I spent a good portion of my morning with a man named Lamont. Yesterday he approached me about carpooling over to ____ for a meeting that was also going to be broadcast as a SVTC, which stands for Secret Videoteleconference and is pronounced "sieve-itts". If one is going to remotely attend such a meeting, the act of doing so is called sievettsing in - this never ceases to crack me up. So when Lamont asked me to carpool I asked him if he had a car. He replied yes, and I told him in that case I would love to. That rather cracked me up too.
We took what he called his “humble black chariot” – an S class Mercedes Benz - and rode in style. Funny was such luxury for me (not “ha ha” funny) because I rarely ride in style. I am just not a rideinstyle kind of girl. Anyway, so as Lamont and I were discussing things or I was telling him one story or another, he would rejoinder not by saying yes” or “oh” or “hmmm” or “I see,” but rather he would nod and say “here here.” He would utter these words so frequently too, like one attending a gospel service might say “amen.” He would say "here here" so often over the course of my stories that I just kept on talking to see how long I could maintain both his attention and his concurrence. I am not typically a big talker (when it comes to people whom I have only just met), but I just wanted to keep blabbing on and on with him cheering me on with his "here heres," like the way people are inspired to keep running a long race because crowds are celebrating them. Hmmmuh. I just reminded myself of a funny pun that might take a bit of history to explain.
First I will make the pun/joke, then I will explain it. That way those of you who already know the background can skip over it and not be annoyed or bored. So, here goes:
'If Lamont were in a propulsion plant, where would you find him?'
'In a hear-here booth!'
Ha ha ha ha ha. I crack myself up – I know, I can hear the groaning (here) from all of those already in the know.
For those who aren't, here's the history (here): down in the propulsion plants it is very loud (due to the rotating machinery & steam). Therefore, when watchstanders have to communicate on the phone, they put their heads in soundproof booths that we call “hear-here” – or is it “here-hear?” I could never decide which – booths. So, yeah, that would be where you could find Lamont if he were in the propulsion plant. Okay, that horse is still dead. Sorry to belabor the pun.
So the meeting was good. I believe I gave good input, helped advance my cause and generally kicked ass. Funny, that is certainly a testament to my line of work now. In days past, I might have measured daily accomplishments by how much maintenance got done on my watch, whether we got underway or started the plants up safely, or whether we were able to engage all of our targets in suchandsuch an exercise. Instead, now all I can say is that I kicked ass in a meeting and I created and briefed a successful prep book for the General. Late in the afternoon yesterday (the wacko things always happen after 4 pm in the office, it is like the witching hour, things get a little squirrelly, people get a little punchy), one of my colleagues (we’ll call him Lou Brock) started cheering, “Yeah! Yeah! Damn, when I was a kid and I dreamed of being in the Navy, this was the stuff I knew I would be great at: printing off slides, punching holes, setting tabs, and preparing KICK ASS binders! Yeah!” You said it Lou. Here here!
28 October 2008
18 October 2008
As the Polygon Turns: Pageantry (Episode 12)
Though often thought provoking, the conference I attended earlier this week was beset by boring moments of poor oratory or overbelabored scholarship. To amuse myself during these latter instances, I created a beauty pageant in my head, featuring the conference attendees. Now these people to whom I refer are by no means "knockout models" or even people of "inner beauty." These individuals were those who might inspire you to sarcastically exclaim: "Look at him/her! S/He is a real beauty!" (or even a "bute," for short). So here you go, you be the judge. Here are the top five contestants:
Contestant #1:
He's a 40 something year old man sporting a Navy blue sportsjacket. Unable to decide whether he's hot or cold, he periodically puts his jacket on and takes it off. When he's not wearing it, he fastidiously arranges it as he might a drapery for the back of his chair. Careful to keep the shoulder pads just so, I wonder why he has been careless enough to fail to notice that his left sleeve has one fewer button than the right. He is THE MAN WITH SEVEN BUTTONS.
Contestant #2:
This man is a prune personified if he is anything at all: wrinkled in face, body, speech, and clothing. I am amazed that I had overlooked him all morning up until lunchtime - perhaps because OCD 7 button boy was my shiney nickel of the morning. He's easily 60-something with silvergrey hair scraggled about his neck and a bearded face like a lovingly crumpled dog bed. A yellowing undershirt tries to free itself at the collar from the confines of a scrunched up blue buttondown shirt stuffed into a green tweed blazer that had its heyday in the late 60s (1860s maybe). He carried his head like it was an obligation, craning it above the level of his hunched back, as a turtle would from its shell. And if appearances were insufficient, we witnessed the true breadth of his persona when he engaged us in conversation. Here is how it happened. My buddy JP and I were alternately hovering and (we'd like to think non-descriptly) pecking away at the dessert buffet spread, when the walrus made eye contact with us and started talking to us. So much as I can recall, our repartee went thus:
"Well, you know I just love blah military blah dishes in the sink in the grand canyon on a Thursday cream cheese afternoon bicycle fish armoire skates it was nice and I can remember times when clocks and general chairs with wheels friends on ice and cake with peach colored manage projects major tables..."
"Yes, hmmm" I said.
"You see, the best time was when flights of mice and mess machines with clown noses finger sandwiches..."
"Oh, yeah," JP chimed in.
"I am telling you that the jeeps of captain made the crumpets laugh and pickled dresses red and green Martians hot spots on the moon with green cheese..."
"Yes, hmmm," I nodded, feigning interest (what was he saying??).
"And so those were just the dog in the cat house of dinosaur history of the blah blah COOKIES!"
"Yes, Sir, I know exactly what you mean." JP affirmed.
Me, I nodded and noted aloud that the next presentation was about to begin. I excused myself. Holy crap, I can't believe JP followed that. I so suck at listening. A little while later, I asked JP what the guy was talking about and he said, "I have absolutely no idea. The only word I could make out was 'cookies,' and then he stopped talking." Oh, okay. That is contestant #2, The Walrus (coo-coo-cuh-choo).
Contestant #3:
Old Miss Inappropriate. She's a 45 yr+ woman in a mini skirt "Ohmigosh, Linda did you see that??!" Face quietly exclaimed with a look of quiet revulsion.
"No."
"She walked right by you as you were coming back to sit down... I don't know how you could have missed it." He waved his hand dismissively. "Some people do NOT need to be wearing miniskirts. Maybe 25 years ago… or maybe not..."
A little while later, during a presentation, he whispered and motioned for me to look across the room. And 'Oh My' was right. I saw her from a side profile, she wore navy blue tights, chunky pumps, a thigh-length cream-colored blazer and nothing else, so far as I could tell. Her skirt was THAT short. By the looks of her dyed, stringy black hair, monstrous quadriceps, and pancaked face, this broad was clearly past her prime. What could she have been thinking this morning when she assembled that outfit?
"She just has no business, no business, wearing a skirt like that," Face said, flabbergasted. She is OLD MISS INAPPROPRIATE.
Contestant #4:
Man with prostate problem(?). Before these days when they advertise every drug imaginable on TV, this thought would never have occurred to me. But as I saw a somewhat portly, concerned man, piddling about the conference room floor, in and out of the door, up and down from his table, back and forth to the exit, I thought, “perhaps he has a very week bladder. Perhaps his growing problem has become a going problem.” He’d sit down, seem very engaged, write a few notes, then apparently without cause, he’d get up, look around, and apologetically make his way to the door. Within five minutes, he’d inevitably return, stride to his seat and seem to pick up right where he left off. Fifteen to twenty minutes later, he would repeat the process. What was this man about, I wondered, what was his struggle? I began to feel sorry for him that he had to couldn’t stay engaged in the conference, listen to the speakers, and have his thoughts provoked instead of his bladder. Over the course of the day, however, it hit me. He doesn’t have a prostate problem… he is the main orchestrator of the conference. I am not sure if this suddenly banal fact and behavioral justification disqualifies him, but there you have it, Contestant #4: COMPULSIVE CONFERENCE COORDINATOR MAN.
Contestant #5:
Linen Lover. Okay, let me put this in perspective, it’s late October. We are in Virginia, not Cuba. It is NOT that hot here. Not hot enough to justify wearing an entire linen outfit. I think that this man simply wears linen as an excuse not to iron. One summer when I was in Montreal, I went shopping and considered buying a linen dress. Honestly what sold me on it was the gay guy’s declaration that wearing this, I need not worry about the wrinkles, “You’re on the metro, it’s hot and sticky, you get up, the back of your dress is all wrinkled, but no problem! Shoosh, it’s linen! No one ever expects linen NOT to be wrinkly, Sweetheart!” Oh, okay. I want to tell this man to just look around him: plenty of well-dressed and semi well-dressed men in Black, Navy, and Gray suits, Khaki pants and sports jackets… Seriously, Dude, why did you opt for the linen pants, linen jacket, and linen shirt? Was it to match your wrinkly leather bag? …hmmm wrinkles seem to be a fixation sticking point with me today. First the walrus, now this bloke. I know where he is coming from, but I can’t help but feel that his passion for this particular textile is a cop out on one of life’s essential chores: ironing. He IS THE LINEN LOVER.
So, what ‘ill it be? Who gets the award for Bute of the Weak? :
(1) MAN WITH SEVEN BUTTONS aka OCD BOY
(2) THE WALRUS aka COOKIE MONSTER
(3) OLD MISS INAPPROPRIATE aka MINISKIRT BITCH
(4) COMPULSIVE CONFERENCE COORDINATOR MAN aka POTENTIAL PROSTATE PROBLEM PERSON
(5) LINEN LOVER aka PRESSING PROTESTOR
Contestant #1:
He's a 40 something year old man sporting a Navy blue sportsjacket. Unable to decide whether he's hot or cold, he periodically puts his jacket on and takes it off. When he's not wearing it, he fastidiously arranges it as he might a drapery for the back of his chair. Careful to keep the shoulder pads just so, I wonder why he has been careless enough to fail to notice that his left sleeve has one fewer button than the right. He is THE MAN WITH SEVEN BUTTONS.
Contestant #2:
This man is a prune personified if he is anything at all: wrinkled in face, body, speech, and clothing. I am amazed that I had overlooked him all morning up until lunchtime - perhaps because OCD 7 button boy was my shiney nickel of the morning. He's easily 60-something with silvergrey hair scraggled about his neck and a bearded face like a lovingly crumpled dog bed. A yellowing undershirt tries to free itself at the collar from the confines of a scrunched up blue buttondown shirt stuffed into a green tweed blazer that had its heyday in the late 60s (1860s maybe). He carried his head like it was an obligation, craning it above the level of his hunched back, as a turtle would from its shell. And if appearances were insufficient, we witnessed the true breadth of his persona when he engaged us in conversation. Here is how it happened. My buddy JP and I were alternately hovering and (we'd like to think non-descriptly) pecking away at the dessert buffet spread, when the walrus made eye contact with us and started talking to us. So much as I can recall, our repartee went thus:
"Well, you know I just love blah military blah dishes in the sink in the grand canyon on a Thursday cream cheese afternoon bicycle fish armoire skates it was nice and I can remember times when clocks and general chairs with wheels friends on ice and cake with peach colored manage projects major tables..."
"Yes, hmmm" I said.
"You see, the best time was when flights of mice and mess machines with clown noses finger sandwiches..."
"Oh, yeah," JP chimed in.
"I am telling you that the jeeps of captain made the crumpets laugh and pickled dresses red and green Martians hot spots on the moon with green cheese..."
"Yes, hmmm," I nodded, feigning interest (what was he saying??).
"And so those were just the dog in the cat house of dinosaur history of the blah blah COOKIES!"
"Yes, Sir, I know exactly what you mean." JP affirmed.
Me, I nodded and noted aloud that the next presentation was about to begin. I excused myself. Holy crap, I can't believe JP followed that. I so suck at listening. A little while later, I asked JP what the guy was talking about and he said, "I have absolutely no idea. The only word I could make out was 'cookies,' and then he stopped talking." Oh, okay. That is contestant #2, The Walrus (coo-coo-cuh-choo).
Contestant #3:
Old Miss Inappropriate. She's a 45 yr+ woman in a mini skirt "Ohmigosh, Linda did you see that??!" Face quietly exclaimed with a look of quiet revulsion.
"No."
"She walked right by you as you were coming back to sit down... I don't know how you could have missed it." He waved his hand dismissively. "Some people do NOT need to be wearing miniskirts. Maybe 25 years ago… or maybe not..."
A little while later, during a presentation, he whispered and motioned for me to look across the room. And 'Oh My' was right. I saw her from a side profile, she wore navy blue tights, chunky pumps, a thigh-length cream-colored blazer and nothing else, so far as I could tell. Her skirt was THAT short. By the looks of her dyed, stringy black hair, monstrous quadriceps, and pancaked face, this broad was clearly past her prime. What could she have been thinking this morning when she assembled that outfit?
"She just has no business, no business, wearing a skirt like that," Face said, flabbergasted. She is OLD MISS INAPPROPRIATE.
Contestant #4:
Man with prostate problem(?). Before these days when they advertise every drug imaginable on TV, this thought would never have occurred to me. But as I saw a somewhat portly, concerned man, piddling about the conference room floor, in and out of the door, up and down from his table, back and forth to the exit, I thought, “perhaps he has a very week bladder. Perhaps his growing problem has become a going problem.” He’d sit down, seem very engaged, write a few notes, then apparently without cause, he’d get up, look around, and apologetically make his way to the door. Within five minutes, he’d inevitably return, stride to his seat and seem to pick up right where he left off. Fifteen to twenty minutes later, he would repeat the process. What was this man about, I wondered, what was his struggle? I began to feel sorry for him that he had to couldn’t stay engaged in the conference, listen to the speakers, and have his thoughts provoked instead of his bladder. Over the course of the day, however, it hit me. He doesn’t have a prostate problem… he is the main orchestrator of the conference. I am not sure if this suddenly banal fact and behavioral justification disqualifies him, but there you have it, Contestant #4: COMPULSIVE CONFERENCE COORDINATOR MAN.
Contestant #5:
Linen Lover. Okay, let me put this in perspective, it’s late October. We are in Virginia, not Cuba. It is NOT that hot here. Not hot enough to justify wearing an entire linen outfit. I think that this man simply wears linen as an excuse not to iron. One summer when I was in Montreal, I went shopping and considered buying a linen dress. Honestly what sold me on it was the gay guy’s declaration that wearing this, I need not worry about the wrinkles, “You’re on the metro, it’s hot and sticky, you get up, the back of your dress is all wrinkled, but no problem! Shoosh, it’s linen! No one ever expects linen NOT to be wrinkly, Sweetheart!” Oh, okay. I want to tell this man to just look around him: plenty of well-dressed and semi well-dressed men in Black, Navy, and Gray suits, Khaki pants and sports jackets… Seriously, Dude, why did you opt for the linen pants, linen jacket, and linen shirt? Was it to match your wrinkly leather bag? …hmmm wrinkles seem to be a fixation sticking point with me today. First the walrus, now this bloke. I know where he is coming from, but I can’t help but feel that his passion for this particular textile is a cop out on one of life’s essential chores: ironing. He IS THE LINEN LOVER.
So, what ‘ill it be? Who gets the award for Bute of the Weak? :
(1) MAN WITH SEVEN BUTTONS aka OCD BOY
(2) THE WALRUS aka COOKIE MONSTER
(3) OLD MISS INAPPROPRIATE aka MINISKIRT BITCH
(4) COMPULSIVE CONFERENCE COORDINATOR MAN aka POTENTIAL PROSTATE PROBLEM PERSON
(5) LINEN LOVER aka PRESSING PROTESTOR
15 October 2008
Feet of Strength
"I have been training for this moment my whole life." That's often a statement you'd hear from an Olympian or some other athlete after s/he wins the big game or event. While I like to consider myself an athlete, and the feat that I accomplished did involve some degree of athleticism, what I achieved would be by no man's measure an official event. I suceeded in maintaining my balance (thus neither bumping into my fellow passengers nor awkwardly busting my own ass) on the Metro train.
While throughout my life I have endeavored to improve my balance and coordination mainly to overcome my innate clumsiness, my training began in earnest last summer while riding public transportation in Hong Kong. It began as kind of a silly game to see if I could remain erect while the train took off and stopped, partly to combat boredom, partly because it entertained my friends, and partly because it annoyed my husband. Then, I picked it up again here in the DC area for my own nostalgic amusement, and it became such a regular habit of mine that it has ceased to annoy my husband (good man). These days, however, I am typically in uniform when I ride the metro train or bus, so I have to behave myself. I have had to clandestinely hone my skills which has actually served to intensify my training.
This morning my dedication and due diligence were unexpectedly put to the test. On my way to a conference, I hopped on the green line in the teeth of the commuter hour. Obviously there were no seats, and I had to move to part of the train that had no bars to hold. Inexperienced, frightened souls around me feverishly glanced about for a bar to grip for a secure handhold. Not me. I was sure of foot and stout of heart. I knew that this was my moment. I stood firm and dug in my proverbial (and literal) heels. The train lurched forward and whammo! my body remained virtually still, feet planted, solid as a church. When the time came for the train to stop, I likewise remained as firm in my footing as a tightroperope walker. When I alighted the train, I was so gleeful I wanted to hop up and click my heels. But I knew my limits. I hadn't practiced heel clicking. Besides, I was in uniform.
While throughout my life I have endeavored to improve my balance and coordination mainly to overcome my innate clumsiness, my training began in earnest last summer while riding public transportation in Hong Kong. It began as kind of a silly game to see if I could remain erect while the train took off and stopped, partly to combat boredom, partly because it entertained my friends, and partly because it annoyed my husband. Then, I picked it up again here in the DC area for my own nostalgic amusement, and it became such a regular habit of mine that it has ceased to annoy my husband (good man). These days, however, I am typically in uniform when I ride the metro train or bus, so I have to behave myself. I have had to clandestinely hone my skills which has actually served to intensify my training.
This morning my dedication and due diligence were unexpectedly put to the test. On my way to a conference, I hopped on the green line in the teeth of the commuter hour. Obviously there were no seats, and I had to move to part of the train that had no bars to hold. Inexperienced, frightened souls around me feverishly glanced about for a bar to grip for a secure handhold. Not me. I was sure of foot and stout of heart. I knew that this was my moment. I stood firm and dug in my proverbial (and literal) heels. The train lurched forward and whammo! my body remained virtually still, feet planted, solid as a church. When the time came for the train to stop, I likewise remained as firm in my footing as a tightroperope walker. When I alighted the train, I was so gleeful I wanted to hop up and click my heels. But I knew my limits. I hadn't practiced heel clicking. Besides, I was in uniform.
14 October 2008
As the Polygon Turns: A broad, humbly speaking (Episode 11)
So how do I begin to sum up the adventures of last week? Unlike how I usually manage to find so-called adventures in seemingly inconsequential, banal events and occurrences, I actually traveled to another country, met a lot of new people and saw some interesting sights, by anyone’s standards.
Last Monday morning I went to work with the intension of leaving around lunchtime. When I had left work the previous Friday, our trip was still up in the air – which is to say that it wasn’t 100% for certain that we would be able to go. Our country clearance hadn’t been submitted within the requisite 3 business days. We (although the “me” part of “we” had nothing to do with the arrangements, I was merely along for the ride; I am not exactly sure who the “we” was…) so, we had submitted the clearance request on Thursday, but it was well after close of business in the place where we were going. So, really, it was a matter of misunderstanding that Friday, Monday and Tuesday counted as 3 business days since the conference was to begin on Wednesday. We were to arrive in the country on Tuesday morning. I tell you, this was the way to do it. We left Monday night, arrived Tuesday morning and the conference was all day Wednesday, they took us out to dinner that night and had some business to do on Thursday morning, and we didn’t fly out again until Friday morning to arrive back home by Friday afternoon, just in time for a 3 day weekend. Boon-DOG-GLE!
I traveled there with Mojo and another Air Force Colonel, we’ll call him Special Ross (since he is a Special Ops pilot and he never told me his call sign). They didn’t care too much where we went, just that we found something to do to fill the time. Me, I hadn’t been to London in over 12 years and had a few specific and many general things that I wanted to accomplish. The illustrious Dr. Johnson, my father’s idol, said “when a man is tired of London, then he is tired of life.”
We spent Tuesday wandering the streets, tracking down little haunts and generally listening to me prattle on about this bit of history, that bit of literature, and other such random snippets about British life and times. After awhile, before they would ask me a question about some place or some building, they would say, “now for $2000, what is…” as though I were the most winningest game show contestant ever.
In Hyde Park in London there is a place called Speaker’s Corner. It is basically a non-descript patch of sidewalk where anyone can put down a milk crate (or a soap box), stand on it, and pontificate about whatever their little heart desires. If the speaker is good or interesting , a crowd will gather, if not, obviously, s/he is ignored or, perhaps, replaced by a louder, more interesting orator. I remember going there to check it out the first time I went to London and being a little disappointed. Not that I was expecting to hear Daniel Webster or some other stentorian spokesman, but the only voice that stood out above the hopeful, wandering masses of people listening was a man who declared that “A MAN’S PENIS IS HIS COMPASS! HE FOLLOWS IT WHEREVER HE GOES…” I looked at my friends, raised my eyebrows, and we knowingly walked away. So there you have it: Speaker’s Corner. I am sure that there are really worthwhile speeches that transpire there, but I had heard enough. I was on to other things, so see where my inner compass would lead me, if you will.
I always imagined that a big city park such as Hyde Park or Central Park would be an excellent place for a Humbler’s Corner. That’s right: Humbler’s Corner. A person (maybe me) could sit there in a little booth like Lucy Van Pelt. The booth would have a little sign at the top reading “Humbling, $1” or “Humbling, free to those who need it.” And there the Humbler would dispense not necessarily insults – insult is too strong a word – but just a few pity phrases or observances to knock arrogant people back down to the same plane as the rest of us. This ambition for a vocation like this may be a surprise to those who are aware that one of my four rules is “never pass up the opportunity to give someone a compliment.” Really, I am not about putting people down, just enabling them to realize what a value there is in realizing that they don’t posses all there is to offer to the world. It is kind of like arrogance busting. Everyone has to suck at something I (I suck at driving backwards and doing math in public). Otherwise, we could get too full of ourselves and risk losing empathy for our fellow human. It is my philosophy that one should be a human being nice, not a human being mean. When I least expect it, life’s great level moments – let us call them “humblings” – happen to me. I realize that some normally successful people are not so fortunate that happenstance happens to slap them in the face from time to time. I am not talking about big disappointments like failing a test or screwing up a relationship or being unable to connect with your best friend… I am talking about little crumblings of circumstance that make you realize that you too can seem like a complete idiot. Crumblings of humblings… that has a nice sound.
So there I was, the last morning I was in London, in the shower. Normally I love bathing like a pig loves mud. When I was a kid I distinctly remember drawing a bath with the hottest possible water. Then I would inch my way in, one toe at a time, put a whole foot in, then both feet, then stand there until I could stand to sit down, then I would methodically stretch my legs out until my knee caps were immersed, then I would work on laying down to wet my back then eventually the rest of my body from head to toe. I’d wash up, then stay in there until the water turned cold, my toes and fingers looking like prunes. Then I would drain the water out of the tub and soap the tub up really good until it was as slippery as a vasoline covered watermelon. I’d position myself at the foot of the tub (opposite the faucet) and slip and slide until I could no longer take the bruising and banging or until someone came knocking on the bathroom door, inquiring about the cacaughoney. Man, I have always loved bathing...
So, that morning was the fourth time I had used the shower in this hotel. Typically hotel showers have very poor water pressure. Not this place! Holy crap, the first time I turned the shower on, it pretty much hurt. My head loved it and my back could take it, but in order to get my front clean I had to hold my arms in front of my chest and do a quick little turn around sprinkler splashy maneuver. It made a wantonly magical, relaxing wondrous time a bit uncomfortable. I mean it wasn’t unbearable, it was merely a matter of introducing displeasure into my usual daily slice of heaven. Friday morning, towards the end of my shower, while being positively pelted with bullets of man-made rain, I somehow developed sense enough to turn the knob just a little clockwise (or less counterclockwise); that is, I turned the pressure down. Oh… I am an idiot. You see, ladies and gentlemen, I said to the audience in my head, I too am an idiot. And then I just continued to stand there, staring at my feet, making slow-motion pirouettes, realizing my entire body could receive the water pain-free, unafraid… dumbfounded. For I, had found dumb. Dumb was me.
So, I would like to be a Humbler, to set up my shingle in Humbler’s Corner in Central Park. I would like to be able to give others who aren’t so fortunate to have epiphanies of their own idiocy, people who think too little about their own failings such that they think that it is okay to patronize others. I believe that over the course of my life, I have amassed a lot of such ridiculous revelations … and if someone happens to stop by my booth and put me in my place, then good on them, good for me, good for us all. I have to suck at something sometimes too.
Last Monday morning I went to work with the intension of leaving around lunchtime. When I had left work the previous Friday, our trip was still up in the air – which is to say that it wasn’t 100% for certain that we would be able to go. Our country clearance hadn’t been submitted within the requisite 3 business days. We (although the “me” part of “we” had nothing to do with the arrangements, I was merely along for the ride; I am not exactly sure who the “we” was…) so, we had submitted the clearance request on Thursday, but it was well after close of business in the place where we were going. So, really, it was a matter of misunderstanding that Friday, Monday and Tuesday counted as 3 business days since the conference was to begin on Wednesday. We were to arrive in the country on Tuesday morning. I tell you, this was the way to do it. We left Monday night, arrived Tuesday morning and the conference was all day Wednesday, they took us out to dinner that night and had some business to do on Thursday morning, and we didn’t fly out again until Friday morning to arrive back home by Friday afternoon, just in time for a 3 day weekend. Boon-DOG-GLE!
I traveled there with Mojo and another Air Force Colonel, we’ll call him Special Ross (since he is a Special Ops pilot and he never told me his call sign). They didn’t care too much where we went, just that we found something to do to fill the time. Me, I hadn’t been to London in over 12 years and had a few specific and many general things that I wanted to accomplish. The illustrious Dr. Johnson, my father’s idol, said “when a man is tired of London, then he is tired of life.”
We spent Tuesday wandering the streets, tracking down little haunts and generally listening to me prattle on about this bit of history, that bit of literature, and other such random snippets about British life and times. After awhile, before they would ask me a question about some place or some building, they would say, “now for $2000, what is…” as though I were the most winningest game show contestant ever.
In Hyde Park in London there is a place called Speaker’s Corner. It is basically a non-descript patch of sidewalk where anyone can put down a milk crate (or a soap box), stand on it, and pontificate about whatever their little heart desires. If the speaker is good or interesting , a crowd will gather, if not, obviously, s/he is ignored or, perhaps, replaced by a louder, more interesting orator. I remember going there to check it out the first time I went to London and being a little disappointed. Not that I was expecting to hear Daniel Webster or some other stentorian spokesman, but the only voice that stood out above the hopeful, wandering masses of people listening was a man who declared that “A MAN’S PENIS IS HIS COMPASS! HE FOLLOWS IT WHEREVER HE GOES…” I looked at my friends, raised my eyebrows, and we knowingly walked away. So there you have it: Speaker’s Corner. I am sure that there are really worthwhile speeches that transpire there, but I had heard enough. I was on to other things, so see where my inner compass would lead me, if you will.
I always imagined that a big city park such as Hyde Park or Central Park would be an excellent place for a Humbler’s Corner. That’s right: Humbler’s Corner. A person (maybe me) could sit there in a little booth like Lucy Van Pelt. The booth would have a little sign at the top reading “Humbling, $1” or “Humbling, free to those who need it.” And there the Humbler would dispense not necessarily insults – insult is too strong a word – but just a few pity phrases or observances to knock arrogant people back down to the same plane as the rest of us. This ambition for a vocation like this may be a surprise to those who are aware that one of my four rules is “never pass up the opportunity to give someone a compliment.” Really, I am not about putting people down, just enabling them to realize what a value there is in realizing that they don’t posses all there is to offer to the world. It is kind of like arrogance busting. Everyone has to suck at something I (I suck at driving backwards and doing math in public). Otherwise, we could get too full of ourselves and risk losing empathy for our fellow human. It is my philosophy that one should be a human being nice, not a human being mean. When I least expect it, life’s great level moments – let us call them “humblings” – happen to me. I realize that some normally successful people are not so fortunate that happenstance happens to slap them in the face from time to time. I am not talking about big disappointments like failing a test or screwing up a relationship or being unable to connect with your best friend… I am talking about little crumblings of circumstance that make you realize that you too can seem like a complete idiot. Crumblings of humblings… that has a nice sound.
So there I was, the last morning I was in London, in the shower. Normally I love bathing like a pig loves mud. When I was a kid I distinctly remember drawing a bath with the hottest possible water. Then I would inch my way in, one toe at a time, put a whole foot in, then both feet, then stand there until I could stand to sit down, then I would methodically stretch my legs out until my knee caps were immersed, then I would work on laying down to wet my back then eventually the rest of my body from head to toe. I’d wash up, then stay in there until the water turned cold, my toes and fingers looking like prunes. Then I would drain the water out of the tub and soap the tub up really good until it was as slippery as a vasoline covered watermelon. I’d position myself at the foot of the tub (opposite the faucet) and slip and slide until I could no longer take the bruising and banging or until someone came knocking on the bathroom door, inquiring about the cacaughoney. Man, I have always loved bathing...
So, that morning was the fourth time I had used the shower in this hotel. Typically hotel showers have very poor water pressure. Not this place! Holy crap, the first time I turned the shower on, it pretty much hurt. My head loved it and my back could take it, but in order to get my front clean I had to hold my arms in front of my chest and do a quick little turn around sprinkler splashy maneuver. It made a wantonly magical, relaxing wondrous time a bit uncomfortable. I mean it wasn’t unbearable, it was merely a matter of introducing displeasure into my usual daily slice of heaven. Friday morning, towards the end of my shower, while being positively pelted with bullets of man-made rain, I somehow developed sense enough to turn the knob just a little clockwise (or less counterclockwise); that is, I turned the pressure down. Oh… I am an idiot. You see, ladies and gentlemen, I said to the audience in my head, I too am an idiot. And then I just continued to stand there, staring at my feet, making slow-motion pirouettes, realizing my entire body could receive the water pain-free, unafraid… dumbfounded. For I, had found dumb. Dumb was me.
So, I would like to be a Humbler, to set up my shingle in Humbler’s Corner in Central Park. I would like to be able to give others who aren’t so fortunate to have epiphanies of their own idiocy, people who think too little about their own failings such that they think that it is okay to patronize others. I believe that over the course of my life, I have amassed a lot of such ridiculous revelations … and if someone happens to stop by my booth and put me in my place, then good on them, good for me, good for us all. I have to suck at something sometimes too.
04 October 2008
Dog Daze
As most of you know, we have Boston Terriers - two of them. Many of you may also be aware that when they are together, they don't get along with other dogs. Ever the optimistic mommy, I like to point out to Russ they don't try to attack EVERY dog that they meet. We have encountered 3 that they haven't acted like Kujo towards. Separately, however, they are fine. Peculair, huh? I attribute this quirk to the fact that they share a brain.
A future meeting with their uncle Watson (who is nearly 1.5 times their size but 3 times their age) is not only inevitable but a family obligation. So we measured them for a pair of custom made leather muzzles. Well, their Hannibal Lecter masks arrived in the mail last week. The day they arrived, when I got home from work, I didn't get my usual greeting. Isn't that just one of the greatest feelings in the world: a dog's hello? I could have failed a calculus test, ran over a squirrel, cut off an old lady, pooped my pants, robbed a bank, picked my nose and ate it, got caught pretending I had turrets, whatever; but my dogs, my dogs are my biggest cheerleaders, and I am the hero of their earth: "Woo-hooooooo! Thank God, you are home! My you have been gone for-EV-er. I thought I would never see you again. Ohmygosh, you are Ah-live! I can hardly contain myself, my life is complete!"
Anyway, so when I didn't get my usual greeting, I figured they were outside. Russ heard me come in the door and announced that the dogs had gotten a package in the mail. I came around the corner and saw them frozen, each one a perfect statue of a muzzled Boston Terrier. Russ had put their new muzzles on them about 15 minutes earlier, Rosetta was on the couch and Flint was on the floor a couple of feet from the coffee table. They were both sitting with their heads bowed, like gargoyles. They wouldn't move - even when they saw me. They would only shift their eyes, as a mime would, and loll their heads in the most abject state of depression. Knowing that they weren't in any physical pain and that they had brought this psychological trauma on themselves, I chuckled a bit and shook my head.
After we watched them for awhile, Russ and I decided to take them for a walk to see how they'd do. Holy crap, was that ever a scene to behold! Normally when we ask them if they want to go on a walk, they act like they are tagging in on Wrestlemania. On this day they were submissive, dejected, and just plain ANG-ry. As soon as we were out the front door, their angst transformed into pure avarice. As Flint walked down the sidewalk, his front paws clutched at his imprisoned snout while his back legs made all of the ambulatory contributions. He looked like an otter doing a reverse wheelbarrow walk. And Rosetta, Rosetta felt the weight of ignominy for the entire Boston Terrier race. Proving she possesses only a fraction of a brain and that what she has is housed in a very thick skull, she repeatedly banged her head - that's right, banged her HEAD - against the pavement: "For shame, for shame! Woe is the Muzzled Boston Terrier! Woe is the Muzzled Boston Terrier! Never has one known such disgrace as this! NEVER!!! God-damn-IT! Get this thing off of my snout! I WON'T stand for it! URGHHHHHhHHhH!”
And so it went, for a little less than a block. Then Russ and I were laughing too hard to continue. Tears started streaming down our cheeks. Rosetta had shit herself with frustration and, in the fray, gotten some of it on Flint's back and whilst flailing her head in rage, she whacked her head so hard against my left ankle bone that it made my foot immediately bruise and swell up. Too much. It was too, too much. Drool sluished out the corners of her mouth as she howled and caterwalled like a banshee. Wheuff. We'd seen enough. We took them back home, cleaned them up, went for a walk by ourselves, and demuzzled the poor poor terries after they had calmed down.
The next day, when we had company, we put the muzzles on them again, partly as part of the adjustment process, but also so we could show my friend just how silly these dogs get. The dogs were all kinds of cheerful, lovin' life... but, again, the moment we muzzled them, they froze, hanging their heads like gargoyles. We tried to get them to come out to the backyard, their domain and BT heaven on earth; but they were stricken, fixed to the ground as firmly as Lot's wife. We picked them up and put them out on the grass. They continued to hang their little heads ignominiously praying that their archenemies the squirrels and the neighbor dogs wouldn't catch sight of them.
We cajoled Flint to come back inside and he was bold enough to walk across the rest of the yard, but I had to pick up Rosetta and to get her back inside. She buried her head in my armpit to hide her face from the accusing cruel, cruel world. Once we demuzzled them, they gamboled about with renewed canine glee.
Since then, Russ has made them wear their "shame and torture devices" for about an hour each day. He says that they freeze initially, but as soon as he stops staring at them and pretends to ignore them, they run about and play. I guess they only feel humiliated when someone is watching.
A future meeting with their uncle Watson (who is nearly 1.5 times their size but 3 times their age) is not only inevitable but a family obligation. So we measured them for a pair of custom made leather muzzles. Well, their Hannibal Lecter masks arrived in the mail last week. The day they arrived, when I got home from work, I didn't get my usual greeting. Isn't that just one of the greatest feelings in the world: a dog's hello? I could have failed a calculus test, ran over a squirrel, cut off an old lady, pooped my pants, robbed a bank, picked my nose and ate it, got caught pretending I had turrets, whatever; but my dogs, my dogs are my biggest cheerleaders, and I am the hero of their earth: "Woo-hooooooo! Thank God, you are home! My you have been gone for-EV-er. I thought I would never see you again. Ohmygosh, you are Ah-live! I can hardly contain myself, my life is complete!"
Anyway, so when I didn't get my usual greeting, I figured they were outside. Russ heard me come in the door and announced that the dogs had gotten a package in the mail. I came around the corner and saw them frozen, each one a perfect statue of a muzzled Boston Terrier. Russ had put their new muzzles on them about 15 minutes earlier, Rosetta was on the couch and Flint was on the floor a couple of feet from the coffee table. They were both sitting with their heads bowed, like gargoyles. They wouldn't move - even when they saw me. They would only shift their eyes, as a mime would, and loll their heads in the most abject state of depression. Knowing that they weren't in any physical pain and that they had brought this psychological trauma on themselves, I chuckled a bit and shook my head.
After we watched them for awhile, Russ and I decided to take them for a walk to see how they'd do. Holy crap, was that ever a scene to behold! Normally when we ask them if they want to go on a walk, they act like they are tagging in on Wrestlemania. On this day they were submissive, dejected, and just plain ANG-ry. As soon as we were out the front door, their angst transformed into pure avarice. As Flint walked down the sidewalk, his front paws clutched at his imprisoned snout while his back legs made all of the ambulatory contributions. He looked like an otter doing a reverse wheelbarrow walk. And Rosetta, Rosetta felt the weight of ignominy for the entire Boston Terrier race. Proving she possesses only a fraction of a brain and that what she has is housed in a very thick skull, she repeatedly banged her head - that's right, banged her HEAD - against the pavement: "For shame, for shame! Woe is the Muzzled Boston Terrier! Woe is the Muzzled Boston Terrier! Never has one known such disgrace as this! NEVER!!! God-damn-IT! Get this thing off of my snout! I WON'T stand for it! URGHHHHHhHHhH!”
And so it went, for a little less than a block. Then Russ and I were laughing too hard to continue. Tears started streaming down our cheeks. Rosetta had shit herself with frustration and, in the fray, gotten some of it on Flint's back and whilst flailing her head in rage, she whacked her head so hard against my left ankle bone that it made my foot immediately bruise and swell up. Too much. It was too, too much. Drool sluished out the corners of her mouth as she howled and caterwalled like a banshee. Wheuff. We'd seen enough. We took them back home, cleaned them up, went for a walk by ourselves, and demuzzled the poor poor terries after they had calmed down.
The next day, when we had company, we put the muzzles on them again, partly as part of the adjustment process, but also so we could show my friend just how silly these dogs get. The dogs were all kinds of cheerful, lovin' life... but, again, the moment we muzzled them, they froze, hanging their heads like gargoyles. We tried to get them to come out to the backyard, their domain and BT heaven on earth; but they were stricken, fixed to the ground as firmly as Lot's wife. We picked them up and put them out on the grass. They continued to hang their little heads ignominiously praying that their archenemies the squirrels and the neighbor dogs wouldn't catch sight of them.
We cajoled Flint to come back inside and he was bold enough to walk across the rest of the yard, but I had to pick up Rosetta and to get her back inside. She buried her head in my armpit to hide her face from the accusing cruel, cruel world. Once we demuzzled them, they gamboled about with renewed canine glee.
Since then, Russ has made them wear their "shame and torture devices" for about an hour each day. He says that they freeze initially, but as soon as he stops staring at them and pretends to ignore them, they run about and play. I guess they only feel humiliated when someone is watching.
01 October 2008
As the Polygon Turns: Who let the dog out? (Episode 10)
I know it's been awhile. I have been a little out of sorts. So, for whatever reason, call it shame (the kind that’s featured in the Seventh Inning Stretch Song), I feel obliged to begin this entry with a formal acknowledgement of my grief about the Mets losing their last game of the season, their last game in Shea Stadium, the last game where it was possible for them to head to the post-season. Yes, I know. They lost. Okay, okay. Enough. Moving onward…
Today during a Video Teleconference I attended, one of the participants, sporting a speech impediment, described an operative's claim to flame as detecting bombs before they blow. That cracked me up. I didn't laugh, but, man, I wanted to. Next time I am going to be sure NOT to sit directly behind the person who has the camera trained on him. That way everyone from Bhagdad to Honalulu isn't saying, "Hey look at that Navy Chick falling asleep or making funny faces!"
Today for my workout I banged it out on the treadmill. I do that when I want to make myself run fast. On a ship we don't have the option to do anything BUT derive our exercise from machines. Here, there are nice paths nearby, and still I often find that the machines are always heavily populated. When I leave the building for a run, though, I guess I do see a lot of people doing that too. The path and sidewalks extending from the back of the Athletic Center to the surrounding paths and bridges across the Potomac are well worn by the determined strides of the inmates of the Polygon, busting out for their regular constitutional only to be methodically reeled back in within an hour or less.
Treadmillland is different, though. In treadmillland faces are more blank, all plugged in, tuned out, going through the motions of "the workout" as though it is another action to process. Me, I feed on that turpitude. When I enter treadmillland I think, "look here motherfuckers, I am about to let the dog out of the house." The outdoor runs are for my soul, the treadmill runs fire up my heart. I start out a little easy, but I am not satisfied until my sweat is spraying everywhere like the music dripping from my ears; my stomach starts to feel a little upset and my little legs can do nothing more than pray like a cartoon character: "feet don't fail me now!"
A guy I used to run with in college got hit by a car once and cracked his femur. He couldn't run for a very long time. One day I saw him coming around the block, looking like he had just finished up a run. I said, "Hey, Jon, you doing better? I thought you couldn't run?" He grimaced at me, wagged his finger and said, "Sometimes you just gotta let the dog out of the house."
Later on this afternoon, Bingo (one of the guys I work with) said, “Geez… [#2] you were making me tired just watching you on the treadmill. How fast were you going?” That is what I do on the treadmill at least once a week, just to break up the monotony and remind myself that I am still alive. I go crazy and wonder if those around me are really so fixated on their news program or their iPods, if they stop for a moment or more and think, "Look at that bitch run!"
I am not a bitch, just a dog getting out of the house.
Today during a Video Teleconference I attended, one of the participants, sporting a speech impediment, described an operative's claim to flame as detecting bombs before they blow. That cracked me up. I didn't laugh, but, man, I wanted to. Next time I am going to be sure NOT to sit directly behind the person who has the camera trained on him. That way everyone from Bhagdad to Honalulu isn't saying, "Hey look at that Navy Chick falling asleep or making funny faces!"
Today for my workout I banged it out on the treadmill. I do that when I want to make myself run fast. On a ship we don't have the option to do anything BUT derive our exercise from machines. Here, there are nice paths nearby, and still I often find that the machines are always heavily populated. When I leave the building for a run, though, I guess I do see a lot of people doing that too. The path and sidewalks extending from the back of the Athletic Center to the surrounding paths and bridges across the Potomac are well worn by the determined strides of the inmates of the Polygon, busting out for their regular constitutional only to be methodically reeled back in within an hour or less.
Treadmillland is different, though. In treadmillland faces are more blank, all plugged in, tuned out, going through the motions of "the workout" as though it is another action to process. Me, I feed on that turpitude. When I enter treadmillland I think, "look here motherfuckers, I am about to let the dog out of the house." The outdoor runs are for my soul, the treadmill runs fire up my heart. I start out a little easy, but I am not satisfied until my sweat is spraying everywhere like the music dripping from my ears; my stomach starts to feel a little upset and my little legs can do nothing more than pray like a cartoon character: "feet don't fail me now!"
A guy I used to run with in college got hit by a car once and cracked his femur. He couldn't run for a very long time. One day I saw him coming around the block, looking like he had just finished up a run. I said, "Hey, Jon, you doing better? I thought you couldn't run?" He grimaced at me, wagged his finger and said, "Sometimes you just gotta let the dog out of the house."
Later on this afternoon, Bingo (one of the guys I work with) said, “Geez… [#2] you were making me tired just watching you on the treadmill. How fast were you going?” That is what I do on the treadmill at least once a week, just to break up the monotony and remind myself that I am still alive. I go crazy and wonder if those around me are really so fixated on their news program or their iPods, if they stop for a moment or more and think, "Look at that bitch run!"
I am not a bitch, just a dog getting out of the house.
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