I've been barraged with emails in regard to the "Mailbag," and they'll be divulged, dissected, and dealt with momentarily. But first, the news...
In the most pressing event of the morning, Comcast dispatched Ron to our house in Boulder this morning. He was the man who'd install the new phone line. While most of the country is going wireless, Kate and I are returning to the stone age. Verizon cell phones get pathetically little signal in the apartment, thus requiring us to embrace what technologically amounts to smoke signals.
Ron and his nine fingers showed up at 7AM, and I greeted him at the door in underpants and a serious case of bedhead. Pleased to meet you.
Ron slowly made his way about our modest domicile. Given this stature, his pace was forgivable. He looked at the cable line running along the entire length of the ceiling, connecting television in the back room to coaxial input in the front. He made his way to the art studio that shares the hallway, and after judging a few paintings, headed back to the van. At this point, Kate and I realized that we'd just go about our business as Ron went about his. He seemed to have things under control. I was shaken from my morning chores only after Ron and Kate started chatting. It became clear that Ron, a perfectly capable telephone installation man, was less than thrilled to pull double duty as exterminator. The black widow he'd found while working would have to be killed by the man of the house. I shrieked, allowing Kate the honor.
You see, my friends, I really hate spiders. Especially ones that give you AIDS, as I've heard black widows are wont to do.
We now have a phone. We'll soon have an apartment full of deadly chemicals. Deadly, I hope, only to critters with more than 2 legs.
Now, on to the emails!
J.K. from Princeton NJ writes:
Dear Pat,
Did you ever see the Seinfeld episode where George loses his job and is moping around at Jerry's trying to figure out what to do for work?
George: I could do something in sports.
Jerry: In what capacity?
George: You know, like the general manager of a baseball team.
Jerry: That could be tough to get.
George: Maybe I could be an announcer or a color guy. I make all those interesting comments during the game.
Jerry: Well, they tend to give those jobs to ex-ballplayers or people who are, you know, in broadcasting.
George: Well, that's really not fair.
How would you rewrite this script from the perspective of Pat-as-George? You know, before Jerry crushes your dreams.
And a fair question, J.K.! Thanks for your response. Life, it is said, is not fair. This is especially true (can there be shades of gray with truth?) in the world of employment. As we'll all recall from recent blogging, I came close to changing jobs, applying for a full time position with the Access Fund. Everyone can breathe easily knowing that I faced down that minotaur and his 40 hours, drew upon a reservoir of courage, and slayed the vicious threat. (Rewritten history at its finest, folks.)
My life would have become much less my own, my time given over to a more regimented schedule. That is, after all, what grown-ups do. Instead, I am back at the old gig, panhandling for big oil in this harsh, uncaring world, albeit from the comfort of my own (spider ridden) living room. As soon as the news came that I'd not be working at the Fund, Kate encouraged me to find another alternative. Enter Seinfeld:
Pat-as-George: I could be a writer.
Kate-as-Jerry: In what capacity?
Pat-as-George: You know, like screenplays, or a novel or something.
Kate-as-Jerry: That could be tough to get.
Pat-as-George: Maybe I could write a funny memoir like David Sedaris. I make all those interesting comments about being a gay southerner with a speech impediment.
Kate-as-Jerry: What? (Pause) Maybe you need to write a memoir before you can be taken seriously as an author of memoirs.
Pat-as-George: That's really not fair. I blog, after all.
So that, my friends, is how things are going to start. At a certain point, I'll find meaningful, adult employment. Maybe even as an author. Until then, I'll have the unwavering support of Kate-as-Jerry to buoy me against the injustices levied against the educated, healthy, white male in today's America.
Another gentleman in that distinguished demographic is none other than S.S. from Washington, DC. He writes:
Bow Ties, god knows I love them. I will wear them out to social events that require a certain level of dress with friends, but I just can't make the leap to wearing them to work.
In Washington DC I have seen my fair share of bow tie wearers and I admire them. I tell myself when I have worked in the business a little longer I will start wearing them. I fear that if I wear the bow tie to work it will some how affect people's perception of me which, if true, could be a big problem in my line of work.
That is the sad truth that drives me deeper into this thing called the rat race. Word hard, look acceptable, don't take over a half hour for lunch, watch what you say, don't step outside the circle, etc. The idea that I consider wearing bow ties to be too rebellious for work scares me a little.
By gaining and maintaining social acceptance now, I can secure financial security in the future, but at what cost?
(Abridged)
Hey, S.S., I'm struggling with it too. Granted, not in any way, shape, or form that might be recognizable to the D.C. elites. I am, after all, a Maverick. I take long lunches, don't watch what I say, and have only defined the "circle" as a charred, ashen ring around what used to be called "dignity" and "acceptable behavior."
I say, bust out that bow tie! We're fighting a losing battle here, and by that I mean we're all on the clock. Even in the best case scenario, you've only got another 60 years before you die as a feeble, quivering husk of a man. If the best case scenario has you going out in Depends, at least do it with some style. I'll advise that the more we cast aside the bounds of convention, the better off we'll all be. What's the worst that can happen? They fire you? Face facts, man. Obama is getting elected next week, and I'm not going to entertain another reality. To do so would be too painful. But the point is, welfare is going to be expanded vigorously, so you've got a safety net. And if food stamps can't provide all the necesary calories, I'll be hiring interns for my booming writing business. Anyone that shows up in a bow tie gets a paycheck. You can bank on that.
One final email from H.S. in Denver.
Lets say you grew up to be a lion, and me a gorilla... who'd win in:
To fully understand the context of this question, you need two bits of info. For my half, refer to my Fall Classic post. For H.S.' part, you need to know that he has a deep rooted love of the gorilla. Perhaps it stems from his parents, scientists both. H.S.'s folks travelled the world, bringing knowledge and experience to their children by way of lavish gifts of African taxidermy. H.S. shared a bedroom with a full sized silverback (dead and stuffed, of course) since his infancy. Alternatively, H.S. was also assaulted by a midget dressed in a gorilla suit in a Dutch strip club, and I'll swear to it as a primary witness. Either way, this love goes DEEP.
A) Round one goes to the lion. Next to humans, chimps, and dolphins, the gorilla is one of the smartest animals on the planet. Before you get too carried away that "Planet of the Apes" is going to soon be reality, think of how smart that gorilla must have been to jump out of the bushes and into the aim of a gun toting H.S., Senior back in the Congo. Mr. Silverback just KNEW he would be travelling to America, the land of the free, in no time flat. He didn't account for the value of a pulse, however.
A lion, on the other hand, knows that it's better to rest in the shade and and play Mancala. As everyone knows that Mancala is a test of strategy, patience and cunning, we'll use it as a proxy for wit. And given that I, as a lion, have had plenty of time to hone my skills, I would whump a dead gorilla's ass, roaring "Mancala!" with my final marble. Too easy.
B) Strength is a tough one. Let's say the zookeeper had some peanut butter in a jar that he needed opened. If he set it down in the lion's den, I'd just have to try to open it with my fangs. The jar would undoubtedly explode, leaving me with a mane in sticky condition and a mouth full of glass. A gorilla, on the other hand, has the advantage of opposable thumbs on his hands AND feet. Mr. Gorilla would whip open that jar for the zookeep, and get a treat for his troubles. Strength to the ape.
C) The final test. The "good ole American eating contest." Inadvertantly, H.S. the Gorilla gave this one away. Why? 'Cause American eating contests usually focus on either hot wings or hot dogs, both of which are mostly made from meat. That gives the king of the jungle a king sized advantage. He, we, and I are serious carnivores. While the ape can make due with leaves, twigs, and the occasional howler monkey, I eat protein all the time. Winner - Me! 2/3 ain't bad, especially when it means I just bested Shaquille Orangutan.
I've been getting a few more emails, and one specifically concerns Kentucky's Red River Gorge. Given that I'll be going to scale those eastern bluffs in mere hours, I am going to do more thorough research before I breach the subject of Miguel Ventura and his Portugese Pizza. Stay tuned, rubes.
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