Do you think that animals other than humans are kind? I like to pose questions like that to myself. This comes in part from the ages-old trope: "BLANK is the only thing that separates us from the animals." I don't ask these questions aloud. Very often, it sounds a bit nutty. Like a think tank run by St. Francis of Assisi. If a dog can have a sense of humor, then there's a good chance that he could be kind. That follows, doesn't it?
At the heart of it, I've been noticing how hard we all work at and succeed in being kind. I'm a bit amazed at all of the daily kindnesses that I see, all the gestures that we hope will morph into grace. That's what I want to be now: kind. More than anything, even more than being funky.
Some might say that I'm in a powerful learning time in my life. Thankfully I keep my ears open as I move through the world so I can glean wisdom from those around me. Like this morning.
I haven't been out to breakfast by myself for a while. It's one of my favorite things in life. period. My dream job.
This morning, a couple of youts were discussing how the universe tends to go wrong just when you need it most. "It's Murphy's Lounge," one of them said. "Murphy's Lounge? What's that?" "That's the place where things go wrong." See, I'm loaded up with wisdom, ready for the holidays.
There's something noble about volunteering to be the sap in the office on the day before Christmas. Top Pot doughnuts made the day merry and somewhat bright for my co-workers. Bright at least until we started digesting those bastards.
I have four more days in this place and I expect a battle with my inner whiner every day about whether I will call in sick. How is it that a generally pleasant workplace could grow so rancid? And that I could be so cranky about it?Nonetheless, I'm out of here soon, so onto another more pleasing job.
In spite of my crabbing, work has been done today. Three magnificent crises- one of my own, two for others- done. Only one mattered really. I had to call an upscale national retailer and find a live body to get some materials from them within a two hour deadline. Worked out fine of course. Two hours is nowhere near last minute. Now I'm blogging for God's sake. It is lunchtime so I don't feel so bad about it.
For those curious, I'll be up at Janeen's family's compound for Christmas. They're a very nice bunch to invite me up. My plan is to get lit up everynight and entertain with full-throated versions of Elvis Costello's Christmas Carols. Good times.
Last night, I learned about positions at a company that sells used heavy equipment. That's the most exciting thing I've heard about in some time. Don't be fooled by our sophisticated, aging exterior. Most of us boys would still rather hang out with machines that could pull an arm out of its socket.
The other big news is that I've had a ton of fun watching the block near where I work being excavated. They're reduce a giant granite boulder to rubble using chemicals! They're now at a clay layer which is gorgeous. The clay is a shimmering blue gray. If only I could find a bunch of pullovers in that color. I want to sneak in and touch the stuff. It's enough clay to keep many potters happy, including this one.
I have a conjecture, a prediction that I am sure you will first hear from me. The leading medical journals will follow. Eat my dust, JAMA. Before I break the news, an edifying digression. Just a few years ago, a study demonstrated that the leading cause of the spread of infection in British hospitals was the necktie. Doctors, in their desire to appear professional, became silky vectors of contagion.
So here's my distasteful prediction. You'll be seeing a related story about Blackberries in the coming year or two. It's easy enough to know that keyboards can't be kept clean. It's another thing to sit in the men's room merrily clicking away while you're doing your business. For God's sake you Blackberry people, put the thing down. I expect that few have taken the expensive option of the aftermarket, anti-microbial keyboard. These aren't iPod users after all.
I don't know if it's the same in the girl world. That's not my beat. I'm reporting based on the clicking I've heard a number of times from the stalls in my low-tech office. Believe me, I am not happy to have to report this news. But you did hear it here first. I am unfortunately certain that I'll never think of the term "crackberry" in the same way again. Please forgive me.
In the past two posts, I cautioned that there's nothing to be alarmed about because of two phrases I used. Tonight, a redemption, a positive.
In the wasteland of my past six months of employment, I can report that some progress has been made.
One of my areas of personal application: tossing my paper hand towels into the tiny waste bins in the men's room. This boy game is something that I've done all my life in some form along with a number of tremendously silly ones.
It's not easy. It's a bit of distance (ten feet?) and I've not had much luck putting the ball in the tiny hole.
Fast forward to this week. I know that I'm going to be out the door soon on this grinding job and suddenly I'm Jordan in game six. Once again, no cause for alarm. Just doing my job.
Me, I'm a certifiable idiot. Once again, not to alarm. I mean that in the nicest way.
When I feel the pull of the TV, I'll fire it up and start flipping. This is not a formula for success because I have no cable, just a skinny wire antenna from my radio. It's not even "ca" in "cable." So the flipping is only so exciting and I tire of it in a few minutes.
Tonight (comes the idiot part) I spent some time thinking about how handy it would be if there were some way of knowing what was going to be on the TV at a particular time. Yup, spent some time considering how to find out what would appear on the TV when. I did. It's probably not that bad that I misplaced this familiar piece of electronic life.
I've lost a few familiar things over the past few years and I'm not even at the point of recovering. Maybe I'm just at the point of knowing that there will be things to recover, which is an entirely different word. Not that I know what I have yet to recover. I sense that there are things of mine to get back to me. I see them forming, in between the channels, somewhere.
I've drunk enough booze in the past ten days where I looked in the mirror last night and decided that I look like hell. Don't be alarmed, it was happy booze, not spiraling-downward booze. Chrismas parties, more Christmas parties, some fool buying, dear friends leaving, Lord's a-Leaping; all grounds for celebration.
My secret weapon in looking like hell is my crappy beard. It's not that I'm hating on myself. I'm in that time of life where each sector of my beard is like the U.S. voting map depicting a range from red to blue preferences. The Washington / Maine portion of my facial hair are classic silver, great action on those sideburns. But the deep south, my chin, is kinda blonde and black. The mid-west and mid-east of my beard are as varied as our colorful, fractious country.
So what I'm saying is that I haven't shaved since Friday (yes, what a surprise) so my beard tends to amplify any hint of splotchiness caused by excessive boozing. It's quite a trick. I can age five or ten years if I don't shave and don't get enough sleep. By God if on top of that, I don't moisturize, I look like a thirsty bum. It's kind of cool.
None of this is what I wanted to write about. There are certainly issues of substance to address. My beard, in its mediocrity, has encompassed them all. In some lame attempt to compare: my problems, just like my beard, respond to being scraped away on a daily basis. But if I let my problems grow out for a day or two, I have a patchy soul that requires a nice lavender oil.
Let me reiterate: lavender oil will help keep your soul from becoming irritated while shaving. That's the best I can do today.
When you make a mistake, it's a mistake, not a sin. I can have a reaction and not understand it very well. Eagles are magnificent vultures. I can make a mistake about what I feel. Sardines are tasty based on the film, Deep Blue. Killer whales are not comical to seals, regardless of their big white eyebrows. And they're big. Attempting to write while a stunning nature DVD is playing might not be effective. A killer whale can toss a seal tens of feet into the air. I miss the sea in San Diego. I remember it well. It was big and damp. I am smart enough to know what I don't want, after I don't get it. I get by with a little help from my friends.
