Evolution...the nature progression of things. It is what turned the fish into a mammal, the mammal into a primate, the primate into a Neanderthal, the Neanderthal into a frat guy, and the frat guy into a human being. It is also responsible for turning the alligator into...well, a not so big version of an alligator, now, they compare in size to a canoe, which I will take over a school bus any day. But, not the focus of my thoughts...at least not right now.
For years I have been told my body has been subjected to the McCormick Curse. I mean everytime someone says I look like my father, I curse. Not really. No, it is more like my noise has the McCormick hump, or my feet look like those of my dad's brother or whatever...not to say my mother and her side hasn't pushed in a couple of doosey too. But, it really comes down to one big part of my body that I can now explain...my calves.
I have started to notice a pattern. My ability to grow facial hair more rapidly than others, uncanny ability to eat almost anything, cooked or not, but mostly it has been my enormous calves. Don't get me wrong, I am very proud of my legs, but I never knew what they were for...until now.
I have been born, nye evolved to hike mountains. This is my natural, God given purpose. Why else would I have the calves of a mountain goat, the face of a bear, and the stomach of a...a...ground squirrel (they too eat anything). I was meant to live in the mountainous woods and be one with nature. I don't belong in the flats of the Louisiana. So quickly I have forgotten the allure of the Rockies. How have I become accustomed to not having Mountains in the background of my early morning cup of coffee? Yet, a nine day "vacation" only brings me home depressed and searching for my way back. I search through Backpacker magazine to just remember the sight, the smell of last week before it is completely replaced by exhaust and jerry curl.
I tried for a work transfer, but alas, there is nothing of my company in Montana. I will figure out the way, and soon my newly realized evolved body will accomplish what it was meant to do. But, until then I will have to content myself with weekend hikes and once a year week long adventures.
P.S. By the way I just got back from 9 days vacation from Montana. If you didn't know this, then the whole post would just be, well, weird.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Friday, July 7, 2006
Prelude to a Geriatric Circus
The following post is not intended to offend anyone as this is not the situation I feel towards anyone who I know that would read this blog. Please don't take my angered writings to heart. Have a good day.
Geriatric Circus
I have found that many older people are taking their opinions and pushing them off as fact. They think "youngsters" such as myself will not question the validity of the refuse coming from their mouths. They spout nonsense with no cause or room for debate. Granted I don't feel this way about every person I meet, especially not the Godmother or other's who I have an established connection. But those eccentrics, as we will call them, don't realize we are the Why Generation, the question asking, not-at-face value folks. They can peddle their verbal wares elsewhere.
Today I was in the car dealership, simply minding my business ( and I really was this time), reading my book. I casually glanced at a figure moving in front of me. I start at the black velcro shoes, my eyes move up the polyester pants to midway of the chest where a tucked in Hawaiian shirt with a palm tree island on the pocket holding the sagging contents of glasses, paper, and a wallet like a bulging grocery bag. His face was framed with matching hearing aids and a crest of dirty silver topped his head. He took one look at me, smiled and asked how long I had been here. After I answered him it was a twenty five minute berate of politics, religion, and the like.
He started on his Military career and chuckled as he spoke of his clout with long since deceased generals. He quipped of memorable stories and antidotes. Then the fun began. He went on to his recent surgeries, ailments, and other medical methods of preventing me from reading. Now, I am not without a heart, I do enjoy listening to the stories of old and the views of others, which I picked up on the fact that "P.C." was not a term he knew. I am a people person not without compassion and sense of propriety, but there is a limit. I gladly listened to the past 75 years of the man's life...but things took a turn.
He must have found me to be a fair enough mark to discuss religion. I use the term discuss lightly. I am always up for a good God discussion, even heated debate at times. But, his method of discussion brings forth the opening sentence of this. It's ok to have an opinion, even encouraged, but it is not ok to talk over someone else's opinion. To keep pushing your point more loudly and ferverntly when opposition arises. Repeating it and refusing to listen to other ideas doesn't make it true. It might in "crazy world," but not all of us live there. So, when you embark on mission of evangelicalism, remember it's not only the words you speak, but the words spoken to you. These are the methods for which your are more effective...hearing what the other person knows, thinks, and wants. God answer's prayers, this I know.
As I sat there staring blankly, at this point, to the man I pray for my cell phone to ring. A few minutes later I excuse myself to handle work...saved again...what amazing grace.
Today I was in the car dealership, simply minding my business ( and I really was this time), reading my book. I casually glanced at a figure moving in front of me. I start at the black velcro shoes, my eyes move up the polyester pants to midway of the chest where a tucked in Hawaiian shirt with a palm tree island on the pocket holding the sagging contents of glasses, paper, and a wallet like a bulging grocery bag. His face was framed with matching hearing aids and a crest of dirty silver topped his head. He took one look at me, smiled and asked how long I had been here. After I answered him it was a twenty five minute berate of politics, religion, and the like.
He started on his Military career and chuckled as he spoke of his clout with long since deceased generals. He quipped of memorable stories and antidotes. Then the fun began. He went on to his recent surgeries, ailments, and other medical methods of preventing me from reading. Now, I am not without a heart, I do enjoy listening to the stories of old and the views of others, which I picked up on the fact that "P.C." was not a term he knew. I am a people person not without compassion and sense of propriety, but there is a limit. I gladly listened to the past 75 years of the man's life...but things took a turn.
He must have found me to be a fair enough mark to discuss religion. I use the term discuss lightly. I am always up for a good God discussion, even heated debate at times. But, his method of discussion brings forth the opening sentence of this. It's ok to have an opinion, even encouraged, but it is not ok to talk over someone else's opinion. To keep pushing your point more loudly and ferverntly when opposition arises. Repeating it and refusing to listen to other ideas doesn't make it true. It might in "crazy world," but not all of us live there. So, when you embark on mission of evangelicalism, remember it's not only the words you speak, but the words spoken to you. These are the methods for which your are more effective...hearing what the other person knows, thinks, and wants. God answer's prayers, this I know.
As I sat there staring blankly, at this point, to the man I pray for my cell phone to ring. A few minutes later I excuse myself to handle work...saved again...what amazing grace.
Wednesday, July 5, 2006
My new Country Song
My new country song is called "Stuck in the Mud in Cloutierville." Pronounced Cloochie-ville. Also known as BFE central Louisiana. That was my day.
Up at 7, out the door by quarter til 8 and home by 5:00pm. Now that's a full days work. Not too bad, but when you spend 3 hours stuck in the mud...it puts a damper on your day. Ok, it goes like this:
I go to a house, not in my regular territory. 30 minutes earlier I sat in a storm eating a burger wondering if this was going to affect me..."nah, I'll be fine," I tell myself. I rush to my next claim to beat the rain. I am kicking that rains butt, it is now thirty miles behind me and I laugh as I glance at the dark clouds of where I have just been. I causally slip the the clouds the deuce, pull my sunglasses down and turn off in Cloutierville...
Three phone calls and two miles later I have found the drive way of the insured home. Not pavement, not gravel, not hard dirt, but a mixture of grass and soft mud. I think to myself..."this is going to be fun." I bury my head and take off slipping and sliding in the mud the back of my mind questions if the company will ever provide SUVs...since 80% of my drive ways aren't paved.
Three slides, one close call and a S-curve and I come to rest at the lady's house. Mud on my tires, and sides of my car. I am the coolest city kid I know. I take care of her claim, with a smile and nod I get in my car, reve my engine and look forward to a little fun on the half mile mud drive out. This time, in my cocky mindset, I call my adjuster buddy and say..."Hey, I am going muddin in the pimpin Impala, if I don't call you in Ten minutes...I didn't make it." Not thirty seconds after getting off the phone with him, I take a section of the road at a weird angle and slide off, but not completely. I high-lowed it. With the right side hanging off a three foot ditch and the right side dangles on the road. I put my yellow rain coat on and walk to the RV 150 yards down the road. This just happened to be the insured's parents house and he told me if I get stuck to got there.
I wake the poor, hurricane refuge from Gretna (they got demolished) out of his small FEMA trailer. He gets in his two wheel, rear drive truck and trys to get me out. Yeah, you know where I am going with this. 20 minutes later and no movement from my car and one more buddy stuck in the mud.
The man's son calls someone who gets a tractor and pulls us out. I drive in the grass the remaining way out so as to not get stuck again. I now have a hour and half drive home, soaking wet, covered in mud and freezing. It July and I have the heater in my car on. My at one time new car with a nice new color floor board. Well, I don't know if brown mud is a color, but it seems to be everywhere.
I have to say it wasn't a total wash. I was able to do work as I waited for the tractor to pull us out. The people were extremely nice and I felt like the punch line of one of those country songs sung in smoke filled country bars on kareoke night. I thanked the men profusely and hall ass back to the safety and security of the big city...so to speak.
Up at 7, out the door by quarter til 8 and home by 5:00pm. Now that's a full days work. Not too bad, but when you spend 3 hours stuck in the mud...it puts a damper on your day. Ok, it goes like this:
I go to a house, not in my regular territory. 30 minutes earlier I sat in a storm eating a burger wondering if this was going to affect me..."nah, I'll be fine," I tell myself. I rush to my next claim to beat the rain. I am kicking that rains butt, it is now thirty miles behind me and I laugh as I glance at the dark clouds of where I have just been. I causally slip the the clouds the deuce, pull my sunglasses down and turn off in Cloutierville...
Three phone calls and two miles later I have found the drive way of the insured home. Not pavement, not gravel, not hard dirt, but a mixture of grass and soft mud. I think to myself..."this is going to be fun." I bury my head and take off slipping and sliding in the mud the back of my mind questions if the company will ever provide SUVs...since 80% of my drive ways aren't paved.
Three slides, one close call and a S-curve and I come to rest at the lady's house. Mud on my tires, and sides of my car. I am the coolest city kid I know. I take care of her claim, with a smile and nod I get in my car, reve my engine and look forward to a little fun on the half mile mud drive out. This time, in my cocky mindset, I call my adjuster buddy and say..."Hey, I am going muddin in the pimpin Impala, if I don't call you in Ten minutes...I didn't make it." Not thirty seconds after getting off the phone with him, I take a section of the road at a weird angle and slide off, but not completely. I high-lowed it. With the right side hanging off a three foot ditch and the right side dangles on the road. I put my yellow rain coat on and walk to the RV 150 yards down the road. This just happened to be the insured's parents house and he told me if I get stuck to got there.
I wake the poor, hurricane refuge from Gretna (they got demolished) out of his small FEMA trailer. He gets in his two wheel, rear drive truck and trys to get me out. Yeah, you know where I am going with this. 20 minutes later and no movement from my car and one more buddy stuck in the mud.
The man's son calls someone who gets a tractor and pulls us out. I drive in the grass the remaining way out so as to not get stuck again. I now have a hour and half drive home, soaking wet, covered in mud and freezing. It July and I have the heater in my car on. My at one time new car with a nice new color floor board. Well, I don't know if brown mud is a color, but it seems to be everywhere.
I have to say it wasn't a total wash. I was able to do work as I waited for the tractor to pull us out. The people were extremely nice and I felt like the punch line of one of those country songs sung in smoke filled country bars on kareoke night. I thanked the men profusely and hall ass back to the safety and security of the big city...so to speak.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Mocca-Chooca-What the Hella-Lata Grande?
Well, the Cubs lost, again. Yahoo number 73 retained counsel, making my job exponentially harder. And, Youree Drive is turning into the strip mall capital of Louisiana. WoooHooo.
I was driving down the now infamous Youree drive, Shreveport's version of Rodeo Drive, when I noticed, yet another strip mall being built. Peddling the wares of 5 dollar cup of coffee with more syllables in the name than a Russian Novelist. Clothing stores promising the lasts style, for at least the next few weeks. Same style, color, and set up as the fifty others on the street. All of this nonsense can only be called one thing...Trendy.
I think I am one of the few who can remember driving down that street in the late summer and seeing miles and miles of cotton fields, hay bales, and livestock. The sun cresting over the trees as it sets, sending an orange hue over the fields. Southern Sunsets, southern smells, southern comfort. Now the only cotton you see is in the form of $75 designer T shirt, hay is gone because it has bugs, and the only livestock seen is between a bun covered with cheese. All made way so shreveport can be...Trendy.
I once heard that progress would eventually result in Dallas and Shreveport combining. One 2oo mile long city/metropolitan. People everywhere living in the concrete creation. Wow, I can't wait for that (pause for sarcasm to set in...ok). I was in Dallas last weekend and I noticed not an unkempt person around. Blonde Hair, Dark Skin, and Well Maintained. Dallas exists for those searching to be Trendy and Shreveport is falling in line, like the bastard son of East Texas, long to be...Trendy.
I myself am not without guilt. I admit I have succumb to the trendiness. I have convinced myself the $2.11 bottle of water is better than the $1.15...come on bottled water is bottled water. I search out the name brands, latest fashions, and obscure relics that will make me stand out in a positive social light. I find starbuck's coffee to not be as terrible as I first imagined. I am a coporate stooge, with coporate aspirations. I myself am attempting to be...Trendy.
But, I think I will tune it down and try to seek out more unique, special establishments. I will, try, to stay away from big guys, and support the local mom and pops. I will join the grass roots movement to make sure the city I live in has a little personality and doesn't become a carbon copy of Dallas. I will fight the power and not follow the trend, as much as I can. I think I will be satisfied with being...Original.
I was driving down the now infamous Youree drive, Shreveport's version of Rodeo Drive, when I noticed, yet another strip mall being built. Peddling the wares of 5 dollar cup of coffee with more syllables in the name than a Russian Novelist. Clothing stores promising the lasts style, for at least the next few weeks. Same style, color, and set up as the fifty others on the street. All of this nonsense can only be called one thing...Trendy.
I think I am one of the few who can remember driving down that street in the late summer and seeing miles and miles of cotton fields, hay bales, and livestock. The sun cresting over the trees as it sets, sending an orange hue over the fields. Southern Sunsets, southern smells, southern comfort. Now the only cotton you see is in the form of $75 designer T shirt, hay is gone because it has bugs, and the only livestock seen is between a bun covered with cheese. All made way so shreveport can be...Trendy.
I once heard that progress would eventually result in Dallas and Shreveport combining. One 2oo mile long city/metropolitan. People everywhere living in the concrete creation. Wow, I can't wait for that (pause for sarcasm to set in...ok). I was in Dallas last weekend and I noticed not an unkempt person around. Blonde Hair, Dark Skin, and Well Maintained. Dallas exists for those searching to be Trendy and Shreveport is falling in line, like the bastard son of East Texas, long to be...Trendy.
I myself am not without guilt. I admit I have succumb to the trendiness. I have convinced myself the $2.11 bottle of water is better than the $1.15...come on bottled water is bottled water. I search out the name brands, latest fashions, and obscure relics that will make me stand out in a positive social light. I find starbuck's coffee to not be as terrible as I first imagined. I am a coporate stooge, with coporate aspirations. I myself am attempting to be...Trendy.
But, I think I will tune it down and try to seek out more unique, special establishments. I will, try, to stay away from big guys, and support the local mom and pops. I will join the grass roots movement to make sure the city I live in has a little personality and doesn't become a carbon copy of Dallas. I will fight the power and not follow the trend, as much as I can. I think I will be satisfied with being...Original.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Softball Monsters are coming to Town
At this point you must be in a state of shock. You contemplate to yourself, "am I dreaming? Can it really be true? Is this the feeling of euphoria I have missed by not having senseless ramblings to read?" Well, I guarantee nothing of any educational value will follow, but after a much needed hiatus, I have decided to continue my virtual musings.
These past two months have been a blur of music festivals, friends, good times, and work. I have found momentary peace sitting on my couch listening to Jack Johnson and letting the words spew from my mind to this post as a college freshman would empties his stomach from the nights keg party. Caring little for literary eloquence or even a coherent thought, I will write till I fall asleep. So I hope you are in for a good long distraction.
Have you ever realized, after the fact of course, you have gotten yourself into something over your head? My most recent cause for disapproving head nod was agreeing to play softball. A buddy of mine called the other day and asked if I would be interested in playing in a summer softball league. I quickly answer yes as I if I didn't have enough to do with work and all the other extracurriculars I was doing. As he got off the phone with me the only info I new was I had a game on Monday. I also new where it was, but not the field or any other information. At this point I so use to flying by the seat of my pants, I have had to get my mother to sew and patch my britches. But, I stand ready and look forward to the summer sporting.
I show up on Monday night, now knowing that we are suppose wear white t shirts, until we can get jerseys with our names on it (fancy...I know, but hey at some point I have to expect the best). I stumble around the park until I can find the diamond we were on. I frantically look around for a familiar face whilst memories of freshman year enter my head. Fortunately I find a buddy of mine and we start to talk. As we wait for the rest of the crew to show up we causally notice the team we are going to be playing.
Decked out in full baseball apparel, from authentic team named jerseys to those tight baseball pants, the feeling of "Oh Crap" comes over me as I look them over. Everyone matches, all have batting gloves, baseball cleats, and freshly oiled gloves. The rest of our team shoes up and I compare them to us. Half of us are wearing soccer cleats, wearing old fraternity shirts, and trying to decide which side of the one bat we have is the side to hold. At that point I knew we were in for some embarrassment. I wish I could say I was wrong, but that just wouldn't be our style.
With little to no warm up, we amble onto the field, me playing the catcher. As I am the third oldest person on my team, I feel my knees twinge with pain as I assume the crouched position. My fancy new knee brace creaks as my knee bends. The fat man in blue standing behind me, makes judgmental comments about our team...he made almost enough to get a piece of my mind, and not the good piece I reserve for family and friends. However, I manage to stifle my comments and hold my mouth shut. The first pitch is thrown...Illegal pitch, whatever that is. The next 13 pitches all balls. this has pretty much loaded the bases. Then the hitting begins. I managed to some how knock some guy in the face with my elbow. He stares me down...I laugh...he looks harder...I laugh harder...he walks away. That's my kind of confrentation, you know, the one that ends up in me not getting beat up. We struggle through the top of the first inning and get three outs with only a score of 12 to 0. Not our finest moment. However, the two fans there for us decided to make us feel better by pointing out the team next to us was losing 19 to 1...so here is to bright sides and them being our Mississippi (you know the one state/team/person who is always worse than you...thank MS).
We fight through the next few innings trying to get runs in...alas we score a unaffective six to there total 15. Not enough to win, and just short of getting made fun of forever. At the end of the game there was mention of maybe getting together to practice. An idea that was quickly shot down for a better one of just sneaking beer in before the games. Now that's a strategy I can agree with.
Tomorrow night is our second game. I am anticipating better play and more comfortable cohesion. But, I will keep you posted.
I am too tired to finish, in fact I am not even going to check this to see if it makes sense. I am just going to go to bed. But, I will try to keep more stuff on here and Keep you guys entertained...if I can. But, for now, I can hear my bed calling my name. Peace out.
These past two months have been a blur of music festivals, friends, good times, and work. I have found momentary peace sitting on my couch listening to Jack Johnson and letting the words spew from my mind to this post as a college freshman would empties his stomach from the nights keg party. Caring little for literary eloquence or even a coherent thought, I will write till I fall asleep. So I hope you are in for a good long distraction.
Have you ever realized, after the fact of course, you have gotten yourself into something over your head? My most recent cause for disapproving head nod was agreeing to play softball. A buddy of mine called the other day and asked if I would be interested in playing in a summer softball league. I quickly answer yes as I if I didn't have enough to do with work and all the other extracurriculars I was doing. As he got off the phone with me the only info I new was I had a game on Monday. I also new where it was, but not the field or any other information. At this point I so use to flying by the seat of my pants, I have had to get my mother to sew and patch my britches. But, I stand ready and look forward to the summer sporting.
I show up on Monday night, now knowing that we are suppose wear white t shirts, until we can get jerseys with our names on it (fancy...I know, but hey at some point I have to expect the best). I stumble around the park until I can find the diamond we were on. I frantically look around for a familiar face whilst memories of freshman year enter my head. Fortunately I find a buddy of mine and we start to talk. As we wait for the rest of the crew to show up we causally notice the team we are going to be playing.
Decked out in full baseball apparel, from authentic team named jerseys to those tight baseball pants, the feeling of "Oh Crap" comes over me as I look them over. Everyone matches, all have batting gloves, baseball cleats, and freshly oiled gloves. The rest of our team shoes up and I compare them to us. Half of us are wearing soccer cleats, wearing old fraternity shirts, and trying to decide which side of the one bat we have is the side to hold. At that point I knew we were in for some embarrassment. I wish I could say I was wrong, but that just wouldn't be our style.
With little to no warm up, we amble onto the field, me playing the catcher. As I am the third oldest person on my team, I feel my knees twinge with pain as I assume the crouched position. My fancy new knee brace creaks as my knee bends. The fat man in blue standing behind me, makes judgmental comments about our team...he made almost enough to get a piece of my mind, and not the good piece I reserve for family and friends. However, I manage to stifle my comments and hold my mouth shut. The first pitch is thrown...Illegal pitch, whatever that is. The next 13 pitches all balls. this has pretty much loaded the bases. Then the hitting begins. I managed to some how knock some guy in the face with my elbow. He stares me down...I laugh...he looks harder...I laugh harder...he walks away. That's my kind of confrentation, you know, the one that ends up in me not getting beat up. We struggle through the top of the first inning and get three outs with only a score of 12 to 0. Not our finest moment. However, the two fans there for us decided to make us feel better by pointing out the team next to us was losing 19 to 1...so here is to bright sides and them being our Mississippi (you know the one state/team/person who is always worse than you...thank MS).
We fight through the next few innings trying to get runs in...alas we score a unaffective six to there total 15. Not enough to win, and just short of getting made fun of forever. At the end of the game there was mention of maybe getting together to practice. An idea that was quickly shot down for a better one of just sneaking beer in before the games. Now that's a strategy I can agree with.
Tomorrow night is our second game. I am anticipating better play and more comfortable cohesion. But, I will keep you posted.
I am too tired to finish, in fact I am not even going to check this to see if it makes sense. I am just going to go to bed. But, I will try to keep more stuff on here and Keep you guys entertained...if I can. But, for now, I can hear my bed calling my name. Peace out.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Eat Your Heart Out Superman
Procrastination is a virus. Once it starts, it continues to grow and spread infecting every portion of your daily life. Breaking down your regularly scheduled life and replacing it will a tattered, torn shell of what you once had. No longer are you satisfied by the productivity of the day, but replaced are the sleepless nights, tossing and turning as the turmoil of the next day's impending load.
So far, I have been awake, showered, and ready for the day for going on four hours. My accomplishments to this point are: Two cups of coffee, one bowl of cereal, two DVRed shows watched, one phone call, one fax, and two hours (at least) of mindless surfing the net. Is this because of a lack of items on my To-Do list? Of course not, I have just caught the procrastination bug.
Now, first off, as far as work stuff goes, I am on top of all my responsibilities save one. I will not and do not let my affinity for procrastination affect my work...never. But, when it comes to other portions of my life, I find it better to wait until I have to cram it all together in fail swoop of productivity.
My list includes: washing clothes, cleaning the kitchen, doing house work, packing for the weekend, going to the bank, planning dinners, and other menial tasks.
As I stare a rather empty day in the eyes, I find myself shying away from getting involved in lieu of distractions. The top two, TV and Internet. I even stopped in the middle of this post to watch TV, I procrastinated my rant on procrastination...how bad is that. But, I wonder if I am using the correct terminology.
Take for example what I call the TV spin. This "spin" is why some people watch Fox News and other watch CNN. "Spin" is what keeps MTV competing with VH1 and Google.com competing with Ask.com. All these examples share the same information, daunt on the same topics, but the subtleties are what make them different. They call themselves Partisanly Biased or Freshest in Music, or Best Search Engine. But, the difference is minimal. It is all in the interpretation. This is where my biasness of procrastination comes in.
You must take in consideration this definition does not work for everyone. But, I don't look at my afore-mentioned actions as procrastination as much as view it as efficiency. Instead of a gradual process of doing one of the task and then resting, I choose to exert all energies at once, thus expending the least amount of energy for the day. Besides, I feel I am much better at working when the pressure is on. I thrive on it. I have heard it said, "Don't work harder...work smarter." I believe that by surfing the web, watching the tube, and then efficiently knocking out all of the To-Dos at once, I am the example of working smarter. Harnessing energy so as to expend it all at once...that makes me a super hero. Unleashing my energy ray all at once to conquer the antagonist that is dirt, grime, and chores. I think I will call myself DE (Dave Efficiency). Able to do the meaningless task in a single bound, hands of fury slicing and dicing dinner, mindnumbing powers of control to keep the distractions out. Of course there is also my alter ego...Dave the Distracted. Every day people see merely Dave the Distracted, but if you are lucky, if the moon shines bright enough, if you hide in the closet till the room gets too dirty, you might be able to catch a glimse of DE..possible as it is, but difficult as he moves at the speed of washing machine's spin cycle. Now, I just have to think of a costume design. I am thinking something with yellow rubber gloves, and maybe a cape you wear on the front...one that wraps around your neck and waist and will keep the stuff of your clothes (I forget the exact name of it). And I need a mask.
Wow, you would think after a rant like that I would have motivated myself to get some work done, but unfortunately Dave the Distracted is still about and I have made some more coffee in anticipation of the Cosby Show which comes on in a minute. Now, aren't you glad I have wasted your time as well? You have given way to procrastination, as I am sure you have something else you need to get done. Shame on you...but I guess this is just you own special way of becoming a more efficient human being. Good Luck with that.
So far, I have been awake, showered, and ready for the day for going on four hours. My accomplishments to this point are: Two cups of coffee, one bowl of cereal, two DVRed shows watched, one phone call, one fax, and two hours (at least) of mindless surfing the net. Is this because of a lack of items on my To-Do list? Of course not, I have just caught the procrastination bug.
Now, first off, as far as work stuff goes, I am on top of all my responsibilities save one. I will not and do not let my affinity for procrastination affect my work...never. But, when it comes to other portions of my life, I find it better to wait until I have to cram it all together in fail swoop of productivity.
My list includes: washing clothes, cleaning the kitchen, doing house work, packing for the weekend, going to the bank, planning dinners, and other menial tasks.
As I stare a rather empty day in the eyes, I find myself shying away from getting involved in lieu of distractions. The top two, TV and Internet. I even stopped in the middle of this post to watch TV, I procrastinated my rant on procrastination...how bad is that. But, I wonder if I am using the correct terminology.
Take for example what I call the TV spin. This "spin" is why some people watch Fox News and other watch CNN. "Spin" is what keeps MTV competing with VH1 and Google.com competing with Ask.com. All these examples share the same information, daunt on the same topics, but the subtleties are what make them different. They call themselves Partisanly Biased or Freshest in Music, or Best Search Engine. But, the difference is minimal. It is all in the interpretation. This is where my biasness of procrastination comes in.
You must take in consideration this definition does not work for everyone. But, I don't look at my afore-mentioned actions as procrastination as much as view it as efficiency. Instead of a gradual process of doing one of the task and then resting, I choose to exert all energies at once, thus expending the least amount of energy for the day. Besides, I feel I am much better at working when the pressure is on. I thrive on it. I have heard it said, "Don't work harder...work smarter." I believe that by surfing the web, watching the tube, and then efficiently knocking out all of the To-Dos at once, I am the example of working smarter. Harnessing energy so as to expend it all at once...that makes me a super hero. Unleashing my energy ray all at once to conquer the antagonist that is dirt, grime, and chores. I think I will call myself DE (Dave Efficiency). Able to do the meaningless task in a single bound, hands of fury slicing and dicing dinner, mindnumbing powers of control to keep the distractions out. Of course there is also my alter ego...Dave the Distracted. Every day people see merely Dave the Distracted, but if you are lucky, if the moon shines bright enough, if you hide in the closet till the room gets too dirty, you might be able to catch a glimse of DE..possible as it is, but difficult as he moves at the speed of washing machine's spin cycle. Now, I just have to think of a costume design. I am thinking something with yellow rubber gloves, and maybe a cape you wear on the front...one that wraps around your neck and waist and will keep the stuff of your clothes (I forget the exact name of it). And I need a mask.
Wow, you would think after a rant like that I would have motivated myself to get some work done, but unfortunately Dave the Distracted is still about and I have made some more coffee in anticipation of the Cosby Show which comes on in a minute. Now, aren't you glad I have wasted your time as well? You have given way to procrastination, as I am sure you have something else you need to get done. Shame on you...but I guess this is just you own special way of becoming a more efficient human being. Good Luck with that.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Freeze Sucka
Boredom got the best of me this past Friday. I worked for a couple of hours, then switched between reading and the television as the internal struggle of mindless enjoyment fought with imagination like two kids fighting over the swing set on a school playground. I resigned myself to getting out for a while and driving around. This lasted all of about three miles as I pulled in to an empty spot at the local mall. I had no agenda, no plan of action save for the wondering around and killing time. This is where my powers of perception hit.
Have you ever notice the swagger that accompanies all law enforcement personal? You find it in every echelon of power, from the "high and mighty" federal agents, to the lowly mall security guards. It appears to be a combination of a model's booty shaking with an Olympic speed walkers form. Arms swing from side to side, increasing speed as the footsteps build. Hips swishing as they perfect the intimidation stare on passing store front windows. How do you not laugh at this?
I wonder the origins of the candid cop walk, as I have so deemed it. I believe it is a required course in police training. They fit it in somewhere between Miranda and marksmanship. I can imagine two days dedicated to Talking the Talk and Walking the Walk. You learn witty retorts to crack heads' answers and hooker come ones in the off chance you are "lucky" enough to be on an episode of Cops. The next day the captain, his wife, and some detective come in to critic and judge your walking abilities. Six hours, four bottles of water, and two sweat towels later you have your paper certificate stating you have graduated from your day course Walking the Cop Walk 101. Well, all of you except Steve who could never reach his center and would either fall over or slap himself in the face with the confusion of left leg, right arm. Poor Steve. Now that you have the basics you can continue on to the important things, like how to be a dick 24/7.
And like in Middle School gym class they separate the girl cops trainees from the boys. Girls in one room and boys in the other. Boys learn the walk emphasizing there masculinity, while girls learn the walk to fake masculinity. They have to be separated to keep the teasing down to a minimum. Girl cops can be so mean.
This explains why mall security guards are so bad at it. They don't have the luxury of a six weeks of training. No their Walking the Walk get squeezed in between "How to button your buttons" and Lunch. Their one day course doesn't allow them to fine tune their actions or even be judge by a group of their peers. They get no ticker tate parades, certificate, or celebratory ice cream for these guys, they have to get everything in before the sun goes down and Bob the janitor locks the doors. The insecurity and over compensating for lack of proper training has lead them to more of a hindrance to mall rats then help. Also when they are recruiting 17 year olds, it makes it hard not to laugh.
I know what you are thinking..."David it's the belt and all the crap they wear that makes them walk like that." Well, granted they have a regular belt, and a Batman utility belt that clips to the real belt and to the pants, and I know the belt probably weigh about 15 to 20 pounds, but I still think they would walk that way if they were as naked as the day they were born. It's that cocksure attitude that morphes their one time normal walk to a six foot male member walk. You know what I am talking about and you know I am right. Watch and see how the cops walk and then talk to them. See if the extent of the Candid Cop Walk directly correlates with how big of punk they are. And when I am right, you have to pay my bail for when I point this out the next cop who decide to give me the ole stink eye.
Have you ever notice the swagger that accompanies all law enforcement personal? You find it in every echelon of power, from the "high and mighty" federal agents, to the lowly mall security guards. It appears to be a combination of a model's booty shaking with an Olympic speed walkers form. Arms swing from side to side, increasing speed as the footsteps build. Hips swishing as they perfect the intimidation stare on passing store front windows. How do you not laugh at this?
I wonder the origins of the candid cop walk, as I have so deemed it. I believe it is a required course in police training. They fit it in somewhere between Miranda and marksmanship. I can imagine two days dedicated to Talking the Talk and Walking the Walk. You learn witty retorts to crack heads' answers and hooker come ones in the off chance you are "lucky" enough to be on an episode of Cops. The next day the captain, his wife, and some detective come in to critic and judge your walking abilities. Six hours, four bottles of water, and two sweat towels later you have your paper certificate stating you have graduated from your day course Walking the Cop Walk 101. Well, all of you except Steve who could never reach his center and would either fall over or slap himself in the face with the confusion of left leg, right arm. Poor Steve. Now that you have the basics you can continue on to the important things, like how to be a dick 24/7.
And like in Middle School gym class they separate the girl cops trainees from the boys. Girls in one room and boys in the other. Boys learn the walk emphasizing there masculinity, while girls learn the walk to fake masculinity. They have to be separated to keep the teasing down to a minimum. Girl cops can be so mean.
This explains why mall security guards are so bad at it. They don't have the luxury of a six weeks of training. No their Walking the Walk get squeezed in between "How to button your buttons" and Lunch. Their one day course doesn't allow them to fine tune their actions or even be judge by a group of their peers. They get no ticker tate parades, certificate, or celebratory ice cream for these guys, they have to get everything in before the sun goes down and Bob the janitor locks the doors. The insecurity and over compensating for lack of proper training has lead them to more of a hindrance to mall rats then help. Also when they are recruiting 17 year olds, it makes it hard not to laugh.
I know what you are thinking..."David it's the belt and all the crap they wear that makes them walk like that." Well, granted they have a regular belt, and a Batman utility belt that clips to the real belt and to the pants, and I know the belt probably weigh about 15 to 20 pounds, but I still think they would walk that way if they were as naked as the day they were born. It's that cocksure attitude that morphes their one time normal walk to a six foot male member walk. You know what I am talking about and you know I am right. Watch and see how the cops walk and then talk to them. See if the extent of the Candid Cop Walk directly correlates with how big of punk they are. And when I am right, you have to pay my bail for when I point this out the next cop who decide to give me the ole stink eye.
Monday, April 10, 2006
A Fool and His Money…
After being here less than 24 hours it is apparent, like my father said, “Vegas’ sole purpose it to separate you from your money.” This philosophy has infected every tier of operation around this desert oasis. Flashy lights, attractive women, and expense booze masterfully play to open you wallet and dance your money away as if it were a Russian ballet. I had heard this was true, but my experience in most of the larger cities, New Orleans, Chicago, and Dallas, had not set me up for this.
It starts with a 30 minute line out of the air port to catch a cab, followed by a 35 minute line to check into your hotel. But the oddity is the amenities you would normally get at any hotel free of charge are anything but here in the Vegas.
Being a product of the 20th century, the first thing I do when I get to the room is open my computer and attempt to log on there. At first glances my wireless picked up what they call a “Hospitality” bandwidth. I silently get excited, for I know the one true link to the outside world is the internet. I open my browser and wait as the page loads. Sure enough, where is every other hotel has free access, the Hard Rock doesn’t. Granted it was a nominal fee, I was taken back to see a fee at all. I mouth a few obscenities, but thought, “No worries, I can live without the internet for a couple of days.” However, I can feel the withdrawal ticks of the addicted.
Drinks are free, while you are playing the games, which essentially means the drinks cost you more than any other bar in town. However, I got the gambling out of my system early…funny how loosing money, hard-earned of course, really gets the taste of speculative risk out of my mouth. But, I was able to have the experience and get a couple of drinks. However, when I woke up at 7 this morning, I wanted a cup of coffee. I went down to the front desk and experienced the perfectedness of Vegas sucking you in. I only wanted a cup of coffee, but was side tracked by a hottie at the tables. I sat down, willingly opened my wallet…First position,…pulled some cash…Second Position…., and laid it on the table…Third Position. The next hour I sat and watched the spins, lifts, and pirouettes of my fleeting money. This young lady was very attractive and spoke with a entrancing accent. But, I can honestly say, as hind sight is 20/20, I don’t like her at all. That was the most expensive cup of coffee I have ever had. Fortunately it was good coffee.
I bid my devil in a fine form good bye and walk to the bar to get more coffee. Now, my experience at the Casinos at home have taught me, you can get free drinks at the casino bar, you guessed it, not here. I wait as they brew the coffee, expecting to get it free, but was less shocked at this point, as my 5 ounce cup of wake up juice cost more than the Starbucks stores you see invading every corner. Not too mad, I walk back towards the room and think to myself of how I would like a morning paper to accompany me to the end result of the coffee, but as I walk to the front desk, I reflect on the past hours in the Sin City and realize paying 3 dollars for a foreign paper is not worth it.
Monday will bring renewed zest of working hard and resolutions to break. But for now, I am having a great time, and I have learned a lot about the commerce of LV. As my buddy with me says… ”When it comes to money, you never have enough and you can always make more.” But, foolishly parting with you money for things you can and do live with out, well that is only know as one thing…Vacation, and I love the vacation, and I love The Vegas…
It starts with a 30 minute line out of the air port to catch a cab, followed by a 35 minute line to check into your hotel. But the oddity is the amenities you would normally get at any hotel free of charge are anything but here in the Vegas.
Being a product of the 20th century, the first thing I do when I get to the room is open my computer and attempt to log on there. At first glances my wireless picked up what they call a “Hospitality” bandwidth. I silently get excited, for I know the one true link to the outside world is the internet. I open my browser and wait as the page loads. Sure enough, where is every other hotel has free access, the Hard Rock doesn’t. Granted it was a nominal fee, I was taken back to see a fee at all. I mouth a few obscenities, but thought, “No worries, I can live without the internet for a couple of days.” However, I can feel the withdrawal ticks of the addicted.
Drinks are free, while you are playing the games, which essentially means the drinks cost you more than any other bar in town. However, I got the gambling out of my system early…funny how loosing money, hard-earned of course, really gets the taste of speculative risk out of my mouth. But, I was able to have the experience and get a couple of drinks. However, when I woke up at 7 this morning, I wanted a cup of coffee. I went down to the front desk and experienced the perfectedness of Vegas sucking you in. I only wanted a cup of coffee, but was side tracked by a hottie at the tables. I sat down, willingly opened my wallet…First position,…pulled some cash…Second Position…., and laid it on the table…Third Position. The next hour I sat and watched the spins, lifts, and pirouettes of my fleeting money. This young lady was very attractive and spoke with a entrancing accent. But, I can honestly say, as hind sight is 20/20, I don’t like her at all. That was the most expensive cup of coffee I have ever had. Fortunately it was good coffee.
I bid my devil in a fine form good bye and walk to the bar to get more coffee. Now, my experience at the Casinos at home have taught me, you can get free drinks at the casino bar, you guessed it, not here. I wait as they brew the coffee, expecting to get it free, but was less shocked at this point, as my 5 ounce cup of wake up juice cost more than the Starbucks stores you see invading every corner. Not too mad, I walk back towards the room and think to myself of how I would like a morning paper to accompany me to the end result of the coffee, but as I walk to the front desk, I reflect on the past hours in the Sin City and realize paying 3 dollars for a foreign paper is not worth it.
Monday will bring renewed zest of working hard and resolutions to break. But for now, I am having a great time, and I have learned a lot about the commerce of LV. As my buddy with me says… ”When it comes to money, you never have enough and you can always make more.” But, foolishly parting with you money for things you can and do live with out, well that is only know as one thing…Vacation, and I love the vacation, and I love The Vegas…
Saturday, April 1, 2006
For Bored People and Company Executives
I just saw a commercial for the new Gatorade flavor. It started with a basketball in the middle of an open concrete basketball court. Rain was coming down. Suddenly birthed from the basketball was a very large black man. He stretched and guzzled down the new Gatorade flavor. Granted the new birth symbolism equating to the new flavor was overtly obvious, the name of the flavor was what caught me by surprise. The new flavor was "Rain." What the hell it that.
Rain is not a flavor. Rain is something you hide from, something that prevents yard work. Rain is children playing, sleeping late, and renewed cleanliness. It's not something that invokes feelings of thirst quenching joy. I don't look forward to tall glass of rain water after I work out. It provoked a feeling, as I am sure the commercial wanted, but I don't know if they hit the mark with that one.
More and more you are starting to see what I call hippie names for products. Old Spice has body wash and deodorant entitled Pacific Surge, Mountain Rain, Cool Blast. You get candles in the scent of fresh linen, cotton, clean air. Laundry detergent boasting fresh spring, late fall, cold of winter. I just don't understand what's going on. Isn't enough we have to have everything smell like we rolled around in Mother Earth, but now we have to drink her to?
What happened to the favorites? Orange, Grape, or the ever special Lemonlime, now that's a flavor for sports drinks.You know exactly what you are getting when you twist the top and pound down half the bottle as the sweat drains from you face. It replenishes you like the morning shower after a night of drinking. What about kool aid. When the answer to the question of "what flavor do you want," was easily answered and understood when you replied "Red." Now red can mean...Fruit Punch, Passion Fruit, Strawberry, raspberry, Strawberry-Banana, Sun, Fire, Hell's Broth, and whatever the ivy league marketing intern can think of to equate the "newness" of what you drink. I miss the simplicity.
I was in Walmart the other day getting some shampoo. Standing in the middle of the isle overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of choices, I start to get frustrated. Damaged Hair, Curly hair, No Hair, Fragile Hair, Damaged and Fragile Hair, Curly but yet damaged and fragile hair...there were just too many choices. I lash out at the inanimate object by saying through gritted teeth, "What happened to just focusing on cleaning hair, where is the Clean hair Shampoo." About to give up and just pick the most manly looking bottle, the lady next to me hands me a bottle. I glance at the description and smile as it states...For Clean Hair." I knew that was the stuff for me. Now I just have to find the For Non Sweaty/Stinking underarms, and the For Clean Teeth and No Cavities, and For Clean Skin soap. These containers are not usually decorated with bright colors leading to a colorfully stocked medicine cabinets. But, the drabness of the bottles saves money and keeps the Metrosexual accusations at a minimum.
I don't need advertisements to allure me with catchy names and flashing wrappings. I need honesty, directness, and truth. This will lead to product loyalty, and once your hooked, like crack, there's now turning back. So Johnson and Johnson and Proctor and Gamble, when your executives have nothing better to do than reading the nobody public's blogs, take this to your next power meeting.
Rain is not a flavor. Rain is something you hide from, something that prevents yard work. Rain is children playing, sleeping late, and renewed cleanliness. It's not something that invokes feelings of thirst quenching joy. I don't look forward to tall glass of rain water after I work out. It provoked a feeling, as I am sure the commercial wanted, but I don't know if they hit the mark with that one.
More and more you are starting to see what I call hippie names for products. Old Spice has body wash and deodorant entitled Pacific Surge, Mountain Rain, Cool Blast. You get candles in the scent of fresh linen, cotton, clean air. Laundry detergent boasting fresh spring, late fall, cold of winter. I just don't understand what's going on. Isn't enough we have to have everything smell like we rolled around in Mother Earth, but now we have to drink her to?
What happened to the favorites? Orange, Grape, or the ever special Lemonlime, now that's a flavor for sports drinks.You know exactly what you are getting when you twist the top and pound down half the bottle as the sweat drains from you face. It replenishes you like the morning shower after a night of drinking. What about kool aid. When the answer to the question of "what flavor do you want," was easily answered and understood when you replied "Red." Now red can mean...Fruit Punch, Passion Fruit, Strawberry, raspberry, Strawberry-Banana, Sun, Fire, Hell's Broth, and whatever the ivy league marketing intern can think of to equate the "newness" of what you drink. I miss the simplicity.
I was in Walmart the other day getting some shampoo. Standing in the middle of the isle overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of choices, I start to get frustrated. Damaged Hair, Curly hair, No Hair, Fragile Hair, Damaged and Fragile Hair, Curly but yet damaged and fragile hair...there were just too many choices. I lash out at the inanimate object by saying through gritted teeth, "What happened to just focusing on cleaning hair, where is the Clean hair Shampoo." About to give up and just pick the most manly looking bottle, the lady next to me hands me a bottle. I glance at the description and smile as it states...For Clean Hair." I knew that was the stuff for me. Now I just have to find the For Non Sweaty/Stinking underarms, and the For Clean Teeth and No Cavities, and For Clean Skin soap. These containers are not usually decorated with bright colors leading to a colorfully stocked medicine cabinets. But, the drabness of the bottles saves money and keeps the Metrosexual accusations at a minimum.
I don't need advertisements to allure me with catchy names and flashing wrappings. I need honesty, directness, and truth. This will lead to product loyalty, and once your hooked, like crack, there's now turning back. So Johnson and Johnson and Proctor and Gamble, when your executives have nothing better to do than reading the nobody public's blogs, take this to your next power meeting.
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