Takin' It to the Streets

My dearest Jennifer,

Though you will never read this document, my heart yearns to possess you so much that I feel the need to write down the steps I will soon take to make you mine. Some might call this cynical; I call it an expression of true love. Here, then, my sweet, is my ‘sinister plan,’ as it were, the result of which will be the fulfillment of our destiny as a couple united in passion now and forever:

I will assemble two years’ worth of notes on folk tales and oral histories of the Midwest into a concise 45-minute program of Native American storytelling.

I will adopt the name “Benjamin Wingfoot” and wear traditional Cherokee garb for my performances, and I will let my graying hair grow even longer in tribute to those proud Indian elders who gave us these rich stories to pass on to our youth.

I will make out a grant application to the Waldorf County Council for the Arts, asking them to partially subsidize a tour of local schools, churches, malls, and senior centers so Benjamin Wingfoot can go boldly amongst the populace to relate my 45-minute program of Native American storytelling and music.

If that grant application is rejected, I shall appear in local coffeehouses with my program, using their open mike nights to tell such vivid tales as “Runs Like Rain and the Spirit of the Lion,” “How Little Squirrel Helped the Gods Invent Thunder,” and “Why Falling Wolf Befriended the Bear.” My vivid words, my elaborate arm and leg movements as I seem to become the characters in each tale (including the animals, which I will mimic to perfection), and the accompanying cassette of authentic Cherokee drum and flute music shall combine to create an indelible cultural experience.

After I have spent a year or so mastering my program, I shall invite you, my lovely Jennifer, to one of these performances under false pretenses, telling you that your friend Jay is performing with his rock band, and on that night you will be treated instead to the spectacle of me, your seemingly platonic supervisor at Omaha Steaks, transformed into a one man theater piece, a burst of pure stage energy who will ultimately both educate and seduce you in the space of forty-five minutes using little more than my Native American storytelling skills. The fourteen years separating our ages and the two dollars separating our hourly pay rate will fall away magically as I prowl the stage speaking fully memorized text, whooping and singing and even dancing when necessary to convey the tales I have chosen to relate. It almost seems unfair to plot against you in this way, knowing there can only be one outcome: our arms around each other as you melt against my chest, finally understanding all that I have within me.

Yes, Jennifer, yes, it shall be. Now I shall burn this document so that no one ever discovers my pure, secret longing. I forget if you open or close tomorrow, but either way, you shall be in my dreams tonight!

Only a Slight Improvement Over "Spanky"

To all my closest friends,

I truly feel I have been a kind and sympathetic compatriot to you throughout the years, perhaps even giving to a fault: absurdly generous with my Netflix suggestions, spare Safeway coupons, and offers of rides to the mall, even after I’ve passed out literally dozens of handy wallet-sized bus schedules to everyone. You, in turn, have treated me with relative fairness, though on this day I simply can go no further until it is revealed to me why, since 1992, you have all been referring to me jokingly as “The Stigmatic Rhinoceros.” When the term was first used, I took it to be a transient inside gag, but over the years it has become a true psychological burden, and when it was used so liberally during your group wedding toast to me, I must say that both I and my darling new bride Cornea had finally had enough (Cornea’s giggles, I assure you, were caused entirely by her foolhardy intake of Diet Sprite, which I have told her sternly many times skews her personality in a most unfortunate way). I have here taken the liberty of compiling some reasons that this grievous nickname may have come about, and I am asking all of you to simply place a check mark next to the one that has made me suffer in silence for thirteen years as I have become to you not the popular proprietor of one of the Delaware Basin’s leading billiard and bar stool outlets, but instead nothing more than "The Stigmatic Rhinoceros":

* In 1991 I did form a well-received but short-lived choral group which I named The Automatic Hippopotamus. The unusual moniker aside, I see no reason why the group should be mocked, since we received notable acclaim from the Dover Disher for our performance of the score of “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” at Highland Methodist Church in November of that same year.

* In 1989 I self-published a volume of my early poems using the binder my mother bought me and called it The Dogmatic Triceratops. Again, making fun of this would seem unnecessarily cruel, as the book, while not a “sales smash,” was sometimes noticeably missing from its place on the shelf at Pete’s Coffee, where Pete himself was kind enough to place it for the enjoyment of his patrons.

* In 1990 I do recall asking several of you what I should adopt as my nickname, since I never had one as a youth, and tentatively suggesting to you that I be referred to henceforth as The Democratic Platypus, since that was the name of the monthly newsletter I wrote, published, and distributed to my fellow politically-aware acquaintances in Mrs. Beemp’s seventh grade French class.

* In 1992 I was attacked in broad daylight by a stigmatic rhinoceros. The rhinoceros, which had managed a brave escape from the Salisbury Zoo after the media converged upon it in pursuit of the story of the beast’s inexplicable tendency to bleed from the extremities on Good Friday, was subdued by police only after he and I engaged in a brutal, unforgettable fourteen-minute mono-a-mono struggle inside the Seneca Mall food court which I shall never, ever forget. I knew that all of you were aware of the incident, but simply assumed, justifiably I feel, that it would drop from your consciousness within a couple of days.

In sum, friends, if you care for me, you will both cease and desist in your use of this regrettable nickname, and also visit me here at the correctional facility more than once in a blue moon so I can experience real human contact once again, because let me tell you, as horrific as you think it might be to live amongst murderers, kidnappers, rapists, and drug dealers, you have no real clue until you get here how stand-offish they can really be.

You Do What You Can Do

What have I liked most about being a paranormal investigator for the past seventeen years? Oh, wow, that’s a tough one. Hey, I knew the date was going well, but I didn’t think we were going to get so personal, ha ha ha! That’s a little joke on my part, but seriously, to me, the joy of paranormal investigation has always been about the smudges. Every couple of years you see that special smudge in a time-lapse photo of a dark staircase or a shadowy bedroom, and it makes it all worth it. I and my peers get so excited about what the smudge might be---a restless ghost? A tortured soul who cannot lie still and is reaching out to us from the afterworld? Oh, there’s nothing quite like the excitement of a clear, well-defined smudge! Even when the smudge turns out to be an overexposure error or a thumbprint or an accident of the light, as it always has, the thrill of the “smudge moment,” as we call it in the field, simply cannot be equaled. What else have I liked about the life? Well, let’s see….I would say I’ve enjoyed the thousands of hours of silently videotaping empty rooms in the homes of complete strangers, or standing out in the cold and rain holding a boom microphone for hours over the grave of someone I never knew. Also, I’ve truly enjoyed working with so many different kinds of paranormal professionals, of which there are three kinds altogether: the painfully shy and secretive middle-aged man with dubious academic credentials, the fat Wiccan woman who lives with six cats and reads romance novels when she’s not claiming to hear spirits speaking to her, and the good old-fashioned outright scam artists who didn’t quite have the nerve to go into the pornographic film industry. Also fascinating too are the common folks who hire our team to investigate their domiciles, what with their heartbreakingly naïve belief in the afterlife and disturbing lack of formal education. We don’t see many fully stocked bookshelves in the homes we visit, no ma’am, ha ha ha! That too is a small joke. Oh, and I don’t want to forget the deep sense of satisfaction that’s come to me through never producing a single tangible piece of aural or visual data that can be considered remotely plausible evidence of a world beyond what we can touch and feel. And did I mention the silent disappointment on the faces of family and friends whenever I speak of what I do for a living? How about my inability to secure a normal job at a four-year university because of almost two decades of embarrassing misadventure in an utterly discredited area of research? You can’t put a price on any of it, really. But back to you, my dear. Let’s discuss your life now. Are you quite certain that you should be dating on Craigslist when you’re still married, involved in an already fierce campaign to seize the Democratic nomination for president, and surrounded by Secret Servicemen? Oh, I see….I understand. Then this is just for the one night, then. Well, I suppose that’s okay….um, yes, my apartment is relatively clean at the moment, though my roommate might---sure, we don’t have to talk to him, we can just go straight to the bedroom, that’s all right, I guess….here, if you’re going to pay for the hamburgers, let me at least pay for the milkshakes. Nobody makes them like Johnny Rockets, eh? Eh?

$8.85 An Hour: An American Saga

Dear Employees of Dollar Tree South Wilmington,

As district manager, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for the effects of last week’s Bring Your Old High School Bully To Work Day. I honestly did not foresee the possible negative consequences which might arise by resuming contact with your old high school bullies and introducing them to our workplace. Rest assured, forty percent of the cost of medical treatment for the injuries you sustained will be covered by your Dollar Tree health insurance policy pending submission of the proper paperwork.

Due to the possible legal ramifications of theme days, I am hereby cancelling Take a Shot at Treating a Co-Worker's Arrhythmia Day, September's Sewer Pipe Exploration Picnic, and the annual Christmas party at Bennigan's. Thank you for your understanding.

On a related note, please welcome Tanker Sippston as your new assistant floor manager. In the midst of the chaos that ensued on Tuesday, Tanker, who has never even held a steady job before, demonstrated the decision-making and assertiveness skills that Brian has not.

Have a great week!
Sidney Mmims
District Manager, Upper and Lower Delaware Region

Paragraphicus Nonsensicus

What is wrong with my stupid dog that he simply will not grasp the concept of his own mortality? I am seriously running out of patience here. Housebreaking wasn’t too much of a struggle, and teaching Bongoes how to catch the frisbee in his mouth actually turned out to be easier than I even thought, but on this thing I seem to have run into a total roadblock. Every day, for two hours a day, I’ve been taking Bongoes by the ears, leaning in real close, and telling him point blank that he is going to die someday, that the life he knows will cease to be at a fixed moment in time, that his lifespan is a short one in human terms and all that he sees, tastes, and touches will be gone forever and ever. All I ask is that he give me a little nod when he finally understands this, but all he does upon receiving this incredibly simple but incredibly important information is immediately look around for his chew stick. My neighbor Shelley, who has an unusually large head but is otherwise normal, says she had the same problem when trying to point out the necessity of a finite existence to Mr. Chipsie, but at least Mr. Chipsie eventually got with the damn program and displayed some basic comprehension of his inevitable last end. I checked out Jamie Farr’s How to Raise a Smiling Whippet from the library, and in it he recommends all the usual things: taking the dog to a cemetery, reading to him from Nietzsche…none of that worked, so I tried setting a freshly killed harp seal in front of him and giving him the speech again. That damn seal may as well have been the September 1987 issue of Tiger Beat for all the relevance it seemed to have for Bongoes. Seriously, I just don’t know if I could endure having to raise one of those pets who thinks he’s going to bury us all. Does this silly animal realize what could happen if he passes on without setting his affairs in order? What’s it going to take for him to accept his ultimate destiny and live out the rest of his days accordingly? I have enough on my mind with putting together this arson job on the summer house. (I don’t just want it to burn, I want it to burn big, you know what I’m saying? I went bankrupt buying it, and I won’t accept one of those weak-kneed suburban charrings that leaves the place half standing and only technically uninhabitable. I want to make the claims agent cry out, “Holy crap, a spectacle like this could only have been set in motion by the hand of the Creator himself!”)

Yeah, you’re right, I’m getting too worked up over things. Let me focus here, focus. Did I ask for the rib spreader yet? No? Where were we? We never finished the incision? I don’t even remember having the scalpel in my hand. You know what else, there’s no actual patient here, just the table. Okay, tell you what, we’re going to back up now, retrace our steps, and collect ourselves. This is not happening again so soon after the last one.

The Spririt That Built This Country

Dear Mom and Dad:

I know you may have trouble taking this letter seriously since I had nothing to write it on except the back of the bill for the dog’s ear medicine. But please know that I have given this matter a lot of thought and consideration, and my proposal is genuine. Last night at dinner when I brought up the Bud Cort Mirror, there seemed to be little or no reaction from anyone at the table. I would have expected my little sisters to ignore me, sure, and Uncle Bando was of course too involved in his relentless pursuit of the au gratin potatoes to hear a single thing I said, as usual. But when my own parents could not get interested in what I had to say about the stunning phenomenon of the Bud Cort Mirror, I was flabbergasted. Here I am, a nineteen year old lad just trying to figure out how I’m going to pay for my September sessions at E.Z. Wheeler's Driving School, yet suddenly blessed with possession of a yard sale mirror whose curious design and subtle lopsidedness allows anyone who gazes into it to kind of see what they would look like if they were Bud Cort. Do you have any conception at all as to how many people on this Earth would be interested to kind of know what they would look like if they suddenly morphed into the quirky star of Harold and Maude? I guarantee you this number is in the millions. My plan is simple: To charge the viewing public five dollars for the opportunity to stand before the Bud Cort Mirror for ten seconds to kind of absorb its incredible effect, thus taking in unfathomable amounts of money to be used for the future purchase of goods and services up to and including A) my hotel and restaurant management school education and B) the construction of the Bruce Dern Reflecting Pool which I described to you at length on May 9. But as the saying goes, you have to spend money to break a few eggs, and this is why I propose that you, my birth parents, immediately and without comment engage me in a loan of sixty thousand dollars to cover both insurance for the Bud Cort mirror and the construction of a parking garage just beyond the back deck, not to mention sundry

(I’m sorry, dear reader, but I have to end the blog entry a little early to gracefully accept an honor bestowed upon me within the last five seconds in the form of a very pleasant phone message from Darla Hoist at the Citizens’ Fund to Construct a Bruce Dern Reflecting Pool In Our Children’s Lifetime. To everyone at that fine organization, be assured I am only too glad to mention your cause here whenever I can, and when you go out of your way to suddenly name me your August 2007 Awareness Raiser of the Month, you make me feel both gladdened and excited anew to be associated with CFCBDRPIOCL. Onward and upward friends, onward and upward!)

Twelve Affectionate Names I Must Remember Not To Call My Girlfriend Anymore

1) Ol’ Flesh ‘n’ Fluids

2) Sweetie Tweetie Thighs So Meaty

3) The Madame Snookums Experience

4) Wee Baby BigButt

5) My Little Bowl of All-Bran

6) L’iI Loves-To-Lie

7) PermaSkank

8) The Masque of the Red Death

9) Papa’s Favorite Vagina

10) She Who Was Unable to Get Her G.E.D.

11) The Lyin’ Witch with the Wardrobe

12) My Beloved Coffin-Filler

Why Do I Read My Neighbor's Mail? Why?

Dear Ms. Barrymore,

Thank you for enrolling in Custom Celebrity Services‘ Oscar Grab program! We’re flattered that you’ve chosen us to assist you in your mid-career Oscar grab. As you know, we’ve helped more than two dozen middling actors and actresses jump-start their dream of grabbing an Oscar through the careful selection of a starring role as a pitiable but inspiring character who requires a physical transformation and/or a few hours of research for authenticity’s sake. As Will Smith, Charlize Theron, Halle Berry, and Sharon Stone can attest, it doesn’t take particularly great talent to bring home a nomination for an Academy Award---just good timing and the right amount of screen time as a survivor, unsung hero, tortured drunk, or crusader for somebody else’s right to do stuff! Your check for $1700 has been processed and we already have a few scripts for you to consider, each of which should go a long way toward snagging brief critical acclaim during the November and December Oscar push. Please select one (1) of the following roles, and after you choose a username and password, we’ll send you a link to a downloadable .pdf file of the script you’ve chosen to begin your quest for a few years’ worth of true Hollywood acceptance---and a couple of bigger paychecks before the studios realize you’re not really worth them after all!

Custom Celebrity Services would like to see you, D. BARRYMORE, as:

1) a fiery but nurturing high school teacher who gives a spark to inner city students by introducing them to the challenge and wonder of home canning

2) a mildly retarded gymnast who journeys on foot from her family’s trailer in Waxahachie, Texas to the bright lights of Manhattan in order to fulfill her dream of competing against other mildly retarded gymnasts and one who’s just faking it

3) the first female Civil War general, Amelia Proudheart, who leads a platoon of underfed Asian-American troops into battle and dies valiantly just hours after giving birth to the first African-American optometrist

4) a whistle-blowing reporter for the Chicago Tribune who gains and/or loses forty-five pounds in order to penetrate the secret underbelly of the cruise ship industry (or, if you prefer, gains and/or loses forty-five pounds in order to penetrate the secret underbelly of the DeVry Institute)

5) a terminally ill scientist who plays the clarinet for other terminally ill people and cures them with laughter and really awesome clarinet playing---only to learn that you can’t hurry love

Please make your final selection by September 1 so we can alert the Internet of your noble aspirations to become a legitimate actress. In the meantime, may we suggest becoming extremely vocal about a cause of some sort to generate some pre-Oscar-grab buzz? A list of possible causes can be found on the next page. We look forward to hearing from you!

PLEASE NOTE, THE NEW DEADLINE FOR MAKING A LATE-CAREER GRAB FOR THE LEAD ROLE ON A DRAMATIC SERIES FOR CABLE IS OCTOBER 9. APPLICATIONS NOT RECEIVED BY THEN WILL BE SUBJECT TO A $50 LATE FEE.

Why I Was Benched: A Thought Transcript, 8/12/07

I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

EIGHTY THOUSAND PEOPLE WILL CHEER ME WHEN I SCORE ON THIS PENALTY KICK

I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

THERE’S A FAT WOMAN IN THE THIRD ROW BEHIND THE GOAL WEARING ONE OF THOSE DRESSES THAT’S JUST ONE BIG PIECE OF MATERIAL WITH ARM HOLES CUT OUT OF IT

I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

UGLY MRS. FLICKAM WORE THOSE EVERY DAY BACK IN FIRST GRADE, EVERY SINGLE DAY

I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

SHE WOULD JUST GO BETWEEN A BRIGHT GREEN ONE AND A WHITE ONE WITH RED FLOWERS ON IT, EVEN IN FIRST GRADE I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING MESSED UP ABOUT THAT

I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

EIGHTY THOUSAND PEOPLE IN THIS STADIUM ARE WATCHING ME, FOCUS, FOCUS, IT’S ALMOST TIME

DON’T SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

YES, I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

BUT HOW DO I KNOW SHE ONLY HAD THOSE TWO SACK DRESSES? HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO TRUST MY MEMORY FROM FIRST GRADE?

I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

OKAY, OKAY, THREE MORE SECONDS AND YOU HAVE TO KICK THE BALL

I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

ISN’T IT POSSIBLE THAT SIMPLY BECAUSE MRS. FLICKAM WAS UGLY AND FAT LIKE THE WOMAN IN THE THIRD ROW, MY SUBCONSCIOUS HAS PLACED A BLOCK ON MY MEMORY---A KIND OF FIREWALL, IF YOU WILL---THAT WILL NOT ALLOW ANY OTHER POSSIBLE IMAGES OF THE WOMAN INTO MY PRESENT-DAY THOUGHT STREAM?

READY, READY, HERE I GO, I’M GONNA KICK THE BALL NOW

THERE’S GOT TO BE SOME WAY TO FIND OUT IF MRS. FLICKAM HAD OTHER SACK DRESSES THAN THE BRIGHT GREEN ONE AND THE WHITE ONE WITH RED FLOWERS ON IT. MAYBE I COULD SOMEHOW TRACK DOWN MEMBERS OF HER FAMILY AND THEN, I DON’T KNOW, PRETEND TO BE A BUG SPRAYER AND TELL THEM I NEED TO GET INTO THEIR HOUSES TO SPRAY FOR BUGS AND I COULD JUST HAPPEN TO STRIKE UP A CONVERSATION AND SOMEHOW I COULD GET THEM TO SHOW ME OLD PICTURES OF MRS. FLICKAM IN THOSE HIDEOUS SACK DRESSES

OKAY, HERE I GO, I AM KICKING THE BALL RIGHT NOW EVEN AS I CANNOT GET THE INEXPLICABLE VISUAL IMAGE OF AN OILY WOODY ALLEN REMOVING HIS GLASSES AND COMING UP BEHIND MRS. FLICKAM IN AN EMPTY BOTTLING PLANT AND INITIATING SEXUAL INTERCOURSE, MY FOOT IS DRAWN BACK AND IS NOW MOVING FORWARD WITH PERFECT ACCURACY AND I WILL NOT SCREW UP THIS PENALTY KICK

OKAY I WILL NOW GET UP QUICKLY BEFORE ANYONE IN THE STADIUM OR ON NATIONAL TELEVISION IS ABLE TO EVEN INTERNALIZE THAT I’VE TRIPPED OVER THE BALL AND SWALLOWED A BRICK-SIZED CLUMP OF DIRT, AND I MOST DEFINITELY WILL SOMEHOW EXPEL THIS SHOCKINGLY ENORMOUS MOUTHFUL OF TURF BEFORE IT TOO PUSHES ITS WAY INTO MY ESOPHAGUS

YOU KNOW WHICH LATER WOODY ALLEN MOVIE I ACTUALLY THOUGHT HAD SOME GOOD LAUGHS? MANHATTAN MURDER MYSTERY.

I WILL NOT RESIST THE EFFORTS OF THE PARAMEDICS

I WILL NOT RESIST THE EFFORTS OF THE PARAMEDICS

Into Battle They Marched

Hi everybody,

Tomorrow is the big day, Decision Day, the irrevocable end to a year and a half of research and inner debate. I have painstakingly analyzed the contents of the entire Oxford English Dictionary in order to pare the entire language down to just two candidates for the title of Earth’s Funniest Word. Tomorrow it’s nougat versus chicken, and simply put, only one of these words is coming out alive.

I want to make it clear right now that there are no losers in this contest; both words fought valiantly to defeat all the others I considered, from assface to zucchini. At this point, I could really go either way---they’re both fantastic words, yet only one, regrettably, can be king.

On the one hand, we have nougat. The pros: its usage is satisfyingly rare and overly specific, it of course sounds funny to the ear, and it’s hilarious on its own, with no context necessary whatsoever: you can just stand on a crowded street corner and say “nougat” and stop right there and people will laugh. Plus, it stands up to the Stanley Kubrick Film Title Insertion Rule: Can you put it into the title of a Stanley Kubrick film and wind up with something funny? Yes, yes, and yes. A Clockwork Nougat. Eyes Wide Nougat. 2001: A Space Nougat. Enough said.

But then there’s chicken. It’s got that 'k' sound we all love to hear, it has a longer history, and, most importantly, it represents a living, breathing creature which in itself is absurd to the point of genius. Nougat itself is not terribly amusing to the naked eye---and I should know, having produced three feature-length documentaries about it for Wisconsin Public Television---but a chicken? Come on. I’m dying just thinking about one. And the fact that after we mock them all their lives, we remorselessly slaughter them so we can have something to snack on while watching SportsCenter in an airport bar? It just makes the word fifty times more pleasurable.

Nougat. Chicken. The hours are dwindling fast, and somehow I still feel like I don’t have enough information to make my final decision. In the end, it may come down to the Monster Movie test: Which of these concepts would be sillier if it were to come from outer space and threaten humanity with unremitting carnage from above? The image of nougat pouring through the streets of Manhattan, drowning panicked and screaming pedestrians, as well as the Knicks' starting backcourt and Eve Ensler….not bad at all. But what about a giant chicken head rising into the sky from behind the Chrysler building, followed by a sudden flapping sound as the chicken prepares to attack? Just as solid, my friends. Just as solid.

You can see how difficult this choice is going to be on me. This is why I’m glad I waited till my seventh year of unemployment to make it, so I’m totally relaxed and focused.

Destinies May Vary

Well, I did it, folks. I did it. It took me twenty-one years and more sweat than I knew I had inside me, but here I am today, and I gotta just bask in this moment, friends. In 1986 I walked into a Prudential Financial Services office and took out a sixty million dollar loan secured by my family’s vast airline wealth, and I started an e-mail marketing company with two hundred and fourteen employees housed on four stories of one of the most fashionable skyscrapers in San Diego. And through nothing but guts, determination, and taking the risks that no one else dared to, I slowly pared that company down and made it virtually unrecognizable, starting in 1988 with the modest removal of the cafeteria and the unannounced layoffs of just three people in the Fulfillment department. Year after year I followed my dream relentlessly, working twelve hour days (including weekends) to reduce both the staff and the production numbers in every conceivable way. I still remember the day the New York Stock Exchange, stunned by our inert decision-making and uninspired profit projections, took us off their ticker---didn’t we party that night! In the late nineties we jettisoned the Board of Directors and got everyone working on the same floor for once, and by 2002 the health plan was gone and salaries were borderline embarrassing. Then came that magical March of 2005 when we barely made payroll at all! The department meetings got smaller and smaller, until last year it was just me and six other guys from college working here. Bob left, Ray died, Allen disappeared in Guam, and on this day in August of 2007, my dream has finally come true---my entire company, once a corporate monolith that commanded respect from the entire industry, consists of me tinkering in my garage with a single laptop computer. There’s forty-one dollars in my bank account and I haven’t eaten anything but soy butter for two days, but it’s all been worth it. No one has shrunk a major company like me with the style that I displayed, no one. They’re teaching a class at Princeton about what I’ve done! Some might ask what I’ve proved by gradually and deliberately wiping out two hundred and eighty-five million dollars worth of assets so I could wind up sitting on a cold cement floor in my gym shorts, sifting through a “database” that consists of nothing more than an Excel spreadsheet with the address and phone number of my only remaining client, Maury’s Burger Zone, on it. Well, ask me that same question when I go up to Amy Spednik at our twenty-fifth high school reunion and say right to her face, “NOW who’s ‘too conventional to really consider dating’, huh, Ames, baby??”

I bet she’s gotten fat, too. Oh man, this is gonna be sweet.

The Lessons Never Stop

It’s been a bad day. I made some discoveries.

You know what you shouldn’t eat first thing in the morning when you roll out of bed? Clams.

You know what you shouldn’t jokingly call the guy who’s interviewing you for a job even before he extends his hand to shake yours? A worthless pissant.

You know one of the worst denominations of American currency there is to dangle off a windy tenth story ledge because you’re kind of bored because you have nothing to do with the rest of the day after your job interview lasted ten seconds? A fifty.

You know where’s not a good place to go to find hot women in this town on a weekday? Antiques Roadshow.

You know what movie is not smart to watch with a forty-nine year old woman you met at Antiques Roadshow even if you wind up settling on her for the night? Glengarry Glen Ross.

You know when a bad time to start the movie is? One a.m.

You know what a mood killer is even if she were somehow able to get into the movie? The fact that you’re watching it on a portable DVD player as you sit in her station wagon in the parking lot of a Denny’s.

You know what’s surprisingly good at Denny’s, though? The veal.

A Reasoned Debate Empowers Us All

People, all I’m saying, and I don’t think I’m at all out of line here, is that we need to be very careful with this award. Time Magazine’s Man of the Year is something we want to have some class and some weight, and we’ve walked a fine line too often in the past. Forgive me, but I don’t see anything wrong with being predictable and bestowing the honor on a prominent statesman, politician, or influential celebrity. It might be a little boring, but it’s genuine. Giving Time’s Man of the Year award to the Backspace key gives me many, many reservations. I know, of course, from a strictly intellectual standpoint, that without the Backspace key our lives would be difficult ones, and that it has saved mankind from many a spelling error or ill-conceived comment. I love it and value it just as much as any of you do, but generating a little controversy with the award and “thinking outside the box” are slightly different than inviting public scorn and “being morons”. A few other suggestions which you’ve given me for the Man of the Year award also trouble me. I don’t think the wicker chair or the bridge toll basket have actually done all that much to deserve such praise in the media, and “getting some” is neither a man nor even a noun which can even really be depicted on the cover of the magazine with any accuracy. Let’s take a deep breath and remember that the phrase “Man of the Year” holds within it a fairly specific definition, one which doesn’t leave much room for Ken’s idea to give the award to “pretty balloons,” as he so succinctly put it in his memo, or Sarah’s notion that it be bestowed upon a hypothetical cable network which would show all the episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer in a continuous loop. Let’s just, for the love of God, focus on names of individual human beings who might be worthy of the praise we’re about to go national with. Let me throw one such name out here right now: Paul Anka. Come on, Paul Anka is Paul Anka, year in and year out, and everyone just knows it deep inside. Can I get a show of hands?

The Blog = Consumer Awareness

I hate to use this blog to embarrass anyone or anything, but one thing I can’t tolerate is low quality in a consumer product, and SparkleBuddy brand aluminum foil is just such an item. I bought a roll of this stuff with good faith and even a little excitement at the prospect of sampling something I hadn’t tried before. But I can say with some confidence that when it comes to screening out the terrifying mental assaults beamed at us from the hooded elders of Altair-4, this stuff is only about half as effective as Sunbeam foil or even the highly overrated Reynolds Wrap. After leaving my protective bubble and stepping outside on the back deck for just ten minutes while wearing a hat fashioned from SparkleBuddy foil, the intensity and anger of the Altair-4 projections increased tangibly. This is bad enough, but the foil itself is too lightweight and creases awkwardly when you put it on your head, and as for creating a little upright antenna atop your hat to catch the calming signals from the freedom fighters of Colonius Pi, you can forget it. The antenna will merely be wilty and sad. I crawled back into the house weeping and all but convinced that the Altarians had seized control of my brain forever. Only back-to-back episodes of Mad About You, Season Three, soothed my jangled nerves. It remains a mystery why major players in the aluminum foil game refuse to tap the vast market of people like me whose minds are under constant bombardment from alien mind rays and who need a durable but cost-effective hat to get through the daylight hours. Oh, I know, I know, you supposedly can’t go wrong with wearing a steel colander on your head, but I’m sorry, that just looks silly, and to me qualifies as overkill. There has to be a middle ground that we can all meet on.

Hey, if you see Sally, can you remind her I’m just completely insane and not really dangerous or anything? I invited her over for macaroni and cheese last week and haven’t heard back.