Tomorrow’s Post

I’ve seen this technique used by other bloggers.  Writing in italics let’s you know that it’s me speaking and not…me.  Either way, I like it.  It’s just a short post today, as I want to get to work on tomorrow’s post now.  Tomorrow is for me.  If I succeed, it may be for you too.  I’m going to challenge myself to be vulnerable in a way that I have never been.  It is my version of ‘be the solution, not the problem.’  

As some of you can tell, recently I have been attending church.  It’s the first time in nearly a decade.  I never stopped reading and thinking about the whole concept while I was away, and now that I’m back, I’ve discovered that there are some tenets that are difficult to accept.  In voicing my criticisms, I feel like a whiner, a critic.  That’s got to stop.  Tomorrow’s post then, will be my ideal sermon.  The trouble is that it isn’t coming as easy as I’d like it to. I have realized this is a very, very personal business.  How does one reveal to others one’s most intimate beliefs?  I don’t know but it sounds like fun, so I’m going to try.  Hope you enjoy.

(Normal posts (ha) will resume Thursday if this isn’t your thing).

What Would President Obama Think About Me Not Liking Him?

I don’t like President Obama.  Can I still admit that even though in doing so I might offend a “sizable group of people?”

Here in the purple state of Colorado, expressing this opinion–my opinion–gives me pause.  It can be difficult to tell if I am speaking to someone who agrees or vehemently disagrees.  Discovering the answer is always an adventure.

Here’s why I don’t like the president:  The president pretends to not know his own influence.

From the moment he took office, it was made known that he would be a very accessible president.  “Ask him anything and he’ll tell you,” they said.  The unthinking American loved his openness.  His openness surely attracted positive popular sentiment.  But make no mistake, it is a very calculated move on the president’s part.  Think about it.  What would happen if your boss started voicing that he or she really liked a particular camera…right around Christmas time?  What would happen if your boss started describing how much he or she disliked the color blue?  In my experience, in the first situation the boss would likely be given that camera as a gift at the company party; in the second, the color blue would be avoided in the office where possible.

The credible boss, the boss with high character understands the economics of his or her language.  He or she understands that there are only so many hours in a day and many things have to be attended to.  The boss knows, therefore, that he or she cannot afford to communicate for forever.  They have to offer their guiding leadership eloquently, and rely on an able-bodied workforce to carry out the plan.  This happens every day.  Even the most micro-managing boss has limited time–thankfully–to communicate all that he or she wants to.

Likewise, when a president offers his opinion on something, it starts a chain reaction.  Decisions are made based on the opinion.  Take this together with the way our country’s political sphere has unfolded–the president being viewed as newsworthy celebrity rather than public servant–and there is a problem.

Bob Costas attempted to use his power to persuade the Washington Redskins owner to act.  So far, it has been ineffective.  Bob Costas is a virtual nobody.  He is a talking head.  Generally a pleasant to listen to talking head, but he is as effectually powerless over another man’s actions as the next man.  The same is not true for the president.  No matter what he’d like us to believe, it is not just “his opinion.”  And he knows it.  But he pretends not to.  He pretends like he really is one of us.  He isn’t.  It’s categorically impossible.  The us he is attempting to fit in with know their place.

For example, I know that this blog will have no appreciable effect beyond providing momentary pleasure for no more than 10 people.  It’ll receive 1-2 ‘likes’, if that.  More likely, it will irritate some people and be a stumbling block to my professional possibilities as I’m publishing it on LinkedIn.

Don’t buy this argument?  Just wait.  History will prove my point.  Like the boss receiving a camera for Christmas, the Redskins will change their name.  When they do, to deny the president’s influence will strain even American credulity.

In the end, I really don’t wonder what President Obama thinks about me.  I just want him to stop pretending that his opinions are inconsequential.  I want him to stop using his limited time to weigh-in on ridiculously un-presidential matters.  I want “more work, less talk.”  Is that too much to ask for?

What do you know?

Do you listen-in on conversations?  Do you hear the same things I do?  Do you hear yourself talk?  If, like me, you answered “yes” to these three questions, do you ever continue down the rabbit role and analyze the conversations?

I do.

42 words and a few minutes ago I intended to write, essentially, a sermon about how all that each of us do is talk ourselves up, a sermon about how all we really say is,  “I know better than (fill in the blank).”  That seems silly now.  Instead, I’d like to simply share.

By now, most of you have guessed correctly that I am an American thirty-two year old white male.  A constant criticism I have received most of my life is that I am a know it all.  While I was a hot-shot special operations Air Force pilot, I happily let my profession answer the accusation.

I’ve been without my proof-is-in-the-pudding profession for a year and a half.

How do I answer the criticism now?  Yesterday I took the “integrity test” at a Labor Ready storefront in hopes of being able to work for pay soon.  The fella next to me asked the receptionist if he could use his “dee-ooh-see card” as his second form of identification.   Unfamiliar with whatever he just said, I looked towards him.  He was presenting his wallet for her to see.  In his wallet behind the protective plastic, he had a Department of Corrections ID card.  The picture was of him in the orange jumpsuit that America loves to see on TV.

Until yesterday I would laugh really hard each time a friend wittily observed that too many people are “educated beyond their intelligence.”

Yesterday, beginning with the alternating tobacco/marijuana smell that infused the air as I waited with others for the receptionist to return from a break and ending with the sight of the orange jumpsuit, I confirmed what I’ve secretly suspected all along:  I don’t know shit.

I do like to write though.

Overrun The Runway

He hadn’t flown in a couple of years now, but it was time to renew his flight instructor certificate.  The process involved reviewing a series of lessons and special interest items before taking quizzes to demonstrate mastery of the material.

As he didn’t really plan on flying again, he was doing this strictly to “be prepared.”  He had worked hard to get the certification, and didn’t want to lose it if he didn’t have to.  Who knew?  Maybe he’d change his mind in the future.  Regardless, the point is that he reviewed the data with curiosity, rather than practical application.  The thing about aviation, the thing which he loved–and missed–the most, was the dedication of all involved to “doing it right.”

The noteworthy finding this time was the conclusion that overrunning the end of the runway on a botched takeoff is safer than trying to force an aircraft to fly.  He loved it.  What a metaphor!  You see, he knew that a major reason pilots would choose to force an aircraft to fly was to save face.  That’s it.  Overrunning the runway on takeoff will inevitably lead to embarrassment–though likely not much else.  And if there has ever been a group of individuals who would rather die than suffer embarrassment, it is pilots.

As he knew, as the reader knows, forcing the metaphorical aircraft to fly in grounded-life won’t cause death.  But it does cause drama.  And who among us doesn’t know someone who would rather create drama, than suffer embarrassment?   He tallied how many times in recent memory he tried to “force the aircraft to fly.”  How many times had he crashed and burned in life because he didn’t want to suffer the embarrassment that would have followed if he would’ve just put on the brakes and let his momentum peter out?

He’s asking us, “How many relationships could be deepened–or healed–if we made the decision to “overrun the runway” every once in a while?”

Blonde Guy Joke

The three men sat, legs dangling over the unfinished building’s ledge.  It was lunchtime.  Diaz opened his lunch to discover a burrito waiting for consumption.  He lamented to his friends O’Shay and Jones, “Man, I hate burritos.  Everyday I open up my lunch, and everyday there is a burrito.  In fact, I hate burritos so much that if I find a burrito in this thing tomorrow, I’m jumping off.”  Surprisingly, this little rant did not rattle O’Shay and Jones.

O’Shay opened his lunch next.  Dejected, he cried, “Are you kiddin’ me?  Corned beef and cabbage?!  Again?  I’m with you Diaz.  If I find this in my lunch tomorrow, I’m jumping off.”

Smiling happily, Jones unwrapped his lunch.  It was a bologna sandwich on white bread.  “I can’t believe it.  How many years have I been eating bologna on white bread?  I’m with you fellas.  Tomorrow, if this is in my lunch again, I’m jumping.”

The next day, the lunch buzzer sounded and the three men went to the edge of the building to eat.  Always first to go, Diaz opened his lunch.  A burrito.  “Well guys.  My word is my bond.  I said I’d jump, so I’m jumping.”  O’Shay and Jones didn’t talk much after that, instead they occupied themselves with their meals.  Upon opening his lunch, O’Shay looked resignedly into Jones eyes and said, “Well Jones, I hope you have more luck than us.  I’m staring at corned beef and cabbage, yet again.  It’s time.”  And off the ledge he went.  On his own now, Jones went about opening his lunch as normal.  “I guess I should have seen this coming,” he said.  “Bologna on white bread.  Diaz…O’Shay…wherever you are, it looks like you don’t have to wait long to see me again.”  And off the ledge he went.

Their wives decided to combine the three funerals into one since the guys were nearly inseparable while alive.   It was a nice service.  Brief, but nice.

Now, the wives heard through the grapevine what other construction workers had overheard their husbands say.  Diaz’s wife spoke up first.  “If only he would have told me he didn’t want anymore burritos, I would’ve made him something else.”  Next was O’Shay’s wife.  “I know what you mean.  He had never complained about his lunch before.  If I would have known he was sick of corned beef and cabbage, I would’ve made him something else.”  The two women looked inquisitively into Jones’ wife’s eyes.  Did she have the same remorse?  The same guilt?  Barely able to find the space between sobs to squeeze out the words, she finally said, “He packed his own lunch!”

The Reason Angels Have Hands In Addition To Wings

It happened back in the early 2000s.  He couldn’t remember the year exactly, but for some reason he remembered seeing a PT Cruiser drive by when she said it.  They were eating at a restaurant, him and his woman.  She had just spilled some food on her favorite pair of pants.  He was not surprised.  Hell–by this time detergent companies had specifically developed pen-size on-the-go cleaner in an effort to save relationships.  And on this occasion his girlfriend said, “What’s the point of trying to not spill if I have a Tide-stick in my purse?  They work wonders!”  Unintended consequences as they are, the invention of Tide-sticks resulted in women, his girlfriend included, becoming more daring while eating.

What happened next was unbelievable.  Women everywhere just gave up on trying to not spill while eating.  At first this was all silly.  He would even find himself laughing at all the funny ways women would splink.  Splinking–that’s what they called it.  Women would intentionally miss their mouth in the most nonsensical situation possible and capture the result on camera.  Like planking and duckface before it, the photrend caught on quickly.  In the first month, the major social media players actually shutdown for an entire day because of the unexpected traffic.  People weren’t laughing for very long though.  What no one seemed to notice was that women weren’t eating as much food anymore.  Weren’t-eating-as-much-food, quickly became weren’t-eating-enough-food.  Sadly, unable to resist the Western-trend, the third world suffered the initial blow.  Never had the planet seen such merciless loss of life.  Inevitably, all eyes turned upward.

Make no mistake, God was aware of the situation.  He just hadn’t exactly prepared for this.  Finally, Michael spoke up.

“I have an idea.”

“I’m listening.”

“All these eons, I’ve trusted in your infinite wisdom.  Specifically, I tried to never complain that you gave the humans hands, while we only got wings.  But with the situation they’ve got themselves into down there, I can’t stand idly by anymore.  It’s time God.  Give us–your messengers of mercy–hands.  With hands we’ll be able to answer their prayers.”

“I don’t think I follow.”

“Here’s how it’ll work.  We’ll be waiting and watching for the female humans to take a bite.  Then, as the food falls we’ll fly in and reach out, with our new additional appendages, to save the falling food.  In that same instant, we’ll return it to the plate and they’ll never know we intervened.  After a couple miraculous interventions, they’re sure to catch on.  It’s the only way.”

In the next moment Michael and the other heralds were happily dashing around the planet using their new hands to ensure women reached satiation.

It worked.

He thought enough time had passed, so he finally delivered his joke, “You know hon…I always said it would take an act of God for a woman to eat a meal without spilling.”

“Not funny.”

He was wrong.

The Lacking Ingredient

At first, like everyone, he was only slightly annoyed.  As time ticked on, however, his curiosity grew.  What made them such positive people?  After all, they could no longer eat bread.

He couldn’t live without bread.  Really, he couldn’t–he had checked.  Right on the Hot-n-Ready box it listed bread as an ingredient.  What could he possibly eat instead of pizza on weekends?  Next he lifted the stack of pizza boxes off the top of the trash can to retrieve the wrapping on his most recent McDouble; sure enough, the material encasing the all-beef patties and cheese was bread.  Even if he was able to find a pizza substitute, there is no way he could give-up his lunch and dinner staple.   Not finding ‘bread’ on his Canadian Hunter whiskey bottle, he thought he was in luck.  Nope.  Mr. Google decreed that ‘rye’ was another word for ‘bread’.

Flustered, he shouted to the night, “How do they do it?”  He couldn’t figure how the new wave of gluten-free eaters were able to stay so positive when life had handed them such a lemon.  Then it hit him.  Gluten itself must contain the answer.  “What even was gluten?” he wondered.  On his way to discovering its chemical signature he deduced the simple truth:  Gluten must contain a healthy amount of realism.  It had to.

Yep, life made sense again.  Until now, he had found himself unable to make sense of the situation.  He couldn’t believe that for the last year he had actually felt bad about himself when he was around glass-half-full gluten-free crowds.  With his discovery, though, he could remorselessly return to his simplistic worldview.  “Finally!” he exhaled, collapsing onto his couch.

Make no mistake, the afflicted’s resilience is remarkable.  It’s just that now he knew it wasn’t difficult to be positive–what with an ingredient lacking.

94. You can cure me, right?

Read first, then admire.

dieterrogiers's avatar300 stories

 “You can cure me, right?”

The psychiatrist pretended to polish her glasses.

“It’ll take time. Patience. Perseverance. But yes, I think I can cure you. You haven’t lapsed a single time since you sat down on that sofa for example. That tells me there is hope.”

The patient expressed his gratitude through a subtle tear rolling from his eye and – later – by writing a big fat check for twelve more sessions at doctor Monroe’s.

“So what was his problem?” her secretary asked.

“You remember that leaflet about protecting the bees the government stuffed into every mailbox in town not that long ago?”

“Bee a friend.”

“You recall the title, hey?”

“It’s a nice pun.”

“Well, apparently he’s the guy that wrote it. Big shot copywriter. Great at witty puns. Trouble is, he can’t stop punning anymore. Every time he hears the word bee or honey or even pollen…

View original post 134 more words

Living Three Days Out

This was it.  His last day on the job.  He’d waited, mostly patiently, for years to be able to quit as he pleased, and now he’d done it twice in one year.  How does it feel?  Remember Owen Wilson’s description of the ratio between excitement and scared in Armageddon?  Nothing like that.

His life had been so planned up until this year that he still couldn’t believe how relieved this all felt.  He just wanted to drink it up.

The great joy of the journey.  What was going to happen next?  He had some inklings, but no real vision.  Honestly, while he had narrowed down his professional joys, he knew just one thing above all.  He knew he was tired of trying to convince people of his value with his voice.   Experience as his mentor, he was learning that the great thing about self-respect and dignity is that they are heavy enough to squash self-doubt.

How would it all turn out?  That is what he longed to know.  Emerson wrote about what it must have been like three days before Columbus and his crew discovered America.  That day embodied the peak of excitement.  That day exemplified the joy of living.  Intuition caused him to identify with the sentiment as he read those words years ago.  Now, experience was teaching him the full truth of it.

Do Your Dentures Fit Like…

Up until this very moment, he had only heard about what he recently experienced on a road trip.  Some called it heaven, others nirvana, others ecstasy.  If he had to put a name on it, he would call it “Primal Joy.”  But as he spoke those words, they sounded wrong, sounded too weak.  Suffice it to say, the feeling was unmatched, and incredibly difficult to name properly.

What caused this feeling you ask?  The great unknown.  Not just any unknown, but one that follows an especially compelling preamble.  We all have had lesser experiences of this happen in our lives.  We’re just listening to someone speak, and next thing you know they say something like, “So then I said…”  And as the “de” in “said” is made audible the anticipation builds.  Sometimes it is only mild.  Other times it is frighteningly exciting.  These instances are characterized by the listener asking themselves within these varied levels of excitement, “I wonder what he/she is going to say next?”  That is where he was at.  The billboard began, “Do your dentures fit like…”

Analyzing this for a moment, we can deduce at least three facts.  First, this is likely an ad for a dentist or orthodontist.  Second, the size and quality of the sign tell us that this denture-pusher is small time.  Third, given the small/local nature of the shop, we can expect the metaphor describing poor-denture-fit to be colloquial and meant for a very specific target audience–being the denture wearing residents of that small town; itself a group who presumably have a lot in common with each other even before counting teeth.

Surely by now, you have developed some metaphors of your own to complete the ad.  Perhaps you have the upper hand and know some denture wearing folks and have heard them lament about poor fitting dentures with witty metaphors.  Perhaps you even wear dentures.  You’ll still never guess the rest of the sign.

The metaphor proved itself worthy as he nearly shed tears while merrily explaining the sign to his fellow road warriors.

Savor this moment.  Remember that a fellow human, made of the same parts as the rest of us, decided that this was the best way to relay his services to potential customers.

Our characters own tendencies to become over-excited signaled that this creative tooth-peddler probably couldn’t live up to the fantasy he had imagined him/her to be, but that didn’t stop him from desiring to meet the individual who came up with this billboard.  If only the phone number was as memorable as this:

“Do your dentures fit like socks on a rooster?”

For reasons beyond his control, he could only assume this situation would be miserable.