nearly a fortnight later:
the madness! the relentless attention i must distribute to the inane masses just to get through the day! the endless repetition of conversation that i endure to remain on the safe side of sane.
the holidays bring an armada of random insanity exhibited by otherwise normal people going about their day. instead of allowing generosity and the ideal of peace and goodwill to determine their character, a gross, misplaced sense of entitlement burns swaths across the streets, cities and hemisphere. laying selfish waste towards those who must tolerate them, from civil services to dinner servers, to retail clerks to clergymen, the innocent unfortunately must feel the subtle (and sometimes not so) brunt of ill behavior brought about by the holidays. whether trying to escape from family tension or struggling on an economical tightrope, the reasons don’t justify this malfeasance. it may merely be overindulgence or the overwhelming pressure of absurd societal demands, these causes drive some people to act unbearably unbecoming while supposedly enjoying the season.
these misgivings defy the very nature of the holidays and as long as there is unwarranted stress that becomes unwelcome abuse, these particular winter days oughta be tossed into the wilderness, forever to be lost in the bottom of the coal pile. long fuel for the frigid winter instead of tons of gasoline for the silly christmas consumer machine.
These new hills, corners, traffic controls and street dynamics are both intriguing and fearsome. My new neighborhood in Portland’s southwest hills are no laughing matter when it comes to vying for position and knowing exactly when to lean, when to yield, and when to open it up.
I took a short sweeper yesterday on the way to work and still relatively unfamiliar with the terrain, I dipped alongside and passed a woman driving her sleek, tinted Camry. I thought to myself that if I happen to low side because of these wet leaves or morning frost, this lady during her commute may just kill some idiot on his motorcycle.
Lose-lose situation for everyone.
Despite the real life fear of collisions or lay downs, these twisting, forested roads are like hard candy, single-laned Novocaine and bliss wrapped in violent revolutions of pistons and gross, unbroken horsepower. Mysteriously but helplessly fueling the greasy lust of a rider who relentlessly chases some yellow line that leads to an imaginary finish.
Why or wherever that may be.
The microchip has reduced me to a quivering little simp unable to read my own handwriting because very few things are written anymore since it’s all gone digital. That calligraphy lesson when I was a kid still sticks with me and I know how to scratch out a pretty nice lower case “a” but that’s about it. So if I’m not inputting or texting I can’t decipher whatever scratchy symbol my awful penmanship happened to produce.
The place where I used to work had an old-timey cash register that pings and dings and has non-LCD lights and each time the keys are plunked, wet ink is typed onto tape that winds around a spool for evidence and reference. This old register weighs about 100 pounds purely of solid state machinery that chugs on elbow grease and constant commerce.
People who work in places that sell goods or services should know the prices of their product but chips in computers have made store clerks and bartenders ignorant and lazy. Convenience is a strange animal to pursue because the animal has no idea what costs what. Now this particular animal rapidly taps a touchscreen like a musician or savant.
Unrelated: I’ll tell you what’s convenient, a bullwhip hanging from my hip for whenever I see injustice occur at about 8 feet away.
This new embarking of love and life has caught me slightly unawares, my usual knack for cunning remarks and quick replies has eluded me. This humble writer is smitten with a certain young lady that makes him laugh and weep simultaneously. Bless her to death! Additionally, met a fellow blogger at work today who deduced, brilliantly, who I was: Rich Bachelor was drinking at my bar, a talented beautiful nerd whom I wish I had more time to converse with was imbibing on mulled wine and Kentucky bourbon. Thankful for the serendipity that permeates my every step. Thankful for the certain inspiration that encourages my creative dalliances!
So I walked into work with this dirty black cloud of hate and impatience draped across my shoulders and I knew that if I continued to wear this cloak of hell my night would only drag and my misery would eventually produce a slow death in front of oblivious, slobbering, demanding gaggles of wealthy jackals. So I went outside and sprinted two complete laps around the adjacent building and proceeded to hunker down in the walk-in cooler and let my sweat cool against my skin like wispy ice drifts. It helped. Because as I sat I noticed the work of others. I realized how easy I have it compared to those who have twice as many jobs and instead of buying cool stuff they wire their pay to families they don’t even see. They never really whine like I whine. I whimper and begrudge when things are askew or if people irritate me. They, however, are stoic, magnificent creatures of labor and intensity. Let the jackals be jackals, I’ll watch the back of the house while striving to be a beast in the belly and my bitching will be under my breath, making way for levity and outlandish behavior fit for a professional fool.
In the middle of that ungodly busy little bar we stood, you stroking my pinky and giving me a look as if I was crazy to be stricken or smitten by li’l ol’ you.
Last week when you backed into the kitchen and demanded the statement you knew I had for you, in the midst of my frantic madness, in front of half the restaurant staff…all I could muster and grunt was some pedestrian expletive.
After today if you call me out in front of others I will deliver the goods you seek because I’m fairly certain that you want me to instigate your beautiful destruction by announcing our dark tryst. Assured that I’m the one to be the catalyst for your impending pleasure, the one to feed ALL of your senses instead of just the handful, your nonchalance is brazen as is your persuasion in making me do the dirty work to sweep away the filthy mess you know is about to occur.
We spoke briefly earlier but writing it makes it cement.
If and when I’m inside your body I will, without intent, truly ruin you. I will make you feel ways you cannot quite yet imagine and for every statement you utter that brings me down to earth I will trigger a response from your wicked, wily body that will be so villainous you will beg to be tied down as to not writhe out of your own skin. (Your spells have equal measure in torturing me as well.)
You’re all about calling bluffs, and I, love, am the last one you want to do that with, yeah?
Or am I the first one?
The lowest and largely most disregarded position of power in nearly any work arena is the dreaded, ambiguously gray area ruled by middle management.
A middle manager is neatly positioned between a honed, yet equally frustrated supervisor and a listless group of barely competent drones who mill about aimlessly, apparently chewing up resources which cause board meeting bar graphs to twist and buckle under the weight of labor costs. So unproductive these workers are, they require someone to oversee their slacking and hi jinks, a manager to answer to an actual boss while walking around pretending to be the boss.
Laddered just below a tyrant in training and barely above the wretched masses, middle managers walk the endless line of constantly pleading for true upper level support while rarely garnering any real respect from subordinates. No one takes a middle manager seriously because administrators perched on higher ground seldom champion anyone below them, especially if the status quo already meets the needs of the few.
Anyone in middle management who is cognizant of any glimmer of reality realizes the futility and how loveless their position’s purpose can be. They are desperately and silently searching for an alternate avenue to their goal while fitfully biding their time, chomping at a bit that seems bent on choking them to death.