin with.

if they were half as neat as they envision themselves, they would be driving things like bentleys, audi RS6s, BMW M6s, porsche caymans, etc. then, it wouldn't be so laughable.

dear blog

2009-09-30T22:15:00.003-06:00

dear blog,

i have missed you. in the coming days i promise to dust you off, fix you up with current links, and once again make you an outlet for the jibberish in my mind.

sincerely,

author

2009-02-23T21:40:00.002-07:00

i will start by mentioning that i believe in evolution. but how freaking long is it going to take before we as a species rid ourselves of things like nipples on men and facial hair? COME ON!

scheming kids

2008-12-20T19:55:00.002-07:00

i got worked by the kids tonight. they learned that if they reach into the cookie bin at Whole Foods and touch the cookies, dad will do the right thing and go ahead and buy those cookies because if dad saw some other grubby little kids fingering the cookies it would give him the willies.

did you hear something?

2008-11-07T19:56:00.003-07:00

so the other day i was sitting at my desk working on a report while listening to my iPod.

i had a tickle in my throat, so i coughed.

the force of the cough caused me to fart.

now, because i had my iPod blasting away in my ears, i could only sit and wonder if the cough drowned out the fart, or if the fart was loud enough to cut through the cough.

it's one of those things that for as long as i shall live, i will never know.

part of god's plan

2008-04-08T21:39:00.005-06:00

"God dammit kids! Git in there and brush yore teeth! We're gonna be late for church! You little fuckers had better git yer shit together RIGHT NOW! COME ON GOD DAMMIT!! I mean it! If you aint ready to go in 5 minutes, I am gonna beat the livin' hell out of you little shits! FUCK! Let's go you little assholes! We gotta get to church or everybody's gonna turn around and look at us like we're a bunch o' fuckin' reetards when we walk in! I swear to GOD I am gonna kick yore little asses. Now git in the car -- or Jesus won't love you no more!! Now where did you put my Marlboros?"

spicy meat pole

2007-12-18T22:30:00.000-07:00

let's say you are a guy and you decide to cut up some jalapenos.

and then let's say, hypothetically, you decide to go take a piss.

all i'm going to say is be sure you wash your hands before you touch your pecker.

should you happen to cover your pecker in capsaicin, the chemical that makes peppers hot, you might want to coat your meat pole in sour cream to cool your flaming dick flesh.

and then hope no one walks in on you.

again, this is all hypothetical. i swear it never happened to me.

more bad things to eat

2007-06-11T21:34:00.000-06:00

More than raw pecans (see previous rant), I cannot stand goat cheese. And yes, I know that no one cares that I hate goat cheese.

In the past few years, goat cheese has become the hip gourmet ingredient for everything.
It's on pizza, in salad, risotto dishes, served on platters, on and on. In the food world, it ain't cool if it ain't got goat cheese.

Well, I'm going to be a leader and say it: goat cheese sucks. Come on, you know it does, so stop trying to be hip and pretending to enjoy this crap.

It tastes like grandpa's hair smells. Think about it - it comes from the ninnies of a goat. Goats eat anything, including garbage.

I know that when my wife was pregnant, what she ate affected the milk that my children ingested. If she ate onions, that meant a screaming baby. Don't tell me that garbage goes into a goat but doesn't come out through the ninnies and into the milk/cheese.

Take all of the world's goat cheese and feed it back to the goats. They'll eat anything no matter how bad it sucks.

man among men

2007-05-22T21:29:00.000-06:00

When is it ok to refer to someone as "man". As in "hey man, how's it going?" Is it after you have known someone a few days? Ten years? Ten minutes?

"Man" signifies a common bond of coolness. I think you are cool so I shall call you "man" to let you know that I think so without actually telling you, because to tell you "I think you are cool" is definitely not cool. And it is my hope that you will in turn address me as "man" upon our next encounter.

But when does one utilize this effective tool of brotherhood?
Let's look at an example of using this moniker when addressing someone whom you have never met.

I may not know the 22-year-old kid behind the counter at the coffee shop, but using a well-placed "man" signifies that although I am in my extremely early 40s, I can still hang onto and recognize cool. A simple "thanks, man" upon receiving my grande non-fat cappuccino communicates: "You may think that I am taken aback by your multiple piercings, tattoos, and non-corporate haircut, but I am not! I appreciate your individuality, for I too was once young and in fact still am in my mind." And the next time, he will recognize me and call me "hey man" and perhaps do me a solid with a free biscotto. He may even go so far as to hope that he too will remain cool after the next two decades have passed.

What about at work? As a new guy in my office, I am keenly in tune with the glimmering hope brought about when I am referred to as "man" or greeted with "hey man". It is then that I know I have been accepted on some level into a group which acknowledges that there are those of us who are called "man" and those who are not. This is not to be confused with "working for the man". That man is not cool.....at least not until it comes time for bonuses.

Sometimes it is even ok to call a woman "man". In this case it implies a sense of "down-ness". That is to say, "I am down with that, and I know you are down with that as well." This is especially true if she is involved or interested in the same sports you are.

There are even different ways to express "man". There is "bro" and its variant, "bra". And "dude" is used only as a tongue-in-cheek reference to the 1980s. However, any of these may be used at any time between like-minded participants in some event such as mountain biking, snowboarding, skating, or beer drinking regardless of length of the acquaintance. "Dude! That was SICK!" may be heard as an expression of amazement and reverence when you successfully huck your mountian bike off a five foot drop without breaking a collar bone or pelvis.

Man, I either think too much or have too much time on my hands, dude.

Pecans

2007-03-06T20:53:00.000-07:00

Christ I hate pecans. I have tried to like them. I like nuts. I like almost all nuts, but I have decided I hate pecans. In fact, I think everyone really hates pecans. Unless they are covered in brown sugar or something gooey. You southern bastards love pecans and you are the only ones. But then, you eat pig snouts and weird shit like that.

Pecans suck and they resemble shriveled labia when shelled.

Fuck you, pecans.

the only thing worse than my job is trying to find a new one

2007-02-07T12:50:00.000-07:00

It’s a new year, and I haven’t written for a while. The holidays, the renewed focus on work, the shoveling, the shoveling, the shoveling, and the shoveling have all combined to temporarily cripple the flow of creative thoughts. Well, that’s my excuse anyway.

Brand-spankin’ shiny new 2007. Almost like being reborn, really. A new chance to make good things happen.

Oh but wait….slapping that notion right in the face would be my beloved employer announcing that they are laying off 5,000 employees nationwide.

Yes, the last few bits of confetti were still floating above times square when the news came. “Our company sucks, lacks direction, has no groundbreaking cool products, and we’re not raking in enough millions to make the rich guys on the board even richer, so we are getting rid of some of you who have worked so hard to keep the show running. Happy New Year - let's stay committed and focused.”

I’m not real keen on leaving my fate in the hands of others, so I have been sending resumes and applications all over the place like so many sperm to the ovum. In the process, I have landed a few interviews which serve mostly to buoy my confidence briefly only to be dashed by the notion that perhaps my career success has only been a product of making things up on the fly. And now I have run out of things to make up. But the interviews are good for me, I tell myself, and with each one, I get a little better at it. I start to remember the universal questions and things employers want to know such as why I want to leave my job, how intensely I am looking for a new job, and what I am looking for in a perspective employer.

And then there are the things they ask which are a waste of everyone’s time and serve only to fill a room with more hot air:

- Tell me about a time when you had to be creative and what you did and what the outcome was. (Right. Like there is room for creativity in IT.)

- How do you handle stressful situations…when you have a lot of things on your plate and they all need to be done right away? (You can’t fool me on that one! I think maybe this where I am supposed to tell you about the importance of prioritization even though, like everyone else, I freak out and spout obscenities.)

- How do you deal with someone who is being difficult? (Kick their ass. Is that right? That’s what you do…right? Or tell on them. That's good too.)

- What is one of your weaknesses? (Yeah, like I’m going to admit, “I’m inherently lazy and I hate work.”)

- What are you most proud of? (Not being a complete buttsucker like you.)

But here is my all-time favorite interview question. After some 16 years in corporate America, this one takes the cake:

- You have two pens. Both are identical in every way except that one has a ball point cartridge and the other has gel ink. Which one would you sell me on and why?

You gotta freakin be kidding me. I mean really. Obviously, both pens suck because the only real writing instruments worth discussing are rollerball and fountain pens. Who doesn't know that?

it never snows in denver

2006-12-21T22:02:00.000-07:00

I remember as recently as last week telling a friend back in Indiana about how the winters here were not really as bad as everyone thinks. Blizzards only happened every 10 or 15 years. Why, just last year I was wearing shorts on Christmas Day. In Indiana, they have ice storms that turn everything into a popsicle and the humid cold there freezes you to the bone. I'll take a Colorado winter over a Midwest winter any day.

And then December 20, 2006 in Denver happened. I learned from the last blizzard that keeping up on the driveway shoveling is almost as important as making sure there is always hot coffee available. The last time around, it took 3 days of back-breaking heaving and ho-ing before I set foot in the street. This time, I no sooner finish shoveling a path just wide enough for the car, and several inches accumulate once again. Better to shovel every hour than to endure the pain of Blizzard 2003.

Despite the labor, there really is a remarkable beauty to a blizzard, especially at Christmas. Sitting in my home sipping a cuppa joe, gazing outside at the blustery fluff, I feel sorry for those in warmer climates. The stinging cold makes me feel alive and there is a sense of excitement, for snow like this is something we talk about. Neighbors, relatives, co-workers, and friends all call to share the experience - not a disaster, but a big event over which we have no control and it breaks up the daily duldrums.

More than anything, if it didn't feel like Christmas before, it certainly does now. The sounds of tires spinning, snowblowers blowing, shovels scraping, and kids cheering with glee all make a wonderful carol that warms the soul.

Sit back, have something hot to drink. Snuggle with the family and enjoy this blilzzard while it lasts. This is Colorado after all, and soon it will be 60 degrees again.

the blowups

2006-11-30T14:18:00.000-07:00

On my block, we were late to the game…we waited until Thanksgiving weekend to do the holiday decorating routine. Pretty much everyone else’s house resembled Candyland meets Las Vegas just 24 hours after the last trick-or-treater rang the doorbell. It’s so bright all night long, in fact, that I can’t really discern the sunrise from the perpetual glow. And the streets are rife with every sort of blow-up character imagineable: penguins suffocating in snowglobes, giant menacing polar bears, pillowy snowmen, and even The Simpsons. I refuse to jump on that bandwagon….well, at least until I can find a glowing, inflatable, holiday Lance Armstrong.

So now our lights are up and nobody got hurt. More specifically, my wife did not get hurt. I can do the ladder thing as long as it is on stable ground, but alas the ladder that we borrowed was no match for our lofty roofline. That only meant one thing: someone would have to crawl out of a window and do the Flying Wallenda act on the roof. There must be some sort of survival instinct that kicks in as you get older, because I never remember having a debilitating, pants-wetting fear of heights as a younger lad. Not one for senseless acts of bravado simply to imply manliness, I graciously accepted my wife’s selfless offer to wander out into blustery treachery. All I could do was watch nervously with sweaty palms and failing antiperspirant as she gracefully crawled out onto the roof from our guest room window. Had it been me, I would have been paralyzed with fear until the nice firemen came to get me down in time for dinner. But this woman, my wife, had all the strength and courage of a professional roofer, surefooted and deft. I could hear the snickers and comments of passersby, my face wrought with angst as I called out through the window, “PLEASE be careful!! Do you want your bike helmet?” Oh sure, go ahead and laugh. At least I can admit my fears.

Terrible thoughts entered my mind. What if she fell? How long would it take paramedics to get here? Would we be on the news? Would she end up paralyzed, or worse? How could I ever survive without my soulmate? How much is her life insurance policy worth again? No amount of cash could ever replace her! Oh God, I should be the one up there because if I slipped and was killed, my family would be better off financially!

Eventually, she came in and the relief was overwhelming. The lights look great and I couldn’t have done a better job myself, especially with my hands trembling like a frightened chihuahua. Our house doesn’t look Griswaldian, it doesn’t blind pilots flying overhead, and there certainly won’t be traffic jams to behold its incandescent splendor. It's very simple, and it feels like home for the holidays.

The kids love to go for a drive to see the fantastic displays around the area, seeking out “the blow ups” as they call the inflated things. It’s a chance to get them out and about to behold the merriment of the season. After all…if we had all those accoutrements, there would be no reason to leave the house. Holiday lights, whether larger than life, or simple and traditional, reflect as magic and sheer joy in the eyes of a child. This wonderful season is all too fleeting, and soon it will be time to decide just who will be the one to get up on the roof again.

i can read, thanks.

2006-11-30T12:26:00.000-07:00

12:00 Noon. Conference call.

One by one, participants join.
“I had trouble dialing in.”
“Yeah, me too…I got a busy signal.”
“Is there going to be a netmeeting?”
“The first time I dialed in, all I could hear was a screeching noise.”
“Did you send out the presentation in email?”
"I don't think we have enough ports for this call."

And so it went for over 10 minutes. A conference call so mired in personal problems and ill-fated mechanics that if it were a plane, it would have aborted takeoff and headed straight for the hangar.

Finally, someone asked, “Is the information you’re going to cover the same as the presentation you emailed?”

“Yes” the presenter said.

Click. I gave up my connection so that someone else could enjoy being read to.

Ten minutes. Gone. Wasted. It took me 3 minutes to read the PowerPoint.

death and a smile

2006-11-03T13:52:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago, on November 4th, my father passed away, ravaged by the slow, but ruthless grip of prostate cancer. Nine years ago, on November 4th, my mother lost her fight with lung cancer. She was a non-smoker.

It should be pretty easy for me to hate November 4th. Anniversaries like this are not much fun to face for anyone. While I think it is important to recognize a dark event and acknowledge that it caused profound change, I don't see much good that can come of dwelling and obsessing. Whether it's Pearl Harbor, 9/11, or a personal tragedy, it is often difficult to think beyond "we could have prevented it" or "so-and-so is to blame for this". This is not to belittle any one event, but tragedies are unfortunately a part of life. Dying is part of life. No one likes it, and it isn't any fun to think about, but in the end, whether we are vice presidents, doctors, attorneys, convenience store clerks, mothers, fathers, sons and daughters, we all stop living at some point for some reason. We are no different than plants, bugs, dogs, cats, computers, cars, or batteries: all eventually cease to function. And please don't batter me with discussions about afterlife....that is an entirely different matter, and subject to a huge array of beliefs. This is simply about cessation of the here and now.

After losing my folks, I choose to remember their legacy and the things they instilled in me. They were a part of the WWII generation. I came along much later than my sisters, more on the cusp of Generation X rather than the end of the Boomers (yes, maybe I was an "oops" but no less loved). I feel fortunate to have been raised by them, for theirs was a generation of saying what you mean, meaning what you say, and doing what you say you will do. They taught me to be trustworthy and honest; dependable, and reasonable. Dad was a total nut with a rather twisted sense of humor that seems to have been passed down to my children. He would always take me to jazz concerts in the park, and make the best homemade chocolate peanut butter milkshakes in the world. Mom was the sweetest, dearest lady you could imagine, and always stood up for what she believed. The day Dad died was an election day, and Mom still went out to vote. That's the kind of person she was. If there is one aspect of losing them that still remains painful, it's that my kids will know them only through stories and photos. But when they died, they were in their 70s, so there is some solace in knowing that they lived relatively full lives. Had the cancer not done them in, the ravages of time likely would have before my children were born.

But it is this thought that cancer killed them that still gnaws at me and it has gnawed me to the point that it has changed the way I see things. I see the value in life's small things more clearly now; I never take sunset and sunrise for granted, and a crying baby is not a nuisance, but rather a melody of new life. My parents' cancer has taught me to be aware and to be informed. I know now to watch for things and to take control of the situation, always asking the right questions about what's best. Perhaps that is their greatest legacy - bringing to light the realities and tribulations of cancer. It made me seek information, it got me involved with the Lance Armstrong Foundation, and it enabled me access to resources that may one day save my children's lives. When we learned that my wife, Dena, had early stage cervical cancer, we did not panic. We knew that there was information available and there were means to fight it. My own fate may very well include the same disease that took my father, but in one sense, I can thank him and I know the steps to avoid that same demise.

During those days, my folks lived in Colorado Springs. In the end, I spent many evenings after work and long weekends driving that 60 mile stretch. I was at work in downtown Denver when I got the call that I had "better get down there". Dad had suddenly taken a turn. I was just with him two days earlier at his bedside. We didn't say much, because he was very weak. He called me over closer to him to make sure I took his collection of watches, the most prized of which was a gold Hamilton that he'd received for his high school graduation. He knew. He just knew. I didn't make it to the Springs before he passed. And in my mother's last days, she had suffered a stroke. We later learned that her cancer had spread to her brain. She was never herself in the end, but I was with her when she died and I held her hand before her last breath. There was a strange moment where she suddenly seemed very alert and she squeezed my fingers ever so slightly as if she woke up and wanted to fight it. "It's ok Mom", we all said, "it's ok to go now". And she did.

Those are the things I do not care to remember. Those last memories are the ones that drive me to work for the LAF, and to help in the fight against the disease. Those are the memories which infuriate me when I think of the billions and billions that our nation spends on bombs at the same time it cuts millions from cancer research, clinical trials, and survivorship funding.
But mostly, I remember the good things....the family vacations, shooting hoops in the driveway, milkshakes, jazz concerts; their pride at my graduation from college, watching elk from the deck of their mountain home. Those things make me smile. Thanks Mom & Dad, for all the things you taught me, and for all that you gave me.

late but fast

2006-11-01T13:22:00.000-07:00

I've written a few too many pieces recently about the dreariness of life at work. After a couple of those, I have vowed not to dwell too much on that topic henceforth. I'm really not all that negative. Sometimes cynical, perhaps, but not really negative and I don't want to seem that way.

But I have one more workplace rant that I must share. I guess it's not so much a rant as it is something puzzling to me and indicative of what goes on in corporate America.

I still get pretty worked up any time the FedEx truck pulls up in front of our house. Last night was no exception. I had already dipped into our supply of Halloween candy, so the added frenzy of hearing the doorbell ring, seeing the big white truck unexpectedly, and watching the uniformed delivery guy sprint back to his package-filled chariot was nearly too much for my heart to withstand. It was tempered a bit by the fact that it wasn't something that required my signature, but that was fine - I was important enough to someone that they felt the need to get it to me in a hurry.

I flung open the door to find an 8.5 x 11 envelope partially tucked under the door mat. A little disappointed that it wasn't a crate full of Belgian chocolate, a gift of assorted rare coffee beans from around the world, or a live pygmy goat, I looked on the bright side: good things come in small packages. Why, an envelope could contain a check for $14 Million from a benevolent uncle, an autographed photo of Lance Armstrong, or a lucrative job offer I couldn't refuse.

Eagerly, I looked at the label to see its origin. Hm.....my employer. Is this how they do layoffs now? Opening the envelope, I see the word "Congratulations" on the document inside. In my mind, that word could still mean an indication of termination, so I pulled the contents out to see what was so important that my company FedExed something rather than emailed it. "Congratulations on your fifth year of employment! Please accept this certificate as a token of our appreciation for your tireless efforts to..." blah blah blah. Ok, well I suppose that's nice that they at least recognize years of service. It wasn't the company logo t-shirt or coffee mug I had long dreamed of, but that's ok.

But wait....wasn't my fifth anniversary back in April? Why, yes it was!

It's fine that it took six months to acknowledge this crowning achievement. No big deal. Honestly, I don't care. But what escapes me is why anyone would go through the effort to FedEx a document directly to my house rather than use interoffice mail when it is SIX months late. "We know we're horrendously tardy, so to make up for it, we're going to get it right to you very quickly."

Should I survive in this job for so long, I can hardly squelch the anticipation of my 10 year anniversary. Or 10.5 years, more appropriately.

One life is just so boring.

2006-10-19T14:36:00.000-06:00

Have you seen this Second Life thing? If you haven't yet heard of it, you will. It stands to be more pervasive than MySpace and conceivably more useful. The difference is that Second Life is literally a second life in a 3D world right there on the internet. This goes way beyond social networking, chat rooms, and instant messaging. It is all of those things but much more. Sign up, log in and you are thrown into a world that could exist only in the imagination. Nearly everything in Second Life is created and built by its users and virtually anything can be bought or sold using Linden Dollars. What's more, these Linden Dollars can be converted into actual greenbacks. That's right - cash money. Needless to say, the entrepreneurial spirit is nothing short of corpulent and robust. There are landowners, merchants, street vendors, and who-knows-what else. You can buy a "make believe" item within Second Life for your avatar (virtual version of yourself), then also order the real live molecular version for your first, tangible life. This is where it gets weird: a fake world begins to interact and overlap with the real world. Real people have dreams as their avatars. Maybe The Matrix wasn't all that far-fetched.

I took the plunge the other day. A co-worker had been talking about it, I had read about it and the geek in me was intrigued. Eagerly, I registered, created my new name, opened up Second Life, and PLOP! There I was, a naked, confused, 3D person looking around at a completely foreign place surrounded by several other naked fake folks wandering and wondering just what to do next.

"Clothes" I said. I needed clothes first since I wasn't comfortable walking around in any world with my stuff on display for all to see. Even though I am relatively fit, I won't even take my real shirt off in real public, and I wasn't about to do it in cyberworld either. So I began to customize my fake self. Amazing. I could customize my head size; my head shape; my cheekbones, and my brow; hair color, style, and length; shirt, pants, shoes and colors for each. Done. There I was - I looked nothing like real me, but like someone I could be. This was getting weird. As I wandered Orientation Island, I saw others all around me running around, eager to learn all that Second Life had to offer. It is very much like learning how to walk and until you gain control of yourself, you run into things and people, fall off of walls, and drown. But of course, you are immortal in your new life, so it's all in fun.

Ready to move beyond Orientation Island perhaps a bit prematurely, I teleported to a place that was absolutely serene. It was the most beautiful and elaborate completely abandoned quasi-Asian-themed beach mansion I had ever seen. I spent a good hour just wandering from room to room in this one very small fragment of Second Life and I was fascinated. The place was lavishly appointed with tasteful furniture, libraries, Zen rooms, and anything you could want in a home. The view from the rooftop was incredible: the ocean, mountains, lush trees, birds, peace. I could foresee losing sleep over this new world and one day seeking therapy.

And then I fell into a deep crevasse and couldn't get out.

know how to rock

2006-10-04T15:22:00.000-06:00

to begin with, i would never place a baby in a tree top.
especially on a windy day.

if, however, i were to do so, probably some sort of sling would be best rather than a cradle. also, i would be sure to select a bough that appeared sturdy and could support a baby on a windy day.

nonetheless, let's just assume the bough did break. i think that if you're going to put a baby in a tree, it would be a good idea to place some sort of air mattress or a big cushy mat of some sort under the tree. at least put a helmet on the child.

you can take a man out of 7th grade, but 7th grade never leaves the man

2006-09-28T11:31:00.000-06:00

Kathy of ‘The Mutant Weed’ fame, has a father who is nuts about nuts. He lives in Texas and gets peanuts fresh from the farm. Meticulously he selects just the right ones – the “premium” ones. He dries them, and roasts them right in his very own oven. Fresh roasted nuts are so good on their own that they are even tasty unsalted. Normally, unsalted nuts would be a waste of time, but these are good. I should know – I scored about 11 lbs of them a few weeks ago, and I am ordering more of the new crop which will be plucked, dried, and ready to go in about a month.

So as I was munching on some, it occurred to me that if he had the wherewithal, the time, and the ability to ship mass quantities of these things all over the planet, the possibilities for her dad's website would be amazing.

Slogans and marketing:

“Dad’s Salty Nuts”
“Sample Dad’s nuts”
“Dad will ship his carefully handled nuts to you in a nice little box”
“Buy Dad’s nuts. He’ll grow more.”
“Crack open a handful of my Dad’s nuts”
“Nothing beats my Dad’s nuts and a cold beer”
“You can’t beat Dad’s nuts”
“Plump, flavorful and tender skinned….that’s Dad’s nuts”

great job

2006-09-06T13:57:00.000-06:00

Each day, I come to work to be bludgeoned, humiliated, spoken down to, talked about behind my back, ridiculed, unappreciated, and blamed.

It's thankless and it worsens exponentially every 24 hours. Trudging and bleak, I walk through the doors feeling like there's a 40 lb sack of shit draped over my shoulders. Yet I continue because it is entirely up to me to make sure my family is clothed and fed and happy. That's what keeps me going, and that is the only glimmer of light at the end of my day.

It is asssumed by my employer that I will continue to do this day in and day out without respite and without fail. I assume they will continue to pay me. There is no thanks, no praise, no merit for these monumental tasks. I will collect my paycheck and I will be happy to receive it.

And then, my life is given back to me in one small act by my almost 2 year old son. I get in the shower, clean my carcass, dry off and open the shower door to see him standing there watching me. I look at him and smile.

"Great job, Dad!" he says.

"Thank you son. Thank you."

a way with words

2006-07-21T19:09:00.000-06:00

"GOD DAMN!"

-- Bob Roll, Tour de France, 2006

why is that?

2006-07-19T14:30:00.000-06:00

no matter how much science i have taken in school, or have otherwise learned, i still find it bizarre that standing at the South Pole does not give one the sense of being upside down.

things people on the streets of downtown denver have said to me

2006-07-18T13:45:00.000-06:00

- hey! gimmee a bite of that candy bar!

- wanna buy a sticker?

- where's a good place for breakfast?

- i'm a hippie king...i'm a walk around hippie

- (singing panhandler during the clinton years) "she want love...he want a bj"

chew on this

2006-07-14T12:32:00.000-06:00

Gum. I rarely chew gum. In fact, the only time I do is if someone offers me a piece. To me, gum is like going to a nudie bar -- largely a waste of time. You get a taste, but you are left feeling empty and dissatisfied.

But what is it about gum chewers? The social aspect, that is.

Maybe gum chewers are just friendly by nature. Without fail, when I am around a gum chewer or group of them, they always ask if I want a piece. They are completely selfless, sometimes even offering me their last piece!

But then, paranoia creeps in. "Oh. Would she really offer her last piece if she didn't think I needed it? My God! I must have periodontal disease! Are my gums bleeding? Does my cake hole reek of death?!" Then usually I accept the gum only to see if the expression is one of extreme relief, or one of true friendliness.

Perhaps then, offering someone a piece of gum should be considered faux pas, or downright rude. It is akin to requesting that someone go douche or asking "would you care for some deodorant?" It would be impossible to tell for sure whether offering gum was out of genuine politeness, and therefore I would submit that doing so should be avoided in social settings.

Or what if gum chewers are zealous crusaders for fresh breath? "Please! Take my gum! Join me and you too can have the same minty fresh breath that I enjoy! Take two pieces and give one to a friend!" Perhaps they are more self righteous in nature. "I am chewing gum. See me chew? My breath is fresh. Yours is not. Unless you partake of my gum, you shall never achieve my freshness."

It is this that makes me prefer mints. Ever see mints stuck to the underside of tables, chairs, and shoes?

3:13 a.m. and pie-eyed

2006-07-14T03:16:00.000-06:00

someone please tell me what possessed me to drink two cups of french roast before bedtime.

Work-Life Imbalance

2006-07-14T01:33:00.000-06:00

At what point do you begin to accept that your job is your life? I certainly haven't begun to reach that perilous precipice (and refuse to) but it would seem that my job has chosen to interfere with unacceptable gall.

If my profession demanded my sole devotion, my every thought, every ounce of my energy, I might accept giving up personally important moments for its cause. A trauma surgeon expects to be called away on business at any moment. He expects to give up longstanding plans because it is he, and only he, who can execute the one finite act of dexterity that might save another human's life on one untimely occasion.

My job comes nowhere near approaching that degree of critical weight and it is for this reason that I cannot accept the turmoil and disruption that it has brought to one consecrated ritual in my world.

The Man Weekend.

I have written of it and extolled its virtues. For my betestacled friends and me, it is pilgrimage to Mecca. It is communion. It is solstice and equinox, reunion and rejoice. Above all, it is tradition, and my job is blaspheming it. We hold the Man Weekend every year (ok, two years running now) on or near the weekend of September 11th. The significance of our nation's darkest anniversary is not unnoticed, but it is merely coincidental and has nothing to do with ManFest. It is simply the first weekend that falls after my wedding anniversary.

Each year, we commune for the better part of three days in an idyllic setting high up in the mountains, dwelling merrily in a cabin that might just as well be a page out of Mountain Living magazine. From its deck, we sip the essence of barley and malt or occasionally coffee, and we gaze across the creek toward a soaring mountain peak that is close enough to touch, but too far to climb. For that would mean we were ambitious and nay, the Man Weekend is not about that. It is about gathering a very small group of very good friends, telling stories, and laughing more than we have collectively laughed in the year that has passed since our last gathering.

When Man Weekend ends, we all agree that yes indeed, we shall do it again in about 365 days. We begin discussing next year's event roughly two weeks after it has ended. It is on all of our calendars, permanently etched in the blood of friendship and camaraderie.

Then came this year and I am overwrought with bitterness, perhaps more than I should be yet I feel this chagrin and woe and I will not hide my disdain. Someone within my job's chain of command way far away in a big leather chair threw a golden dart at a calendar and chose -you guessed it- the exact same weekend as The Man Weekend to forge into place a monstrous synergy of two companies' billing systems.

This to me is stomping on the Shroud of Turin. This is the burning of my flag. That someone could pick a date, any date, and have it be the one weekend of rare convergence with my very busy friends is surely pure twisted fate. We, after all, made plans last September. Work made plans a relative few months ago. By rights, I should be able to say "sorry, I already have plans" but no -- I can't do that because I am expected to be on the ready for my job.

On one hand, I can accept that. It tells me that what I do is important to someone and if I am needed, that is a good thing. On the other hand, my very small piece of this enormous puzzle (and I emphasize the word "puzzle") should be solidified and completely in place before this big corporate advent. My work should be tested and ready to roll well before the actual weekend. What's more, if there does happen to be something out of whack, we have a good month or more before any customer would even get to see the results of our labor. This translates into time available to fix things the might have gone wrong. So why is it that what I do has the dishonor of disrupting the plans and schedules of six individuals?

Innocent victims of inadvertent, random corporate terrorists. That's what it is.

i'm free

2006-07-07T13:21:00.000-06:00

Don't you hate it when you ride your bike to work, and you arrive and open your pack to learn that you forgot underwear?

I hate that. I know it happens to everybody, but still....don't you hate that?

Le Tour 2006

2006-07-03T15:11:00.000-06:00

I had started to write this bit about this year's Tour de France and how exciting it would be. "Wait! Lance Armstrong has retired -- why would we even watch it now?" many of you might ask.

I was ready to pounce on the fact that, even though I am a huge Lance fan, it would be even more exciting than in recent years because of the unknown. When Lance raced, it was pretty much a foregone conclusion that he would dominate as always, but this time I was giddy to alert everyone that now, there were new cycling supermen to emerge. Ivan Basso, who just won the Giro d'Italia, had been heavily favored to win the Tour as well. Jan Ullrich, Lance's long-time rival, had been under scrutiny for his conditioning, but had begun to show some dominant form. The stage was set for an epic battle to see who would be the heir to the Lance throne. Even some of Lance's former Discovery lieutenants like George Hincapie or Paolo Savoldelli stood an admirable chance of winning it all, even if only sentimental favorites.

Then Friday morning, I anxiously pulled up www.velonews.com and www.thepaceline.com with great anticipation on the eve of the Tour prologue. What I saw sent me reeling. "Tour in turmoil as Basso and Ullrich ejected" shouted one of the the headlines. For weeks, in the cycling world, we have been reading about Operacion Puerto - a Spanish doping probe which has been threatening to upend professional cycling.

Unfortunately, performance enhancing drugs have been a dark and disenchanting part of the sport. Not all elite cyclists are dopers, of course, but it happens. Several big names began to appear in the probe, but they were just allegations with no hard evidence. We learned that the evidence was so compelling that over 50 riders have been implicated and several suspended by their teams on this the night before cycling's Super Bowl; the World Cup on wheels.

So many things about this are hard to believe. It is hard to believe that these riders are presumed guilty until proven innocent. It is hard to believe that the sport of cycling did not learn lessons from the 1998 Festina doping scandal. It is hard to believe that riders would subject themselves to unknown dangers of performance enhancing substances. It is hard to believe that the biggest names in cycling are involved. Ivan Basso? Jan Ullrich? No way. It just can't be. Even the timing of all this on the eve of the Tour....hard to believe.

I have been waiting for this year's Tour since the end of the 2005 Tour. What new fiasco will unfold each morning when I tune in to the Outdoor Life Network at 6:30 a.m.? Well, I wanted an exciting race, and that's what we'll see without a doubt. Only now it's more than the racing itself. It has become a much bigger story than who is the fastest over 2,000+ miles. It is beyond any predictions, prognostication, and hands-down favorites.

And out of this bleakness, there is one shining note: not one of the members of the Discovery Channel Pro Cycling Team is involved in the scandal. Does all of this mean favorable conditions for Lance's old teammates? Absolutely. Keep your eyes on Hincapie. He's someone we can all cheer for and hope for. For years, he has been the right hand man and now it is his chance to shine. There will be those who want to put an asterisk next to whomever wins this year's Tour. In my mind, anyone who races that distance and wins is a god, "yeah, buts" and "what ifs" aside.

If you like the "unscripted" drama of reality TV, I give you the 2006 Tour de France. Maybe, just maybe, the race will now be clean and the drama will indeed be the race itself...not the accompanying soap opera.

dream #2

2006-06-16T11:54:00.000-06:00

this one occurred one night during my honeymoon. yes, we were asleep at the time. and yes, we are still happily married.

---

Beneath the main pavilion tent at the arts festival is a performance artist. He sits on the asphalt in a roped-off area designated specifically for his performance.

Without speaking, he draws a large chalk square around himself within which his performance will take place. At his side is a stack of cheap plastic Halloween masks. On top of the stack is a red devil mask.

The man is completely naked and has no hair from the neck down. He has no genitals whatsoever; only a large, puckered, protruding anus. His right leg is amputated just above the knee; his left leg is whole, but only as long as his shortened right leg.

He leans forward making sweeping and dramatic arm movements as if to stir up the air around him. He reaches over and grabs salt and pepper shakers that he has placed by his side. He sprinkles first the salt with a full movement of his right arm, then the pepper with his left in an arc around himself. He makes several more dramatic, flowing arm motions and then curls up, withdrawing into himself.

He freezes for a moment, then looks up with the proud smirk of a creative genius and proclaims: “I call it, ‘Return to Innocence’”.

dream #1

2006-06-16T11:40:00.000-06:00

this is the first of a couple dreams i had several years ago. when they occurred, i woke up in the dead of the night, laughing my ass off. the bed shook, my wife woke up....i nearly vomited from laughing so hard. not because the dreams were necessarily hilarious, but they were weird enough to make me chuckle. and the notion that i was trying to stifle my laughter in the middle of the night made me laugh even harder. anyway, here is the first...

-----

The Merv Griffin Show is on the TV. Merv comes out and says, “Next up, we’ve got Tom Jones. But it’s not what you’re thinking---take a look at this clip.”

The video begins with a large black stage---everything is black: the wings, the curtain, the stage structure. Tom Jones strolls out wearing a silver leisure-jump suit. He has really big rocker hair. “I’ve always loved that Big Band sound”, Tom says.

The band, which consists of several totally amped guitarists, a horn section, all sorts of percussion instruments (including a guiro), and Paul Shaffer wearing a blue leisure suit with his collar open, starts cranking out a version of ‘Delilah’ that has never been heard before.

The style is a big band swingy waltz, but the sound of it is totally grunge/death metal. The camera pans back to show the audience consisting of about 25 people passing out and screaming wildly as if in a panic.

The entire venue is about the size of a community theatre and there are chairs overturned everywhere. On stage there are fireworks, flashpots, and fog, and musicians thrashing around. The crowd is maniacal. Tom comes to the edge of the stage, looks into the camera and states: “I really like polkas the best, because everybody loves to party.”

great stuff

2006-06-14T12:49:00.000-06:00

Recently, I needled a co-worker into starting her own blog. We have profound conversations on a daily basis that, if taken to heart by the right people, would result in a much more reasonable world.

Her way of saying things often sums up with crackling brilliance what I sometimes struggle to assemble in my cranium. There are two qualities about her writing that most lack: unique, entertaining, rational thoughts, and the ability to express them in an entertaining manner with precisely the right words.

And although she would never admit it, she is a stellar photographer.

With that, I give you http://themutantweed.blogspot.com/

May you enjoy it as much as I do.

admitting defeat

2006-06-12T20:39:00.000-06:00

Spring, 2005. I opened the door and looked out into the garage and saw seats that belonged in my minivan. No minivan, only seats. This could only mean one thing -- something ominous was coming home with my wife.

"Here it is!" she announced, as she pressed the magic door button. Inside were huge boxes roughly big enough to hold corpses. "Sale on caskets?" I asked. Several very big men must have loaded these things into our vehicle and all I could do was imagine the disaster that was about to unfold in the endeavor to remove them.

After flexing my arm muscles (which are no match for most 7th graders, I might add), I tried in desperation to budge the first box. Forget it. I called my neighbor and together, we became a suburban duo of sweat, brawn, and grunting. One by one, we lugged the insanely ponderous boxes into the garage. And there it sat: all 17,030 parts to what would eventually become my children's play structure. More wood than a forest, and more screws than Home Depot. Oh yes, and I am not much of a handy man. This was going to be good.

Spring 2005 became Summer 2005 and the boxes still claimed residence in much of the garage. "Too hot to start on it now" I proclaimed. Autumn arrived and there was a nip in the air. Perfect. Just enough time to get it done before winter and the kids could still get some play time on it. My brilliant and skilled friend Lonnie loaned himself to me for a day to get the ball rolling. By the end of one afternoon, it began to take shape -- sort of. Ok, so we got four posts in the ground and attached the top framework.

It is winter. I begin to think these mysterious wooden posts and beams would look nice with Christmas lights. No, it would make a nice gallows and using it as such seemed like the only way out.

"Daddy, is our swingset done yet? Can I try the slide?"

Despair set in and my wife sensed my dread each morning as I stared at this behemoth which was failing to take shape in my back yard. The mere sight of screws would overwhelm me and send me into fits of crying and gloom.

Spring 2006. We are $400 poorer. A bearded, sunbaked, drill-wielding man named Jack is my paid contractor hero. There is no shame in defeat when in the end, your children are happy. My pride was no longer important. Jack took precisely two days to accomplish what would have taken me until my 3-year-old daughter's freshman year in high school. There is nothing better than the giggle of children in swings, wind in their hair, and the free time I now have to watch them enjoy it.

happy! happy! happy!

2006-06-09T08:04:00.000-06:00

Oh golly jeepers. It appears as though from time to time, some folks read my blog and leave some comments. I think that's great. Not all comments are favorable, although most are. It has come to my attention that I am bitter and negative. Maybe so -- or my writing is, anyway. Actually, I am a pretty happy person. It's just that I don't always enjoy writing about flowers, sunshine, and pretty colors. It is because I am happy that I find amusement in absurdity that lies all around.

There are all sorts of blogs out there. Some great, some mediocre at best. My blog is about the things I want to say. It is about my opinions, my observations, my perspective. Your opinions may differ. I accept that. Go ahead -- disagree with something I say. Go start your own happy blog to counter the force of my overwhelming negativity. Just don't be a butthole to me because we disagree.

a long story that sucks

2006-06-09T06:45:00.000-06:00

If you ever receive a call from Silver King International, don't answer it. They had been calling us for months and we never answered. One day, my wife gave in and answered their call with the intent of telling them to turn blue. Instead, we were enticed by the wonderful promise of a no-strings-attached, no-timeshare-selling weekend for two.....IF we participated in a survey and market study for steam cleaning equipment.

I had participated in market studies and focus groups before and received compensation for my time, so it wasn't beyond belief that I really might receive something swell in exchange for providing my opinions about this product. All we had to do was sit through a demonstration, then provide our input. The guy showed up at our door as planned with a couple of large boxes containing the product. He set up shop right in our family room and began to demonstrate a very industrial looking vacuum cleaner. "Wait" we said. "Isn't this a survey?" "Well, I'm going to demonstrate this product and if, in the end, you are interested in getting one, I will tell you how you can buy one. If you are not interested, that's fine -- you just complete the survey."

Ok, we were still on board with the idea until he asked us what kind of vacuum cleaner we had - a Dyson recommended by numerous trusted friends - and then implied that we were complete morons and suckers for effective marketing. It was then that we realized without a doubt that we had been trapped by a VACUUM CLEANER SALESMAN!! Horror!!

He proceeded with his rapidfire pitch. He fired up our month-old Dyson and ran it back & forth over the same area about 15 times. Then, he flipped the switch on his magic machine which had been fitted with black, grime-revealing demonstration filters, and made one pass over the same spot. Amazing -- it was as if our Dyson picked up nothing! Then he started in with the allergens and dust mites tactics. My wife was mortified. I could see the wheels turning....we must get one of these. How could we have been so stupid to have been suckered like lemmings into the Dyson? I could only think about entire societies around the globe who live in dirt huts and eat bugs, yet they survive. I told the man this. He was not impressed with my worldliness.

Once we were fairly convinced that this hideous piece of machinery was the answer to all of our woes that suddenly seemed to exist, we popped the question he was dying to answer: "How much does it cost?" We had done some serious budgeting to find a way to pay for our Dyson - more than we had ever paid for a vacuum cleaner before. But this....this thing was $3,200. Three thousand, two-hundred dollars.

And then we immediately learned that there were a multitude of convenient ways we could pay for it. I could see the glazed "we must find a way" in my wife's eyes, and it was time to step up as a man. No. There was no way. We had just consolidated a bunch of bad debt that was the result of many stupid, senseless purchases, and this was not going to be the one thing that launched us back into distress.

He called his "boss". "Yep, I'm all done here....nope....filling out the survey..." This was code for 'no sale'. "What's that? Ok, I'll ask them." His "boss" was willing to make a deal -- our last chance to get the big discount on this night only. Growing angry and weary, I said, "Look -- if I am going to spend that kind of cash, it will be for a new carbon fiber bike. I am not about to get into debt and make VACUUM CLEANER PAYMENTS while struggling to put dinner on the table, let alone pay my daughter's pre-school tuition."

I felt particularly good about my chest thumping "I am master of my castle" routine the next day when I discovered that our Dyson had been left on the 'bare floor' setting during the demo rather than the 'carpet' setting. No wonder it didn't pick up as much filth.

I will say this: if you are inclined to fork over $3,200 for a vacuum cleaner, I can recommend a $400 Dyson instead. Then with the remaining cash I just saved you, please donate the remainder to the Lance Armstrong Foundation and put it toward a great cancer fighting organization.

Oh, and our prize? It ended up being a $1,000 internet shopping spree at WOArewards.com. Actually, it "entitles us to obtain up to $1,000 worth of merchandise." From the research I have done, this is a complete sham. Silver King International, you suck.....in every sense.

if it weren't for cancer

2006-05-30T20:52:00.000-06:00

i wish you could have been here, mom, to see the sunset tonight. you would have seen the beauty in my daughter's eyes and the amazement she saw in the fading fire of the sun's last rays beaming from beneath the clouds. the mountains were nearly violet against the brilliant red and orange; storm clouds loomed nearby, the air fresh with moistened pine.

in that sunset, i saw your smile, for i knew that you would have loved it glowing in my daughter's eyes.

avian flu tip

2006-05-24T12:24:00.000-06:00

wouldn't it be funny if the only effective remedy against the effects of bird flu was chicken soup?

the bitter cyclist

2006-04-25T21:00:00.000-06:00

So the Tour of Georgia wrapped up last weekend. Great job by The Floyd and Tommy D. I have never been to this race, but it sounds like a stellar event right here in the Yoonited States Uhvuhmurikuh. It's a great mix of elite Euro cycling stars as well as the best U.S. teams - wow - and you don't even need a passport to witness this caliber of racing.

What's that? You haven't heard of it? That's no surprise since it garnered not so much as a recap or even a brief mention on our local TV news. Discovery's Tom Danielson is from Colorado Springs for Pete's sake! Oh that's right -- Lance retired, so the general U.S. public has gone back to the "if it aint got a ball, and it aint NASCAR, it aint a sport" mode.

The pro cycling season is well underway and it is a little frustrating as always for those of us in the U.S. who are fans. At least we have OLN (soon to be re-named 'Versus') in our friendly cable lineup and they do a great job of covering most of the major events. Ah yes....the life of a "fringe/extreme sport" enthusiast.

Oh, and one more question.....why is it that Colorado, arguably this nation's capitol of cycling, has not had a major stage race since the days of the Coors Classic? Many professional cyclists live and train here for obvious reasons, yet there's apparently no interest (??), no financial backing, and no sponsorship. Yes, I know.....I need to move to Europe.

indiana public education

2006-04-04T15:34:00.000-06:00

My Hoosier friends swear this is a for real photo. It was a sign in the Indianapolis area that was supposed to say "peonies".

2006-04-04T15:08:00.000-06:00

there is nothing better than when your child learns to say the word booger. or holy crap!
except for maybe when they learn to pedal a bike.

assorted thoughts for a tuesday morning

2006-03-21T09:31:00.000-07:00

Heard on a conference call today:
"There was a decision that we need to make a decision, but I don't think there was a decision."

I hate springtime in Colorado. I would probably hate it most anywhere, actually. The weather is just nuts and it drives me insane getting 3 or 4 good 70F days of riding in a row, then massive- heavy-wet snow. Sure, I could ride my trainer in the basement but if there's one thing that drives me even more insane than the springtime weather, it's pedaling a bike furiously, going nowhere and sweating to death. Maybe I should quit bitching and go ride in the cold and wet.

My little boy walked all the way across the kitchen last night. He'll be bombing down singletrack in no time. Once he consistently remembers that he can actually walk and doesn't need to crawl, life will be very interesting and his big sister had better watch out.

Tabasco pickle spears -- quite possibly the best food concoction of the 21st century.

dark disney

2006-03-18T22:15:00.000-07:00

Pinocchio. My 3 year old daughter loves this video. Oh, that's cute. With all the modern day computer-generated characters, she still finds appeal in the old-fashioned animation and wholesome Disney stories.

And then it dawned on me. Pinocchio is a story about a lonely old clockmaker who makes himself a companion....a little wooden boy who sleeps with him. Imagine his delight when Pinocchio comes to life. A real live boy. That's some creepy Michael Jackson shit.

yuk yuk

2006-03-17T12:49:00.000-07:00

this has to be one of the stupidest jokes ever:

In the restroom at work, the Boss had placed a motivational sign
directly above the sink's soap dispenser. It had a single word on it:

"Think!"

The next day, right below the first sign, someone had carefully
lettered another sign which read:

"Thoap!"

but last night, i woke up at 2:00 a.m. and for some reason, it popped into my half awake mind. and i giggled. then i began to laugh hard. soon, i was downright guffawing and snorting. the bed was shaking. and the more i thought about trying not to wake my wife, the funnier it got. and then the thought of trying to explain it to her if she woke up only made things worse.

the end.

short and curly

2006-03-15T10:28:00.000-07:00

Why pubes?

As far as I know, humans are the only animals possessing different hair around their genitals. Yes, other mammals have hair around their junk, but it's the same hair that covers the rest of them: it's not a completely different category of hair, all twisted and wiry like our pubes. Imagine if cows had bushy tufts twixt their legs. Or monkeys at the zoo with mounds of wiry cock-n-ball beards that stood out distinctively from their hairy bellies. Conversely, imagine if we had the same hair that sits atop our heads draping our special parts.

It seems to me that animals are the ones who still need pubes -- not highly evolved humans. I mean, look at how far we have come from our apelike ancestors. Where did we get pubes and why are they still sprouting from us? We have been largely clothed now for thousands of years, so modesty certainly can't be argued.

Humans have no need for pubes. Pubes don't keep us warm. We spend lots of time and money to rid ourselves of them (mostly ladies), and dammit they're really pretty ugly to behold when you get right down to it.

We have become so accustomed to having them and seeing them that I don't think anyone really gives it a second thought. But look at yourself in the mirror after you get out of the shower. Or look at your significant other when he or she is naked. Now, I guarantee you will ponder my question. You might even giggle because they look really stupid now, don't they? Just look at that big ugly damned bush.

cobwebs

2006-03-14T10:37:00.000-07:00

Hi. It's me. Sorry it's been so long since I've written.
So how have you been?
I hate it when work gets in the way of blogging.

my top 5 favorite spam subject lines

2006-02-23T14:52:00.000-07:00

In no particular order:

1. pepperoni breastwork effaceable
2. clothesman residuary maser
3. breadroot at accomplice
4. with magog in circumscription can prefab
5. extremal

seeking exciting career opportunity.....

2006-02-20T08:08:00.000-07:00

You’re in the middle of a merger between the company you work for and another company who is an “equal” partner in the deal even though their stake is 51%.

One day, the CIO announces that if you just so happen to want to leave the company, well then there is now a voluntary separation package available. This means, "we hope some of you will take this lump of cash and leave". Oh, and you have two weeks to decide. “But this doesn’t mean that there will be layoffs if not enough people leave. It's just a great opportunity that we're able to offer right now. There’s no magic number that we have in mind”.

Do you believe him?

and now....a quote from Randy

2006-02-10T14:59:00.000-07:00

My Name is Earl is so full of brilliant writing, it's hard to comprehend it all. Randy is my hero.

"Yeah I'm glad she's not dead no more. Being dead is definitely worse than being alive. When you're dead you can't do all the cool stuff you can do when you're alive. You and I, we can do all kinds of cool stuff cuz we're living, we're not dead, we're alive. If we were dead we wouldn't be able to do all the cool stuff we can do, becuz we're alive. Dead people can't do cool stuff. Only people that are alive can do cool stuff, cuz they're living, and you have to be living to be able to do cool stuff. You have to be alive. Yeah, 'cept when you're alive sometimes bad stuff happens too. Like sometimes you can get into a car wreck, or you can have a headache or twist your ankle or even stub your big toe... So being alive is kinda hard too, but I think it's definitely better than being dead...."

2006-02-09T08:55:00.000-07:00

Every day I struggle with a dilemma. I read countless emails from people we are supposed to respect and from whom we take direction. Usually these notes, presentations, and dissertations are rife with grammar and punctuation errors (not to mention annoying buzzwords).

Should I kindly respond to these people and helpfully point out their errors and risk looking like a know-it-all jackass? Would they appreciate my help, or just be annoyed?

I think I'm better in the long run letting their errors go. While, the huge majority of readers won't know the difference anyway, the handful of others who catch the blunders will certainly think the author is a moron. That makes me happy.

Flee Ohio

2006-02-08T15:20:00.000-07:00

I just saw the back of an Ohio quarter. It depicts an outline of the state, the Wright brothers' plane, and I'm guessing either Neil Armstrong or John Glenn in a space suit.

Next to that is the phrase, "Birthplace of Aviation Pioneers".

Is it any wonder that historically, people have always tried to fly away from Ohio? That place must really really suck.

Tax Time

2006-02-07T19:46:00.000-07:00

Accountants are brilliant conversationalists. We had our taxes done tonight. I present to you "Accountant Conversation 2006"

Him: Ok, what do we have?
Me: Here are our W2s.
Him: No more kids this year?
Me: Nope. All done.
Him: Dividends? Interest income?
Me: Here are these. I sold some stock.
Him: So no home sales or refinancing, only one mortgage?
Me: Right. Piece o' cake this year.
Him: Donations?
Me: Yep. $205.
Him: Ok, there you go.

cycle of efficiency

2006-02-06T13:08:00.000-07:00

A little over a year ago, I worked for one guy. It was just us – a two man team and it was a very cool arrangement. Everything clicked and our jobs made sense together functionally. Then this guy was assigned to a new team, but someone who’s really smart and makes a lot of money decided that it would be better if I stayed on solo on the existing team.

As a result of that juggling, I was assigned a new manager. I worked for that guy for roughly 3 months, then I was once again re-assigned to another new manager. This lasted a while, until about October, and then the really smart people decided again that what I do lines up better with yet one more new manager. But apparently, that must have been a bad decision, because in November, I was assigned to one more manager.

And now today, I learned that I have made a complete circle – right back to the guy I started with. That’s 5 changes in management in a year. Apparently, all of the “realignments to better meet our business needs” from the bulging brains that sail this ship were not all that brilliant after all since the first arrangement ended up being the last.

I am reminded of a lesson in nature. Animal eats plant. Animal shits plant. Shit turns to soil and spawns a new plant.

sinking ship

2006-01-30T15:36:00.000-07:00

Oh this is great. Today we received a tantalizing email which made everyone absolutely moist with excitement. It said “Check out this short clip for a fun perspective on the journey to our IT Strategy Map. This is the first in a three-part series.”
Now, as everyone knows, “fun” and “IT” go pretty much hand-in-hand, so it was no surprise when I clicked on the link which was entitled “teaser 1”. Who doesn’t like to be teased?! What unfolded was a really bad, barely animated cartoon which metaphorically compared our upcoming year to a voyage on a ship. Here is an actual screen capture.

Pretty brilliant, right? I mean, get it? Ship….journey….strategy….ok, now you’re on board. (Ooo! On board…ship…get that one too?) If you watch the American version of The Office you may have seen the Booze Cruise episode. From this we can deduce that the ship/work comparison must be valid.

I can hardly wait for the next two episodes of Our IT Strategy Map.

getting things done

2006-01-30T14:32:00.000-07:00

I hate it when people have posters or little signs on their desk with inspirational or motivational quotes. The psychology is interesting. If you ever see someone who has the “7 Habits of Highly Successful People” bolstered to their wall, you should instantly smell a bullshitter. Do you think they have these things posted so that every day, they can look at them and re-affirm what they believe or how they work? No way. They are posted for all to see so that someone passing by will be really really impressed and think, “Oh my. A real go-getter must sit in this cube”. Well, I have created my own line of quotes for the business place - words that truly capture the essence of the great corporate American office. These are my tips and guidelines for success:

-Nothing says "I'm in control" like setting up another conference call.

-The best way to establish yourself as a leader is to know who to blame.

-The number of meetings in a given day is directly proportionate to the efficiency of a well-run organization.

-The best way for someone to learn is to criticize them, then let them try to figure out why.

-Nothing gives a clearer picture of progress than a colorful bar chart.

-The most effective use of meeting time is to print out a presentation, then read the slides out loud to everyone.

-He who speaks the most and the loudest must surely be the smartest.

-Coming in early holds no merit because no one sees you. Stay late every night and neglect your family if you really want to make an impact.

-If you can't think of your own ideas for methodology or inspiration, cover your cubicle with motivational quotes from people who are smarter than you.

-There is no time to think about the answers you give. Thinking indicates you don't really know.

-A snap decision may end up being the wrong one, but hey -- at least you looked confident.

-Nothing says "thanks for all you do" like a foam can cozy emblazoned with the corporate logo.

-The best way to assess one's work is to reduce it to a number.

-A video conference is the best way to allow colleagues across the country to watch you read a presentation.

-Anything...ANYTHING can be tracked in a spreadsheet.

-Ideally, your staff should spend a good portion of their day tracking what they do. Be sure also to have them track the time they spend tracking what they do.

- Use neat phrases like “reach out” instead of “contact”; “going forward” instead of “from now on”; or “issue” instead of “problem”.

what a dope

2006-01-27T15:56:00.000-07:00

Oh great. Now Bode Miller chimes in and calls Lance a doper.
Shut yer wordhole, snowbitch.

http://sports.yahoo.com/olympics/torino2006/news?slug=ap-millersbreak&prov=ap&type=lgns

tell me about your childhood

2006-01-27T12:40:00.000-07:00

It’s my fault. I chose this desk a year or so ago. You see, around here it is customary for everyone to reshuffle our locations at least annually so that our constantly “re-aligning” teams of minions can all sit in comforting proximity to one another. All of the analysts who perform tedious tasks should be lumped together in one row; executors of the mundane and menial all sit in another row. It’s a neat and efficient operation designed to enhance the communication between team members.

The last time this happened, I chose my own desk. It wasn't assigned. Since I am somewhat of a lone ranger and perform a unique function, it wasn’t imperative that I sit within spitting distance of anyone else. This cube seems bigger than the others because of the way it is laid out and it neatly accommodates my bike when I ride to work. There is one inherent problem with this cube: it sits right on the pathway that everyone must take at one time or another throughout the day. It’s an incessant parade. Actually, the parade isn’t so distracting because staring at a computer monitor all day long has destroyed the natural impulse for my eyes to follow motion.

If I were opportunistic, I would farm myself out to sociological studies and apply for grants, for if there was ever a watch post for monitoring behavior and attitudes in the workplace, this is it. People seem to take an odd interest in “what’s going on in Brian’s cube” and it strikes me as comical (sad?) that I might be a source of entertainment. I spend a good part of my day engaged in conversations with passersby who need a listening ear, a sounding board for their ideas, or an outlet for their rants. More than anything, they just feel sorry for me. I’m the guy with the stapler in Office Space. I’m the guy to whom everyone is cordial, but for whom they feel pity. “That poor bastard has had 5 managers in the past year!”
I’m a turd no one wants to put in their pocket and for that, I receive compassion.

Really, it’s enjoyable and without the visits, I would most likely slash my wrists or at the very least, staple my eyeballs. There’s the guy who comes up 5 or 6 times a day and flips me off & calls me “bitch”; the guy who makes fun of whatever I’m wearing; the gal who shares very much my same ideals and outlook; the nice guy who makes it a point to see how things are going with me; the smack talker who accuses me of stealing my paycheck on his way to go talk about football for the next 30 minutes……

….and then there are the bike conversations. When it’s cold and snowy and I don’t ride: “What – no bike today?!” Hardy har har, jackass. When I ride and my bike is propped up and gear is strewn all over my cube: “Why don’t you just buy a 2nd car?” Or “Did you ride in today?” Or six months after the fact, “Hey, I heard Lance retired – is it true?” I could go on all day about bikes though, so those conversations are always welcome. Especially around Tour time.

The best part about sitting here and being a part of all these conversations?
Blog fodder.

it beats an indoor trainer

2006-01-25T09:25:00.000-07:00

Uttered probably 12 times in automobiles this morning: "Look at that nutjob! Riding a bike when it's only 23F outside!"

Uttered maybe once: "Wow. He must be really dedicated."

I need your help

2006-01-20T16:17:00.000-07:00

Please, please, please click on the title of this entry and donate as generously as you are able. I'm doing my part to promote cancer awareness, advocacy, and survivorship. Your support in my efforts for the Lance Armstrong Foundation is most appreciated.

Thanks a million.

Osama is a big ol' softy

2006-01-20T14:18:00.000-07:00

I mean.....what kind of terrorist makes a tape to tell you he's going to attack? A real terrorist strikes without warning, I would think.

nuts

2006-01-13T15:14:00.000-07:00

Sweet justice. For all the times I have gone to the vending machine for some peanut M&Ms and the bag was left dangling from the poorly designed mechanism, and I had to dash back to my desk to get more change in order to get that bag and lose another $.70, or just eat the $.70 and leave it hanging there.........

Today was a victory. There it was. A defenseless bag of the multicolored treats barely hanging on with paper claws. I put in my coins. My palms got all sweaty and the thing is, I was really just buying them out of boredom. I wasn’t really even hungry. But all of the forces of goodness and all that is right came together and dropped not one, but two glorious bags of sugary, nutty goodness. I only ate one bag though, because eating the second would not only mean that fate would have me choke to death on one, but I would have to tack on another 10 hilly miles to my ride in the morning.

I'm buying a lottery ticket for sure tonight.

look

2006-01-13T11:34:00.000-07:00

When I am in a building, looking up at the sky and see a plane, I sometimes wonder if someone in the plane is looking down seeing the building I'm in. And then I wonder if that person is looking down thinking, "I wonder if someone is looking up at this plane out their window."

So when I fly, I always look down at the buildings just in case someone is looking up wondering if I am looking down

medical play by play

2006-01-11T12:45:00.000-07:00

Is it just me, or is there a bit of a morbid interest in Ariel Sharon’s minute-by-minute condition? After this latest stroke, it seemed like the media was completely on the edge of their collective seat just waiting, almost hoping for him to die so there would be this big world event.

Every hour brought headlines that were prickly with anticipation.
“Ooo! He’s not gonna make it!”
“His hours are numbered.”
“Not likely to recover.”
“His catheter bag is full.”
“He wiggled a finger.”

Jesus. Play by play is for football.

meet your wife on tv

2006-01-10T14:19:00.000-07:00

Ok, I admit it. I watched the Bachelor last night. Take away my Man membership card. My wife and I told ourselves we were not going to watch it and get wrapped up in yet another, um, unscripted, raw, “reality” show. But really – there was nothing else on and you just know that we have to have the TV turned on. And hey – from a guy’s perspective, don’t you sort of get to live vicariously through the bachelor dude’s eyes? I mean, we get to see the 25 more-or-less attractive gals he has to choose from, after all.

Well, when you start looking closely, maybe half are fairly attractive on the surface. The others are really downright, well, not all that attractive when you look more closely. I know, I know, beauty is skin deep. But admit it – to a guy, there has to be a physical attraction on some level. Like it or not, guys have the whole visual stimulus bug and that’s that. The beauty that lies on the inside is a bonus. Pigs we are.

So there was the one gal who was doomed the minute she shook the bachelor’s hand. She was just creepy and the end result was hilarious. Most of the ladies were lighthearted and friendly, but not this gal. I believe her name was Allie and right out of the chutes she gets all serious on him. Poor bastard. He barely knows her name and she informs him that she wants to have his baby. EEEE EEEE EEEE! And then she thinks that because they both work in the medical field, the competition might just as well be over. Never mind the fact that she looks like a garden gnome, bachelor boy senses weirdness and is already planning for a security guard.

The time comes for him to hand out his limited allotment of roses for the chicas he wants to get to know, and the rest are sent packing like sorority girls doing the walk of shame on Saturday morning. With each rose handed out, the camera focuses on this Allie chick. She feigns a smile but it is wrought with bitter tension. She knows she’s going down, but she tries not to show it yet, for to do so would definitely end any remote hope of advancing. Another rose, and another. None for her. She is ready to burst. Finally, the last rose…..BUT NOT FOR YOU!! Destroyed, she stomps outside to commiserate with the other losers and even they appear to be not so bad next to her. She looks utterly evil as she begins her tirade of “he’s just like all the other guys….I have tried internet dating, dating services, set ups from friends…nothing works!” Oh, I’m sure it has nothing to do with you, Allie.

Then, the best part. She gets that insane and over-dramatic “you gotta fight for what you want” thing boiling and she stomps back into the mansion, grabs the bachelor and makes a total ass of herself as if he might say “wow, you really are determined…you must be the love of my life”. Again he tries to explain very nicely that “Allie, you’re way too psycho for me and if you want babies, you’re gonna have to go find someone else to stick it to you”.

The tragedy is that she’s now off the show, and the grueling hilarity that further incidents might have spawned will now be missed. I can hardly wait until next week.

words from Chef

2006-01-06T15:17:00.000-07:00

Sitting here with a piece of chocolate in my mouth reminded me of a favorite South Park episode. A few lyrics from Chef:

Say everybody have you seen my balls they're big and salty and brown. If you ever need a quick pick me up, just stick my balls in your mouth. Oh! Suck on my chocolate salty balls, put 'em in your mouth and suck 'em.

Man, that's funny stuff.

breakfast of champions

2006-01-06T09:52:00.000-07:00

For quite some time, one of the few tiny perks at this office has been a nice hot breakfast supplied to us the first Friday of every month. Usually, it would be pancakes or eggs, biscuits & gravy. On the really lucky days we'd get breakfast burritos or breakfast sandwiches.

Oh sure, the pancakes were rubbery, and the syrup was fake; the biscuits & gravy were utterly flavorless but it was something to look forward to even if the end result was a little disappointing. Sometimes, they would be out of regular fake syrup and supply us with sugar-free NutraSweet fake syrup. Or sometimes these fly-by-night caterers would forget to bring breakfast entirely, so they would throw some dried out danish and stale bagel halves into a basket at the last minute and call it good. But it was the idea that dammit, our management team cared enough to do something nice for us.

So this morning, I get up, pack my lunch, climb on my bike, and say to myself "Sweet! I'm starving and we get hot breakfast today!" Nothing could sound so good after a 40 degree bike ride.

I get to work, and there is nothing. No warming pans.....no breakfast. Maybe they're late. Still starving, I opened a packet of oatmeal I had in my desk: I can always eat the hot breakfast too since I'm so hungry. 8:30 and still nothing. Come to find out through the ever efficient rumor mill, they're not providing us with breakfast now, effective January 1.

It sure as hell would have been nice to know that ahead of time, you bastards. Maybe I could have stopped someplace and grabbed a bagel on the way in, but no – why would I possibly suspect that you jackasses might pull the rug out from under us without warning? That would be silly now, wouldn't it?

But of course, it’s really my fault. I should know better than to trust anyone in corporate America to be trustworthy, consistent, and efficient in communication. You know? I shouldn't be bitching. At least we are fortunate enough to be graciously rewarded with the privilege of wearing jeans on Fridays.

Christmas is for children

2005-12-26T10:46:00.000-07:00

To anyone who designs packaging for toys:

You suck.

Especially those of you who package Barbies.

naked finger

2005-12-09T15:03:00.000-07:00

Last night for dinner, I made vegetarian meatloaf. I know, I know.....what the hell??! Just like the kind your mom used to make, only I used Boca ground un-meat. It was frighteningly meat-like after it was baked. But good eatin' nonetheless, and chock full o' soy protein.

I even got my hands all in it during preparation so I could give it that good ol' messy mixed up texture that makes meatloaf more loafy. Beforehand, I took off my wedding ring -- something I never ever do, but for some reason it seemed like a good idea under the circumstances.

As I got halfway to work this morning, I realized that I had forgotten to put it back on. I might as well not be wearing pants. I feel completely naked and vulnerable.

I went to the mall during lunch and strangely, despite having no wedding ring, not one woman approached me and tried to ask me out. Not even any flirting glances cast in my direction.

Good to know that life as a single man is no different than when I was actually single.

green chile

2005-12-08T13:37:00.000-07:00

I have never had sex at work. But let me tell you, after eating this bowl of vegetarian green chile from Illegal Pete's (www.illegalpetes.com) the moaning and lip smacking coming from my cube might well lead one to believe that something bawdy was going on in my cubicle. I feel like I should eat it under my desk where no one can see me.

Mmmmmm. Green chiles, tomatoes, jalapenos, crushed red pepper, chunks of potato....spicy, but not miserable. It is a fireplace on a cold winter's night. A train ride to New Mexico. A girl named Rosa who doesn't speak English and has long dark hair. It was elixir that transported my mind far away from these three grey walls of despair.

I feel alive. I want more.

today's conference update

2005-12-01T17:12:00.000-07:00

Quote from a director of a major telecom organization to an audience of about 75 industry professionals:

"Customers can request their bill to be electronical"

report from a thrilling conference in lovely virginia

2005-11-30T15:45:00.000-07:00

Reporting direct from the Telestrategies conference on billing and invoicing, here was today's Most Ridiculous Quote/Question:

"Is integration driving functionality and technology, or is technology and functionality driving integration?"

WHAT THE.............?!

Dear Insurance Industry...

2005-11-17T16:01:00.000-07:00

A rebuttal letter I recently penned to Aetna regarding a charge they are refusing (so far) to pay after my son's surgery. He's doing fine, by the way.

The surgical assistant’s office that participated in my son’s surgery forwarded me your denial of their original rebuttal and I, as your customer, am outraged. Please consider this as my Level II - and hopefully final - appeal.

This claim for $598.40 was denied because “…the services described…are not eligible for payment…there is no documentation of exceptional difficulty or complications that warrant allowance of an assistant surgeon…”.

Put down your rule book right now. As a human being, I want you to look away from the guidelines that dictate this corporate fiasco and think rationally for a minute. Read this very carefully. On May 5th, 2005, my six month old son had brain surgery.

Let me say that again. On May 5th, 2005, my six month old son had brain surgery.

There is no such thing as brain surgery that is not without “exceptional difficulty or complications”. I don’t care what your code or your Clinical Claim Review Medical Director says. If our neurosurgeon needed an extra hand with my son’s brain, then that is his call. You, Aetna, do not dictate circumstances surrounding the procedure when my son is lying on a table with a hole in his head. That is not your right. If he needed 25 or 30 people in that operating room, then that’s what he needed. Aetna, you stick to insurance please, and leave brain surgery to the neurologist.

In addition to the hilarity of your claims that brain surgery is a solo act, one of your representatives informed me that the reason for the denial was because the service being billed for was for that of an RN rather than an assistant. Well, here’s some news. That person was what’s known as an RN First Assistant/Certified First Assistant. Put simply, in the State of Colorado (where this surgery took place), a Certified First Assistant can indeed provide this service and, in fact, possesses a higher degree of qualification than a generic surgical assistant.
In addition, the code that the Surgical Assistant’s office provided was obtained by using CPT Expert. The acquired CPT code distinctly provides allowance for an assistant for this procedure in accordance with the American Medical Association. Sounds pretty compelling to me.

Finally, I am greatly amused that you even have a tiered appeal process. It is clear to me that you expect the majority of your customers to simply roll over and pay the claim out of pocket when Aetna initially refuses. “We’re not paying this, but if you really want to go through the hassle and spend inordinate amounts of time and energy to fight this, we’ll keep putting you off through a series of fiery hoops through which you must jump in order to avoid any financial setback”. Yep. That’s what it says to me. Seems it would be easier for Aetna to cough up the cash and save us all a little time. Pocket change for you amounts to quite a nice Christmas for my children.

But hey. I’ll play the game. Here’s your Level II in writing. I hope you enjoyed my rant, and I hope you can put a human face on this situation rather than seeing my family’s experience as a code, a case number, or a claim number. My attorneys are waiting for the outcome.

Oh, and one more thing in case you forgot: my six month old son had brain surgery.

A Reason to Celebrate

2005-11-11T15:37:00.000-07:00

Did you know that November (also known as YESvember here at the office) is National Peanut Butter Lovers Month? YIPPEEE!

Well, here in my cube farm hell, we are never lacking for outrageous celebrations, as my regular reader(s) is/are well aware. Keeping with that annoying tradition, we are introducing a peanut butter potluck!! Participants are encouraged to prepare and bring in their favorite peanut butter-based recipes which will no doubt consist of such delicacies as peanut butter cookies, and…..and…..other peanut butter cookies…. ….and…..umm….peanut butter….uuhh logs maybe? Oh, I know. Peanut butter fudge! Yeah, fudge too! (note: nut allergy sufferers should stay well clear of the break room).
This will be one of the highlights of the year without fail, and that’s including crazy tie day. I can’t think of a better theme month to celebrate with unbridled jubilation and glee.
Gee……I wonder what the company has in store for Black History Month. Let’s see. What did we do last year? Can’t seem to remember for sure. Oh well. Doesn’t matter. Black History Month couldn’t possibly be any more important to recognize than National Peanut Butter Lovers Month.

(Thanks, Sean)

I Couldn't Make This Up if I Tried

2005-10-27T14:02:00.000-06:00

There is no wise-ass comment I can make that will add to this. It stands alone. It was sent via email at work:

Yes You Can
It's the way most of us say it, just matter of factly.
Plain words by themselves, those three.
Words that can be written on a thumbnail, or blasted across a bright autumn sky.
But remember, together, these are more than just words.
They are our way of doing business.

In keeping with the spirit of Yes You Can, your local Spirit Team doesn't believe we should recognize November.
We believe we should turn next month into Yesvember.
A full month of activities designed to help make Yes You Can more than just three words.
Stay tuned for full details.

The Spirit Team

Cars and Bikes, Bikes and Cars

2005-10-20T10:56:00.000-06:00

So it has been pointed out to me that I should write a note or two about “bikers” not following traffic laws. First of all, I prefer the term “cyclists” because “bikers” brings to mind Harley guys. Not that there’s anything wrong with Harley guys, but you get the idea.

In my previous rant about having close encounters with motorists, it was suggested that driving 5-10mph over the speed limit does not constitute driving like an a-hole. And I agree. I do it. Everyone does it. But there’s a little more to it than simply the speed limit. My words, “…for that particular stretch of roadway” is the key phrase there. And the fact is that at times, it seems that people rip down this road at more like 10-15mph faster than the speed limit – again, it’s a curvy, slightly hilly road. Drive a little faster on a relatively straight stretch of road, no problem. But on this road, some kid doing 50 in his crappy little beat-up, 1990 tuner Civic is eventually going to wreak some havoc.

Anyway, on to the lawless cyclist part. I couldn’t agree more. You see, I happen to obey the laws of the road, and many of us do. However, there are a lot of hotshot guys out there who are either morons or think they’re way too cool to obey traffic laws while on bikes. This gives cyclists in general a bad name, and provokes comments like, “Stay off the road with your bike and you will have nothing to worry about!”, or simply “Hey! Get off the road!”. More comments on those comments in a moment. Bottom line, there is no excuse for my fellow two-wheelers who ruin it for the rest of us. I can’t tell you how many times I have waited at an intersection for a light to change regardless of whether there was traffic. Yet invariably, every time, another rider comes zipping by me as if I am some kind of dork for obeying the light. Frankly, I hope these guys are ticketed, and I hope that law enforcement officials get a little tougher with offending cyclists. Wouldn’t bother me at all, because I obey the lights and signs, and I use hand signals while in traffic.

Now….what can I say about the “get off the road” comments without getting red-faced?
Fact is, a bike is a vehicle (yes, yes, I know, then we must obey the laws too – we’ve already gone over that). And the fact is, there will always be bikes on the road because bike trails don’t go absolutely everywhere. No, to answer your next question, we can’t ride on sidewalks. It’s dangerous for several reasons, and it’s illegal unless you’re a little kid. So as long as motorists can get it through their skulls that hey, cycling is becoming a bigger sport here in the U.S. (especially in Colorado) and start to come to grips with the reality that there will be bikes on the road, then we can all start to learn how to share the road. Would I love it if there were no cars on the roadways? You bet! Since that’s not realistic in the least, I have learned to watch out for motorists who might not be watching for me. Hopefully, in time, angry drivers will realize that maybe that guy on the bike up ahead has a good reason to be out riding. Maybe he’s trying to make some kind of difference. Maybe we should not shout obscenities at him, or throw something at him, or try to seriously injure him by running him off the road.

My sport is cycling. I need to be on the roads. I don’t get pissed off when the little kids in my neighborhood play hockey in the street and I have to wait a second or two for them to move so I can get in my driveway. So no, I will not stay off the roads, but I will hope that the cars I encounter won’t kill me. And I will hope that more cyclists are like me and obey the laws so that we will all start to gain respect on the road.
(Thanks to mark25 for the note!)

Drive Fast

2005-10-13T12:13:00.000-06:00

I must preface this by describing the road on which our office building sits. It is pretty curvy, kind of hilly, and many blind spots.

Today someone sent out an email to everyone with the subject line: Speed Trap.

The message:

All ~
There is a speed trap set up west of the building just past the putt putt golf course. Be careful.

Thanks for the heads up, Don!!

To which I replied:

“Personally, I think people driving like maniacs and a **holes should be caught, not spared/warned ....co-workers or not. Trust me -- as a bike commuter, I see way too many on that road up close & personal.”

(I had to use asterisks in the note since it was work and all. That way, no one would really know that what I meant was “ass”)

Oh great. So we use corporate resources to encourage us to look out for Da Fuzz. Go ahead and break the law and endanger others – we’ll warn you and let you know when you need to drive safely and reasonably for that particular stretch of roadway.

Robot Alert in Austin

2005-10-08T23:29:00.000-06:00

Listen. Do You Hear That?

2005-09-27T13:51:00.000-06:00

The man weekend. No strippers. No poker. No smoking. No pornography. No vandalism. No hiking, no mountain biking, no sweating. Just an annual gathering of a close circle of friends with the mutual goal of doing absolutely nothing. The only form of self destruction is beer harmlessly and methodically administered over the course of days. Otherwise, there is nothing requiring much thought beyond what kind of beer is next. No TV, no radio.

This surely must be the most uninteresting, spiritless, complacent group of men ever to congregate. Haven’t these guys seen any beer advertisements with bikini models in bubbling vats of water, thrashing rock & roll bands, and hilarious hijinks? Did these guys forget the college years? Have they lost their will to live? Are they not men? A whole weekend away from wives, children, and girlfriends and they don’t totally take advantage of it? What happens in the mountains, stays in the mountains – shouldn’t that be the credo signed in blood by all participants? Is this really a man weekend? Hey, at least none of us took showers or used hair products.

Each year, starting last year, those of us who have remained closely knit through college and beyond (plus an additional friend or relative who has garnered more than enough respect to be welcomed into the personality mix) gather at a pristine location nestled within some of the most incredible, mostly virginal forestry just west of the crumbling-but-almost-charming town of Como, Colorado. It is there that we congregate on the cabin deck at roughly 10,000 feet above sea level and begin telling stories, making fun of each other, and laughing for no good reason for roughly two whole days. And there is food. Maybe we’re renaissance men (unintentionally), but man we make some good food: burritos which include whole wheat tortillas, brown rice with lime and cilantro; custom omelets with such things as capers, horseradish cheese, and Portobello mushrooms; freshly made spinach lasagna – the list goes on. The beverages we chose were a veritable United Nations taste treat – representatives from Scotland, Ireland, England, Germany, and even some small towns in Colorado.

So what’s the big deal with this reunion when nothing happens beyond storing calories? The answer lies in that very question – there is no big deal and that’s exactly what was needed. We work and work and work, then we go home and turn into husbands and fathers (not that those last two roles are bad, mind you) then sometimes we work some more after the family is in bed. We stress and strive to make solid lives for our children and we sacrifice for ourselves. So yes, it is quite entertaining to go to a beautiful place and do absolutely nothing but eat, drink, laugh, and be dumb.

It seems our lives are so cluttered with doing things. As if the act of going to work wasn’t drudgery enough on its own accord, there are always team picnics, company “fun” days, and happy hours. Our weekends are spent doing all the things we didn’t have time to do during the week, and wedged in there are the things we feel we must go do that really maybe we don’t always want to do: neighborhood get-togethers, poker nights, baby showers, helping someone with a project….things that are not bad, it’s just that they sometimes get in the way of precious free time and we are often too nice to say no.

We create our own stress, to a large extent, yet we rarely take a step back any more to breathe a couple of good lungs-full of cleansing air. It’s as if we are too busy to realize how busy we are, how pre-occupied we are, how over-baked we are. But if you can ever stop long enough to see that there is a need for little space, you must take the opportunity not to make something out of nothing, but rather to enjoy nothing for what it is.

It's how business gets done.

2005-09-22T12:29:00.000-06:00

I kid you not. The text listed below appeared on our corporate website as part of a press release. I have removed certain words and names to avoid litigation should this get into the wrong hands, but still the meaning (or lack thereof) is clear (or not). These words came directly from our CEO, or at least from one of his minions. But what I would really like to know is.......what did he say??????

"Beginning with a timely merger approval unencumbered by divestitures and a very effective integration management process with an intense focus on the customer and employee experience from day one, we are off to a fast start. We are integrating…operations and we are on course to deliver on these opportunities. Our improved outlook for synergies will more than fund the additional commitments we are planning for our infrastructure. This added investment will continue to differentiate (us) and reflects our positive view of growth prospects."

Oh yeah -- be prepared.

2005-09-21T10:26:00.000-06:00

Today, Sept., 21, 2005, we received notification here at the office that September is National Preparedness Month.

Yes, more than halfway through September, we have been informed that this entire month is devoted to being prepared. I’m not sure what we do about the first two weeks of the month, but it’s good to be aware that we should be prepared for the rest of it.

I’m pretty sure that had some big catastrophe occurred, say, on September 16th, I would be laughing my ass off right now because hey – we didn’t know we were supposed to be prepared until today! It was probably a way of saying “we forgot to tell you, but don’t forget to be prepared”.
But then, this office has an emergency preparedness manual hanging on the wall near one of the fire exits. So in the event of an emergency of some sort whether an evacuation, a bomb threat, or a nuclear attack, please feel free to thumb through it prior to your mad scramble out the door. As you head out to gather up your family, please be thinking about how we can continue to do business.

2005-09-20T14:08:00.000-06:00

never, never, never, never letting go
never giving up, never saying no
just go, go
never stop and never think
just do, do, do
do the right thing

Daddy catalyst

2005-08-26T10:24:00.000-06:00

I view child-rearing as my opportunity to raise some humans who are not idiots and who can contribute to counterbalancing the snowballing turd that is our society.

Hey! My Sharpie!!

2005-08-19T15:38:00.000-06:00

Last Wednesday, Lance Armstrong came to town for the grand opening of a new 24 Hour Fitness Sport facility at Lowry – one of their marquee locations bearing his name. These particular facilities are top notch and if you ever set foot inside one, it is a veritable shrine to the man himself. Yellow is the dominant color scheme and huge images of him hang everywhere. Powerful Lance Armstrong quotes adorn the walls and inspire greatness, or at the very least one more set of squats, 5 more minutes on the spin bike, one bench press more than before.

As a member of the Lance Armstrong Foundation’s Peloton Project (the grassroots fundraising element of the LAF), I do my best to attend events whenever Lance is in town. I almost feel as if it is my duty. He doesn’t know me, and I have never met him, but still it is a great day whenever I am able to see him in person. Although I have seen him speak on several occasions, I’ve never really tried very hard to get his autograph – just some snapshots with my digital camera and a handful of cool shots with my 35mm and a zoom lens. I always thought that if I avoided the mad rush for an autograph, then maybe it would allow just one more person who was fighting cancer or who was a cancer survivor to get that much closer to the man who had helped them get through their ordeal.

But Wednesday, a golden opportunity was placed in my lap. A door opened, literally, that enabled me to obtain my personal holy grail – the autograph. After watching Lance’s question-answer session inside the facility it occurred to me that it was doubtful he’d be hanging around chatting at length with the staff. Maybe a visit to the restroom, grab a bottle of water, and off he’d go. So I went outside and spied his stealthy black vehicle at the end of a walkway which had been cordoned off with white plastic chain. As my eyes followed the train of people lined up for a brush with greatness, I saw it: the exit door. Somehow, as if the spot had been reserved for me, I stepped right up to the little square of real estate next to the door. If Lance came out and looked to his right, I would be the first person he saw.

There I stood with Lance’s second book Every Second Counts (a highly recommended read, I might add) opened to a page imprinted with a photo of him and his son. My Sharpie was uncapped, ready to go in the event this might be my lucky day. Suddenly, I looked up and some enormous humans emerged through the door – his security force. That meant Lance was next. Out he came into the blinding Colorado afternoon sun wearing some swell mirrored sunglasses that looked like they had been borrowed from Eric Estrada’s “CHiPs” wardrobe collection. He paused momentarily right in front of me, looked down at my opened book, took my Sharpie into his seven-time-Tour-de-France-winning hand, and scrawled his autograph. Then, he proceeded down the line with my Sharpie signing other items as he made his way into the getaway car. I have never been so thrilled to lose a pen.

So there it was. The autograph – sought by many, obtained by relatively few. I stood there, stunned for a moment, completely unable to react; a 40-year-old man suddenly all jittery-kneed and bubbly like a 7th grade girl who was just asked on her first date. Had I been able to speak, my voice almost certainly would have been all warbly and falsetto. I called everyone I could think of with the giddy energy of a new father because in my mind, this event placed right behind my wedding and the births of my children. This was my autographed John Elway football.

Now, some of my friends think I need help. They are searching for a 12 Step program for those who are pushing the boundaries past being a fan, leaning toward over-zealous. Ok, so maybe I was a little more excited than I should have been. Maybe it’s not “cool” for a man of 40 (I feel 28, mind you) to even have a hero. Maybe I am cheesy to shamelessly look like a “me too” member of the Lance bandwagon.

But really – is it so bad to have, as one of my inspirations, someone who has survived cancer and won the most grueling sporting event in the world seven consecutive times? The fact is, this man helps people and in my book that’s someone we should all stand behind.

Now… if I can just get a photo with him…

Hurray.

2005-08-12T14:28:00.000-06:00

Any time I see pom-poms, I get pretty excited. It could be a lingering stigma from a crush I had on a cheerleader when I was in high school. Maybe it’s the enticing motion they create when waved enthusiastically in the air, or possibly the sensory stimulation of the SHH SHH SHH sound they make if shaken violently in a berserk frenzy of zealotry. A mere glimpse of them never fails to elicit a “Hey. Pom-poms!”

But let me tell you, never before have I been so aroused by pom-poms as on the day we had all been waiting for: the announcement of our new company logo. I will never forget that magic day as long as I live. I can only wish that I would have been fortunate enough to have been in attendance at or corporate headquarters that day. Since I dwell at one of our remote Denver area locations, I watched longingly from the solitude of my cube. How lucky the folks at headquarters were to be a part of it, to be in a room full of equally exuberant people drooling at the first official glimpse of the new moniker.

Right there on my computer monitor, it was almost as if I was there. Before my eager eyes, a split screen video emerged. Music that had no doubt been deemed “edgy” by the corporate crowd fueled my anticipation. There were dozens, maybe hundreds of people in each screen absolutely rabid for what we were about to see. Apparently, they had no concern that the unveiling would ultimately mean a sudden and untimely end to their livelihoods. Maybe they were just so pumped up that it didn’t matter. Nothing could cloud their unbridled jubilation, and the breeze created by their pom-poms proved it. Red ones and yellow ones flailed about with all the vigor of a pep rally for the Indiana state high school basketball championship.

The split screen combined into one and we see our excited host thrusting her microphone into the faces of eager audience members. This was her Oprah moment. She had always had aspirations of dabbling in TV news or talk shows, but somehow she just never got the right internship or something.

But if you’re pretending to be a reporter/talkshow host, what do you ask a prisoner in a captive audience? She points the microphone into this poor guy’s face: “And who are you?” Always a great way to begin a conversation. He answers with what I assume was his real name. “What’s your prediction?”, our host asked. What the hell kind of question is that? Prediction? Prediction for what? Do we assume she means a prediction for the new logo? Or could it be just some general prediction for small talk? His answer: “I think the Redskins are gonna beat the Chiefs!” Boy, did that get the audience riled up! It even elicited tandem thumbs-up responses from both CEOs! Nothing says “everything is going great” better than two new pals joined together by financial fate slapping each other on the back, smiling with dollar signs in their eyes, and shoving a big ruddy thumbs-up in our faces.

“Back to you in Kansas!!” our hostess bellowed. The feed jumped to an image of a vice president of something who quite obviously had other things he’d rather be doing than pretending unsuccessfully to be David Letterman. “We’re live with a rautious crowd…..”. Rautious? Did he say rautious? Either he meant obnoxious and started to say raucous, or he had a cue card that said riotous and he couldn’t read – another corporate success story of a boy who never read much, nor could he write, but somehow he stumbled into a six figure salary. His first interviewee was up. “And what do you do for the company?” he asked. “Whatever it takes to get it DONE!!” the interviewee proclaimed as if the rest of his career depended on how he answered that question. And he honest to god was completely serious about it. I swear he wasn’t being a smartass or anything. Who were these people in the audience?! What a bucket of crap! I hope he was fired.

So the pom pom shakers just went nuts with that one because they felt the spirit…..the go gettum spirit that makes this country great and the spirit that shall rocket this newly melded company into tomorrow. Hang on a sec – I gotta go vomit.

Ok, so anyway the camera slowly zooms in on the VP of Marketing. As he gives his bit about how we are better than the competition and that’s why we’re going to be #3, two disinterested, button-down, pocket protector types can be seen standing on the far left edge of the screen. If you looked closely, you could see the panic in their eyes as they realized they were on camera but had stopped jiggling their poms. As if simultaneously prodded -or threatened- they both became tremendously animated and jostled their poofy poms with so much corporate spirit and glee that I thought they might have wet their collective pants.

A full ten minutes into the video joy fest, the time had come to see what could have been simply sent to us all in an email message. A video screen appeared on the stage, and a graphic-rich, swirly vision began to take shape. And there it was. A very brief awkward silence, then applause and hooting, whistling and fist pumping. Oh wait – someone missed the cue. A few seconds late, banners and balloons fell from the sky like angels with the apocalypse. And yes, pom-poms. Lots and lots of pom-poms. My god, you couldn’t possibly shake pom-poms any harder than these people were. I was stricken with the morbid fascination that occurs when watching scenes of terrorism or an evangelical revival. Again, the two CEOs became Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin; Bing Crosby and Bob Hope; Beavis and Butthead – slapping each other on the back like two fraternity bothers about to score with the twin blondes from the dorms.

I can’t even fathom what this display must have cost our fine company. Probably at the very least, two employees’ salaries. Sorry – some of you may be confused by the term “employees”. It means the same as “headcount”.

All I needed was to see the logo so I’d know the name on my paycheck. I didn’t need a party. But the pom-poms were nice.

I wa aying at ou shou ca me on my cell

2005-08-12T10:12:00.000-06:00

Cell phones. As far as I know there has never been a technology so broken and imperfect yet so widely used throughout the world.

Imagine if our cars only worked in some areas or stopped running unexpectedly in the middle of a trip.

The Lance Armstrong Foundation

2005-06-20T13:52:00.000-06:00

Around the same time Lance Armstrong was facing his battle with cancer, I had just learned that my mother had lung cancer. All I knew about the disease was that people usually died when they had it. I was perfectly healthy and in my mind it would never affect me personally. This time, it had. Not directly, but this was my mother, so it was indeed personal.

Several months later, my father informed me that he had prostate cancer. As far as we knew, there were two options: either the victim died, or had a radical prostatectomy which meant adult diapers and embarrassing accidents. There were very few alternative treatments that we were made aware of.

My dad made it about a year before he passed away, withered and brittle; frail bones and flesh. My mom fought as hard as she could and always remained optimistic. She died exactly one year to the day after my father.

A few years later, as an avid cyclist, I was astounded to watch Lance Armstrong win the 1999 Tour de France. To win a stage of the Tour is phenomenal. To win the race, almost unimaginable. And of course now, to have won it six consecutive times and try for seven is nearly beyond comprehension. The most amazing part of it all? He owes it all to cancer. It taught him to fight. It taught him to endure pain. It taught him how to be a survivor.

There are many wonderful organizations dedicated to fighting cancer, searching for a cure, and helping people. But the LAF is a little different. It focuses not only on research, treatments, and cures, but also advocacy, clinical trials, and most of all survivorship. The LAF promotes knowledge and education. It teaches the newly diagnosed to pursue every last bit of available information, to ask questions, to get a second and third opinion. It teaches the patient that cancer must not take control of his or her life. It provides valuable resources to those who have just heard the words “you have cancer”. And the LAF helps us all to LiveStrong.

Right now, more than 10 million Americans are living with, through, or beyond cancer. One in three will be diagnosed with cancer during their lifetime. Of those diagnosed,
64 % of adults will be alive five years from now, and childhood cancer survival rates are now at 78%. The LAF helps survivors get on with the business of living.

I have no guess at how many people might see this blog. But in case masses of readers stumble upon it, I will unashamedly ask for their help. The fact is, cancer affects everyone. If it does not impact you personally, then you very likely know someone who either has faced it or will face it. This year, in honor of Lance’s attempt at a seventh Tour de France victory, the Lance Armstrong Foundation has set a goal to raise $7 million with its “7 for Survivors” drive. As a member of the LAF’s Peloton Project, I am doing my part to raise as much as I can toward the effort.

Whether or not you are a fan of Lance (I know some people may still be all twisted up about his divorce), you can help the cancer community tremendously with a secure, online, tax deductible donation. If every individual who might happen to view this blog contributed as little as $5.00, what a significant amount that would be toward the overall goal. At the very least, please go to http://www.laf.org/ to experience the many ways that the LAF helps.

If you would like to donate, please click on the title of this submission.

Bike to Work...Or Not

2005-06-14T15:24:00.000-06:00

In Denver, we recognize Bike to Work Day on some Wednesday in the middle of June. Elsewhere, it takes place in May, however it is not uncommon for wintry conditions to loiter here until Memorial Day. For me, it makes little difference when it takes place since I commute to work on my two-wheeled steed pretty regularly all year long. My commute to the office is pretty short by cyclist standards, but I make the most of it to maintain some degree of fitness even through Thanksgiving gorging, Christmas feasts, and Easter candy gluttony. More importantly, I save on gas consumption and do my part to lessen traffic on our roadways.

I have been commuting by bike more often than not for the past four years. I have endured comments about my shaved legs, and snickers about my bike clothes so it occurred to me that maybe I could get others to try it. They don’t have to shave their legs or wear funny cycling clothes, but maybe they too might enjoy the detoxifying effects of riding to and from work.

This year, I thought it might be cool to promote Bike to Work Day here at the office, so I conspired with our friendly spirit team member to get the plan in motion. Our idea was to utilize the psychological advantage and overwhelming popularity of the beloved casual day, and allow anyone who participates in Bike to Work Day the opportunity to wear casual attire. Basically, it was a simple way to provide incentive for my coworkers to try alternative transportation while encouraging an active lifestyle if even for just one day. Spirit gal sent a note to the appropriate management chain for permission and we waited for a response. My god, you would have thought we asked for 50% salary increases.

Here was the first response we got from one of the management team:

“We have folks that bike to work on a regular basis without a casual day so I'm not so inclined to do so.”

I tried and tried to find some logic in that statement. I still just really can’t make any sense of that. If that sentence were a bird, it would have no wings. If it were a sandwich, it would have no bread. If it were a high school kid, it would have no date to the prom.

Disturbingly perplexed and bothered, I fired back a response which I knew had the potential to kick off a big shitstorm. But it was my duty as someone with the ability to reason. I thought surely if I used calm and rational logic, it would hit home and go off like a light bulb:

Dear (Senior Manager who shall remain nameless),

I understand the sentiment, but the idea /goal behind this was not just an excuse to dress casually, but more to encourage or entice others to try riding to work, if only for a day. It's simply a chance to show that there are other ways to get to work, save gas, reduce emissions, and promote fitness.

Thanks,
Brian

I don’t know what I was thinking. For a moment, I must have thought I worked someplace cool that is truly as embracing of diversity as it professes to be. Here’s the official word I received, but before you read it, put down your coffee so you don’t take a drink and spray it:

“And here is where my job stinks. From an HR perspective we can't target a group for a casual day. We either grant a casual day to everyone or we grant a casual day to no one. I understand exactly what your intent is, however I have to do my job so I said no.”

Ok, well I can sort of understand that point. I mean, you have to treat everyone in the workplace equally and fairly. And that’s why each year around the holidays, if you donate food and clothing to the local NBC affiliate’s annual drive you get casual day passes. Or when they decide we all need to take the afternoon off and go to a baseball game, those of us who would rather work or who can’t afford the ticket (yes, we have to buy our own) do not get casual day. Only the people fortunate enough to get to go to the game are rewarded with casual day. Oh—or if you donated items for a care package to send to a soldier in Iraq, you are able to attend a catered lunch as your reward. But that’s different. That’s not really targeting a group after all. No. No it isn’t.

Now, make no mistake – I really don’t give a shit if we get to wear shorts or jeans or whatever to work. It doesn’t fuel me to be a better corporate slave. Casual Day? Hey, that’s neat, but I’d trade all the casual days in the world for job security and a pay increase. But for some people, that’s the one sure way to motivate them to do something. And the beauty of it is, IT DOESN’T CUT INTO THE BILLIONS OF DOLLARS OF COMPANY PROFIT!! You can’t beat that! Happy employees and it doesn’t cost anyone a dime!

Maybe I’m being too harsh. I just don’t understand how the countless companies around town who provide free breakfast to Bike to Work Day participants manage to avoid litigation.

Whacky!

2005-06-02T13:28:00.000-06:00

There comes a time in everyone’s life when a critical decision must be made. For me, that time was last month and it further bolstered my desire to get out of here. I know there are workplaces that are somewhat professional, yet they allow individuals the freedom to be…..well….individual. There are places where khaki pants don’t matter and your contributions are more important than which shoes you wear. Maybe I need to work at a place run by hippies. Or an ad agency. Maybe someone could pay me royally to write crap like this on a regular basis.
I digress.

Each year here at one of the largest cellular companies in North America, our craptacular HR personnel decide when we can wear what. Specifically, on May 15th, it is suddenly acceptable to wear shorts. Only appropriate shorts, mind you, and only on Fridays. Because on Fridays, we apparently are not required to be professional. This makes me wonder why we need to show up at all on Fridays, but again I digress. Then in September, I believe also the 15th, the debauchery of shorts-wearing ceases since you know, it’s Autumn and all. Never mind that temperatures hover in the 80s well into October. September is it, dammit, and we shall not bare our legs. As an aside, our first allowable day to wear shorts was rather chilly, yet our good friends in HR failed to warn us with “NO SHORTS TODAY DUE TO COLD!” And I thought they were looking out for us with the edict of shorts/no shorts. We are too insipid to determine for ourselves how to dress seasonably.

So this year, seemingly in an effort to make sure everyone knew it was ok to wear shorts once again, our spiffy crew of well-dressed, etiquette-honed HR professionals issued a declaration straight off the cutting room floor of the movie ‘Office Space’:

May 16, 2005 - May 20, 2005
Casual Dress all week with a theme each day.

Monday - Hawaiian Luau Day - time to break out those Hawaiian shirts, you know you have one...
Tuesday - Crazy Tie Day - how big and crazy can you get?
Wednesday - Sports Fan Day - show your team spirit
Thursday - Around the World T-shirt Day - wear one of those souvenir t-shirts from a vacation
Friday - Crazy Hat Day - pull out that 10 gallon cowboy hat

With Summer almost here, it is a great time to review the dress code.
Employees violating the dress code will be sent home.
Details on the treats will come shortly.

These declarations are so fantastic that they really require no comment. Just head shaking. Shake your head. Go ahead – I know it’s unbelievable. But I shall comment anyway. I must.

Hawaiian Shirt Day. The staple of all office merriment. For starters, there was no luau (what’s with the office luau anyway??? it seems to keep haunting us). The only “treat” was at the building next door which is inhabited by all of the people exploring their first jobs outside of the fast food industry. They had a chocolate fountain and people from our building were not invited. They were checking ID badges at the door, and there was a two item dip limit. Treat indeed. They had precisely calculated the amount of chocolate required for the fountain if each person dipped only two things. I'm sure they assumed that everyone would only be dipping food.

Crazy Tie Day – We don’t wear ties to work in the first place. Who thought it was a good idea to allow us to wear casual attire (shorts and t-shirts) then ask us to drape whacky ties around our necks? This event was about as popular as George Bush giving the keynote address at a stem cell research seminar.

Sports Fan Day – Ok, not much to bitch about there. I mean, a fairly high percentage of folks wear team shirts anyway on casual day. But I have to say that this was not very creative, you HR minions.

Around the World T-shirt Day – I think the most exotic thing I saw was “Hard Rock Las Vegas”. Not a single “I went to Buckingham Palace and Kissed the Queen’s Ass” shirt to be found. Not even “I survived the Tsunami”. Nothing. And still no treats as promised.

Finally, Crazy Hat Day - I’m sure they had visions of everyone running around the office like madmen hooting and hollering, pointing at each others’ outta sight hats, laughing hysterically, and truly enjoying this marvelous place we loosely call “work”. They call this work??! AND we get to wear crazy hats?? How much better could my life possibly be?

I don’t know. Maybe we all just would have appreciated a week of wearing comfortable clothing without the games. Most of us have moved beyond middle school and we don’t really need to be given a lollipop at the doctor’s office any more. But it might have been nice if we had received the glorious treats we were promised. Well, actually on the exploding climax of the week, Friday afternoon brought us a couple of tubs of ice cream, a vat of hot fudge, and a handful of chopped nuts.

The Pump

2005-05-04T15:03:00.000-06:00

Can anyone explain to me the idea behind lotion with a pump bottle? Or any sort of viscous liquid in a pump bottle for that matter.

Here in Colorado, and probably other arid climates as well, you live and die by your lotion. If you don't use lotion, it is a fact that you will crumble and flake away like ashes from a cremation urn. So we know our lotion here. We buy it in large quantities. Huge bottles with "convenient" pumps.

Convenient, that is, until you get down to the last few ounces. Then you pump and pump, and only receive a spurt, then a small glop for your efforts. Go ahead. Take the lid off. Look inside. Yep! Another week's worth of lotion sitting unobtainably in the bottom of the bottle.

It seems as though Europeans are smarter in this arena. Maybe it's because they've been around longer than us Uhmurikuhns and have become adept at using every last drop of their viscous fluids. In Germany, for example, you can find everything under the sun in a squeeze tube. Mustard, ketchup, mayo -- you name it. Sounds sort of like our toothpaste, doesn't it? You can roll that tube up and eek out the very last smidgen of the stuff.

So why is it we perceive the pump as a luxury, or a convenience? Does anyone else see the frustration and waste with extracting the remnants at the bottom of a pump bottle?

Is it just me??

2005-04-08T14:40:00.000-06:00

Here is something I hate more than just about anything.

The problem is people trying with all their might to sound smart, or official, or cordial, or something. If you have been in the corporate world in the last 2 or 3 years and have been forced to endure a conference call, you have heard the one phrase that is about to make me completely blow a gasket. Here it is:

"I can speak to that".

FOR THE LOVE OF PETE!! STOP IT!! People use the phrase when they mean to say "I can address that" or "I would be happy to discuss that". Someday, on yet one more meaningful conference call, I am just waiting for someone to say, "Brian, can you speak to that?" Oh, I just can't wait. I will come unglued. Why is it so freaking difficult say "I can address it"?

Even more.....where did this phrase originate? And why? If I can find the jackass who started it....oh man.

Do you walk to work or bring your lunch?

2005-03-18T20:35:00.000-07:00

The big excitement at work this week is the addition of a toaster oven.

It frightens me to think that IT people might try their hand at creative culinary delights. Gradually, the refrigerator has begun to fill up with exotic ingredients and I can see a day in the very near future when one of my co-workers gets the idea that baked salmon would be a swell idea for lunch. Because you know -- it's not enough to smell up the place with a microwaved shrimp dish.

Today was the beginning of the calamity. A few of us had made a friendly wager based on the first time someone flamed up a tasty treat in this not-suitable-for-the-office appliance. I bet on today, the first Friday of the oven's sure-to-be short-lived existence. My rationale was simple: Fridays are special and people bring food and make special things. Undoubtedly, any given nimrod could get all excited about toasting or baking something. Between being unfamiliar with the apparatus and sheer dumbassedness, I figured Friday was the day we would experience a craptacular inferno never before seen in our lovely workplace. Other theories relied on an accumulation over time of various crumbs, drippings, and coagulations. Valid, but mine was the most viable given human nature.

I nearly won the wager today. One of my buddies came running into my cube and whispered excitedly, "someone's making a waffle in the toaster oven....and it's sitting on a paper plate!"

Word spread faster than the impending flames and five or six of us went running like schoolgirls to the break room to watch the conflagration ensue. It never occurred to a one of us that we should immediately yank the scorching paper plate out of the oven. We were too excited to see if my brilliant theory would be the winner.

The fun ended when the hapless soul responsible for the moronic act arrived just in time and removed the golden brown waffle and browned paper plate. She removed it from the oven without a comment as if what she had done was completely normal and correct.

We must have laughed about that for a good 20 minutes.

2005-03-10T22:17:00.000-07:00

There is more to life than work.

Effective Business Travel

2005-03-10T11:03:00.000-07:00

My younger co-workers are trying to kill me. This is an account of one fine day during a recent trip to our east coast offices.

I got up yesterday at 5:30 am eastern to go work out at the hotel gym. That's 3:30 a.m. my time. I had been up the night before until 11:30. So I worked out, came back to my room, ordered room service for breakfast, got ready, and headed to the office. I endured a grueling day of drudgery and left the office at 5:00 or so. One of our local cohorts invited all of us over to her place for a home-cooked meal. This was nice. She even made stuff without meat for me. I thought, "Cool. After this, I can go back to my room, watch Lost and Alias, relax & crash early". The only part of this business trip I had looked forward to was a couple good nights of sound sleep since the recent birth of my son.

Well, what I didn't know was that my co-workers - the ones with the keys to the rental car - had planned to go straight from the dinner to this bar (Ed O'Tool's or something like that contrived to sound like a cozy Irish pub). They had planned a little birthday celebration for this bartender gal they have befriended at the Hilton where they have taken up a second residence (they travel A LOT and drink A LOT while doing so). I was now officially a party hostage.

By the time we got to the bar, I was already ready to cash it in for the night, but noooo -- this bartender friend of theirs hadn't even gotten off work at the Hilton yet and it was almost 10:00. So we waited. And waited. Finally she showed up and it was apparent it wasn't going to be a "happy birthday, let's have a quick drink, see you tomorrow" session. The gal arrives: mid 40s; kind of heavy, bad teeth; she has had a hard life. She gives us all hugs. Big, annoying, unwanted, I-don't-really-know-you hugs. She told us of her deep sea fishing experience during which she was topless and hauled in a 50 lb tuna. I got the impression that my road warrior co-workers are this gal's best friends. This is really sad because they are, after all, business travelers and live thousands of miles away. The best part was that during the seemingly 20 minute uncomfortable and more-or-less awkward hug, her yellow bleached hair smelled exactly like a pink urinal cake.

As I mentioned earlier, the bar was an Irish pub-themed joint. I would have welcomed a little penny whistle, squeeze box, and fiddle trio singing traditional Irish folk music while everyone swayed, swilling pints of good Irish stout, singing words that sound like "yo ho ho" and "derry o' darlin' Maggie McCreary" or something. Instead, it played terrible thumping club music and there were balding business guys hanging around drinking scotch.

As in any bar at any given point in time, there was the one chick who seems to kind of be with one guy, but as she drinks becomes more ambiguous in her relationship with him. She goes out and dances suggestively with the same saucy hip rolling motion song after song, arms in the air while she looks down coyly at her feet. Occasionally someone can be heard yelling "WOOOO!" One by one, the balding business guys get up their nerve and figure "what the heck -- I'm on the road and maybe just maybe I'll get lucky with the local bar tease". She merely frustrates them and always goes back to the guy she came with and eventually leaves with, but not before grinding on him in the entryway of the, uh, "pub".

The military guys were really enjoying the show before they shipped out to try & avoid becoming roadside bomb casualties in Iraq. The balding business guys went back to their rooms for some self abuse and helmet polishing.

Got back to the room around midnight:15 and back at it again the following a.m.
I don't think I drank this much (or as often anyway) even in college.
I gotta rent my own car next time.

Post-mortem, continued.

2005-02-28T14:14:00.000-07:00

With the publicity of Hunter S. Thompson's desire to have his ashes shot from a cannon, a couple pals of mine have added their post-mortem wishes to my last submission:

"i would like to have one thumb up my ass and the other in my mouth, then be flung from colorado blvd and I-25 into downtown denver from some sort of very complicated catapult."

"i want to be opened up and stuffed with hard boiled eggs, frozen and pulled out in time to be stuffed into the ventilation system of the social security building hq here in denver right before they begin to seasonally use the heating system."

I'd like to be shot out of a cannon, please.

2005-02-16T13:46:00.000-07:00

I could make millions. And so help me, if someone runs with this idea, they'd better pay up.
It's a revolutionary new funeral home.

Rather than placing corpses in caskets, we would put the deceased on display for the viewing and funeral service. To be specific, the corpse would be posed in whatever manner the family desired. Or if the deceased knew that he was about to give up the ghost in a matter of days, he could specify, "When I die, I would like to be posed in a running position" for example. At the funeral, the posed corpse would be placed upon a platform for all to view. Much more entertaining than simply placed like a log in a velvet-lined box.

The face could be manipulated to show a grimace, or a big cheese-eating grin; or a mouth wide-open aghast, or tongue sticking out. You could do an "action adventure" pose, a wrestling ready stance, a victorious arms in the air thing; sitting cross-legged with a glass of merlot, or even perched atop a bike. For more money, the family could pay to have the corpse partially animated -- say, a waving arm, or legs turning the cranks of the aforementioned bike. Maybe even a mouth that opens in concert with a recording of the departed's voice. Kind of like the animatronic presidents show at Disneyland!

Then after the funeral, rather than being buried, the deceased could be placed in a room called "Museum of Smelly Corpses" -- not unlike a wax museum, only these were once actual bodies. For yet more cash, the family could put the posed deceased in a museum-quality sealed glass case. A small maintenance fee could keep the carcass animated indefinitely or until the moving part fell off.

As long as dying is part of life, we might as well forego the tears and have a little fun in the end.

Yet Another Reason to Hate the Corporate World

2005-01-28T15:55:00.000-07:00

Recently, we received a mass email which continues to amuse me. Amuse? No, maybe it just bothers me. Here it is:

Your Human Resources team is hosting a CARNIVAL - Luau style!!
When: Wednesday from 1:00 - 3:00
Where: Conf. Room 1077/1079
We will be having games, prizes and giveaways, you won't want to miss out
on all the fun. Stop by and test your HR knowledge for the chance to win
some great prizes.
We look forward to seeing you there!!!

This is such an easy target on so many levels. And it raises so many questions.
A CARNIVAL - Luau style. This conjures up some distinct imagery, doesn't it? You could take 'carnival' in the Rio, or Mardi Gras sense -- drunken, costumed revelers making noise, baring breasts, etc. Or we could use carnival in the freak show sense. In either case, the unlikely and awkward pairing of CARNIVAL and Luau makes me really uncomfortable. I imagine LuAnne, the Fish Girl who has no arms and has webbed feet hunched over a roasted pig taking chunks of pork from its glistening rump using only her teeth. Or Bendo, the Amazing Rubber Boy demonstrating his prowess at the Samoan fire dance.

And to me, this still doesn't really tie in to the overall concept of "HR and fun". Why would a bunch of Telecom IT drones be willing to participate in such merriment? Whose idea was this? Test your HR knowledge. Isn't that why we have an illustrious team of HR specialists? If we have a question, couldn't we just ask these people? Why would we even possess enough knowledge about HR to win the great prizes?

We're not in third grade. Please, next time, just give me a folder chock full of HR information. Save your budget. Better yet, let's put everything on the corporate website and you all can go find something better to do.... like maybe beef up your resume.

I was Dumbfounded

2005-01-27T15:50:00.000-07:00

So I go to the grocery store yesterday to get a jar of nuts. I always have to have something to munch on at my desk, and Planters Dry Roasted Lightly Salted peanuts were the only thing that would make me happy. I paid and walked out of the store with my glass vessel of briny little treats firmly in hand (only they were lightly briny, to be exact). What happened next would shake what little faith I had left in humanity. Or at the very least, it further enforced my firm belief that Americans are largely careless and lazy despite their alleged prosperity.

I got in the car and watched in what seemed like timeless slow motion. An older gal, say 60, pushed her shopping cart out to her car. She took her bags out of the cart, and placed them into the rear of her Subaru Forester then closed the tailgate. She pushed the cart about three steps away from her car, then let 'er go so it would roll to the adjacent curb. Not an uncommon occurrence, really.

But the kicker is, the parking lot gently sloped. And the cart rolled lazily in a beautiful arc right into the side of someone else's car. I still cannot believe this lady even let the cart roll in such close proximity to someone else's vehicle. Here's the best part. As she let go of the cart and sent it on its tragic journey, she immediately turned away as if dropping a child off at pre-school for the first time. "If I let 'er go, and just don't look back, then it won't hurt". BAP! The cart hit the car. The lady ignored it for a second. Then she realized what happened and that someone might have seen her. After already committing herself to ignoring what happened, she must have felt deep inside that what she did was wrong. OR FREAKING STUPID!

She turned for a moment apparently to go pull the cart away from the violated car. You could hear the words "aw screw it" in her mind as she got in her Forester and drove away.

It gets better. There was a cart corral not more than 25 feet away. So to this lady and all my fellow Americans I say:

Walk. Walk. WALK your lousy cart back the extra few feet to the cart corral. Burn off a couple of french fries. It really really isn't that hard. I promise. I always do and I can sleep a bit more soundly at night just knowing that no innocent vehicle endured any trauma as a result of sheer laziness. Please join me, won't you?

Mr. Smarty Pants Guide to Success in Middle Management

2005-01-25T15:07:00.000-07:00

-Nothing says "I'm in control" like setting up another conference call.

-The best way to establish yourself as a leader is to know who to blame.

-The number of meetings in a given day is directly proportionate to the efficiency of a well-run organization.

-The best way for someone to learn is to criticize them, then let them try to figure out why.

-The only way to get results is to be unnecessarily aggressive.

-Nothing gives a clearer picture of progress than a colorful bar chart.

-The most effective use of meeting time is to print out a presentation, then read the slides out loud to everyone.

-He who speaks the most and the loudest must surely be the smartest.

-Coming in early holds no merit because no one sees you. Stay late and neglect your family if you really want to make an impact.

-If you can't think of your own ideas for methodology or inspiration, cover your cubicle with motivational quotes from famous people who are smarter than you.

-Be mean. Gain respect.

-There is no time to think about the answers you give. Thinking indicates you don't really know.

-A snap decision may end up being the wrong one, but hey -- at least you looked confident.

-Nothing says "thanks for all you do" like a foam can cozy emblazoned with a corporate logo.

-The best way to assess one's work is to reduce it to a number.

-A video conference is the best way to allow colleagues across the country to watch you read a presentation.

-Anything...ANYTHING can be tracked in a spreadsheet.

- Use neat phrases like “reach out” instead of “contact”; “going forward” instead of “from now on”; or “issue” instead of “problem”.