November 2008 Archives

I'm in a bit of a time warp going back through old stuff.

I've turned on Matchbox 20 (Mad Season) for the occasion.

***

Origins unknown, but put in a Word file by me in January, 2000.

A vacationing businessman was strolling by a pier in a small coastal Mexican village when a tiny fishing boat with a single fisherman docked. In the bottom of the boat were two large yellow fin tuna. The businessman complimented the Mexican on the quality of his catch and asked why he didn’t catch more.

This is enough to support my family.

How do you spend the rest of your time?

I sleep late, play with my children, take siesta with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar con mis amigos.

I’m a Harvard MBA and I can help you. Spend more time fishing. With the extra money, buy larger boats. Sell directly to the processor. Eventually you can open your own cannery. You can move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually New York City where you can run your expanding enterprise.

How long will this take?

Fifteen to twenty years.

And then what, senor?

That’s the best part. When the time is right, you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public. You’d make millions.

Millions, senor? And then what?

Then you could retire, and move to a small fishing village where you could sleep late, play with your kids, take siesta with your wife, and stroll into town in the evenings to sip wine and play guitar with your amigos…

I have been going through the documents folders. I came across this from April, 1998. And laughed out loud to myself. Which must have been why I kept it in the first place.

***

50 FUN THINGS TO DO AT WAL-MART

Ride those little electronic cars at the front of the store.

Set all the alarm clocks to go off at ten-minute intervals throughout the day.

Start playing Calvinball; see how many people you can get to join in.

Sample all the spray air fresheners in the auto department.

Challenge other customers to duels with tubes of gift wrap.

Leave cryptic messages on the typewriters.

Re-dress the mannequins as you see fit.

When there are people behind you, walk REALLY SLOW, especially in narrow aisles.

Walk up to an employee and tell him in an official tone, “I think we've got a Code 3 in Housewares," and see what happens.

Tune all the radios to a polka station; then turn them all off and turn the volumes to "10".

Play with the automatic doors.

Walk up to complete strangers and say, "Hi! I haven't seen you in so long!..." See if they play along.

While walking through the clothing department, ask yourself loud enough for all to hear, "Who BUYS this crap, anyway?"

Repeat Number 14 in the jewelry department.

Ride a display bicycle through the store; claim you're taking it for a "test drive."

Follow people through the aisles, always staying about five feet away. Continue to do this until they leave the department.

Play soccer with a group of friends, using the entire store as your playing field.

As the cashier runs your purchases over the scanner, look mesmerized and say, "Wow. Magic!"

Put M&M's on layaway.

Move "Caution: Wet Floor" signs to carpeted areas.

Set up a tent in the camping department; tell others you'll only invite them in if they bring pillows from Bed and Bath.

Test the fishing rods and see what you can "catch" from the other aisles.

Ask other customers if they have any Grey Poupon.

Drape a blanket around your shoulders and run around saying, "I'm Batman. Come, Robin-to the Batcave!"

TP as much of the store as possible.

Randomly throw things over into neighboring aisles.

Play with the calculators so that they all spell "hello" upside down.

When someone asks if you need help, begin to cry and ask, "Why won't you people just leave me alone?"

When two or three people are walking ahead of you, run between them yelling, "Red Rover!"

Make up nonsense products and ask employees if there are any in stock in the back.

Take up an entire aisle in Toys by setting up a full scale battlefield
with G.I. Joes vs. the X-Men.

Take bets on the battle described above.

Nonchalantly "test" the brushes and combs in Cosmetics.

While handling guns in the hunting department, suddenly ask the clerk if he knows where the anti-depressants are. Act as spastic as possible.

Hold indoor shopping cart races.

Dart around suspiciously while humming the theme from "Mission: Impossible."

Attempt to fit into very large gym bags.

Attempt to fit others into very large gym bags.

Say things like, "Would you be so kind as to direct me to your Twinkies?"

Set up a "Valet Parking" sign in front of the store.

Two words: "Marco Polo."

Leave Cheerios in Lawn and Garden, pillows in the pet food aisle, etc.

"Re-alphabetize" the CD's in Electronics.

In the auto department, practice your "Madonna" look with various funnels.

When someone steps away from their cart to look at something, quickly make off with it without saying a word.

Relax in the patio furniture until you get kicked out.

When an announcement comes over the loudspeaker, assume the fetal position and scream, "No, no! It's those voices again!"

Pay off layaways fifty cents at a time.

Drag a lounge chair on display over to the magazines and relax. If the store has a food court, buy a soft drink; explain that you don't get out much, and ask if they can put a little umbrella in it.

*BONUS* Attempt all of the above during the same visit.

The perpetual motion of words. Swimming in them today, and they refuse to be put into any order.

Prior to yesterday, I had never cleaned gutters before. Yesterday I did. Now I can say I've done it.

It was a piece of cake. But note to self, next time don't wear Birkenstocks up on the roof. Wear the foundry boots, as my brother called them. A few weeks ago there was a family intervention at my house prior to the new siding and gutters. The work in the yard required sturdy footwear. And I own no footwear sturdier than my steel-toed boots. Which happen to also be quite comfortable.

My brother sees them and says to me, "where in the world did you get foundry boots."

"Uh, the foundry," I say.

So I cleaned the gutters with nothing more than rubber-gloved-topped-by-leather-gloved hands. My brother came behind me with the gutter guards. My mom was on the ground handing the guards to my brother and holding the ladder for him. (And, I suspect, worrying the whole time whether I was going to fall off the roof.)

(I did not.)

So I've cleaned gutters. The fact that I did it upon arriving home after a red-eye flight from San Francisco, sans nap in my own bed, speaks volumes to my intestinal fortitude.

Or possibly just to the jet lag. (Seems more likely when I factor in that I had Shea back Jalepeno into the garage when we got home yesterday.)

Earlier today I tried to take a nap but was too tired. Instead, I had a lucid dream about being at the piano in the middle of Atlanta's E concourse, playing Master of the House from Les Miserables. (I do not know how to play it, but my hands were moving around as if they did.)

Which is part of the fun of lucid dreams. Perpetual motion. Not very restful, however. So I got up. And have been laughing at my kid since then.

A few minutes ago she was in the kitchen and opened the pantry. Thanks to a trip to the grocery store yesterday, there was actually something in there.

I suggested an apple, which I then cut up for her, and said, "and perhaps a vegetable or something."

She says, "what is this vegetable you speak of..."

(Baby carrots, in case you are curious.)

She took a trip through Growthsburg again in the past few weeks. (Or her dad is stretching her on a rack.) Either way she seems to be warming to her height, and to the strong possibility that there are inches yet to grow.

I don't recall whether I mentioned that my third tattoo has been postponed until January. (All in all a good thing, because I don't need any more sky miles this year.)

The flight attendant on the plane from the west coast asked me whether I had any trouble sleeping on a plane. I said no. I also gave her permission to poke me if I started snoring. (I took a flight about a year and a half ago from somewhere in Europe (I do know for sure it was Germany, London, or Amsterdam) to South Africa. Once we reached 10,000 feet I put my seat back, covered up from head to toe, and slept for eight hours straight. Woke up when we were over Harare.

Nope, no trouble sleeping on planes.

Now I'm reminded of what happened after the conversation with the flight attendant. A guy seated two rows behind me, who had just come from the bathroom, asked her what she did with the little black pouch he had put in his seat pocket.

She shook her head and said she didn't do anything with it.

He said, "come on now, I know you did. It was there when I went to the bathroom, and now it's not."

Another flight attendant was standing nearby and she asked him if he lost something.

He said he didn't lose it, he knew one of them had taken it, and ha ha, and now they needed to give it back.

They both assured him that they didn't touch it. (At first I thought he was just joking with them. But he started to get perturbed.)

He accused them again of taking his little black pouch. And they both again tried to tell him that they would not have touched his stuff.

He just kept on repeating "come on now, give it back." I was afraid an air marshal was going to be in our very near future when one of the ladies said, "there's something under the seat in front of you..."

The man looked down, and his little black pouch had fallen to the floor.

I had been watching him intently anyway, and as soon as he made eye contact with me, I raised my eyebrows. And waited. And kept looking at him until he apologized. Then I kept looking. The second apology actually sounded sincere.

And once again, ladies and gentlemen, I listened to more than my fair share of folks say how the flight they had just taken was the worst ever. And that they weren't going to fly (insert airline) ever again.

One of them tried to engage me in conversation with that opening line. I smiled slightly, shrugged my shoulders. Said I take four flights a week on Delta and rarely have any problems.

Maybe I should wear a "Se Habla Good Karma" button or something.

Oh well. Have resisted urge to reread this, thus avoiding possibility that I would backspace the jetlagged musings. Will hit post, and hope for the best.

That's the question my body has been asking every night this week. (I'm on the west coast.)

Monday, the answer was no, it's not too early.

Tuesday I managed to stay awake until almost 7:00 PM local time.

Last night I made it until almost 7:30 PM.

Tonight, the hotel I'm staying at is having some sort of event. When I checked in on Sunday (well, early Monday morning - my plane landed after midnight) in my key pack was a parking permit for tonight. One of the folks in my class (also staying at this hotel) was asking during lunch one day if anyone knew what this "event" was.

The answer was a pretty funny one - they called it "Grab a Grandma."

It seems the hotel hosts a party type thing that attracts folks of a certain age, who come here for free booze and to hook up with other folks of a certain age.

My room happens to be on the first floor, and I have a patio outside that overlooks the pool area where said festivities are scheduled to start in about an hour.

Which is 7:00 PM local time.

You can do the math.

So, my hotel room is on the 9th floor, and has a great big balcony which overlooks a very busy highway. (I'm not certain there is any other type of highway in Houston.)

I walked out onto the balcony last night, looked down onto the highway, and saw a tow truck, an SUV, and a police vehicle stopped on the outside lane - (no shoulder) tow truck in front, disabled vehicle in the middle, and cop car at the end.

There was a single flare on the ground about two car lengths behind the police car.

Once the tow truck had pulled away, I watched the cop walk back to his car. I asked myself what he was going to do about the flare - not considering for a moment that the answer was going to be "just leave it there and let it go out by itself."

But that is precisely what the officer did.

Did I mention the flare was in an active traffic lane, not the shoulder? Did I mention it was night? Did I mention I'm in Houston?

So the cop pulls away.

And almost immediately cars begin to react to the flare in the road. Some apparently don't see it until the last minute then swerve to avoid it. Some people slam on their brakes. Some just cruise into the next lane at a high rate of speed, causing the other three lanes of traffic to react.

I would have to look on my camera for the time stamps, but that flare burned for 10 minutes. Five or so minutes into watching it there were three cars that came within inches of a three-car pileup. I saw it coming, heard the squealing rubber, and just braced myself for the sound of metal crunching. Fortunately the driver at the back stopped just in the nick of time.

Surely there is a procedure for putting a flare on the road during a traffic stop. One would think there would be a procedure for putting the flare out.

And if there is, someone should tell Barney Fife.

In other news, folks are still finding pondring because they are Googling short interval control.

(Here's a hint - you will see better SIC numbers if you stop Googling shit at work and spend your time on your to do list.)

I also get a lot of links from a web site about rare words. It would seem that my spelling of pondring is mainstream-er than I thought, while at the same time being rare in some way.

Delightfully appropriate description of pondring, I think.