My friend Lacey just started a new job in a creative division of Universal Studios. Talk about an awesome job. She started last week and was spending her time trying to fit in while also trying to keep a low profile. A balance between being noticed and being acknowledged. You don’t want to be invisible, but you also don’t want to sit in anyone’s cake.
When I moved over to the Studio division of COSI, I didn’t heed the “stay under the radar” warnings. I had several friends in the Studio so transitioning wasn’t difficult. As a matter of fact, I believe I was a little too comfortable if not cocky about the whole ordeal.
One of those cocky days corresponded with an afternoon creative meeting. This meeting had about eight people attending along with our Divisional Vice President, Joe. During the meeting, ideas were being tossed about and several of them were completely stupid. Sadly, there seemed to be a consensus amongst the group and these really crappy concepts were going to move forward to the next level of development. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I spoke up and started disagreeing with the reigning opinions. I did so calmly and professionally and didn’t mention the phrase, “You are a complete IDIOT.” My arguments had some merit and I defended my position and gave some alternate ideas to replace the crappy ones that everyone liked.
In the end, the crappy ideas were still on the plate, but Joe wanted additional research done with additions of some of my ideas incorporated into theirs. I had stuck my neck out and it seemed to impress Joe. Some of my coworkers were a little pissed, but hey, it’s not my fault their ideas stink.
I must have really impressed Joe because as we were leaving the meeting he said, “Doug, can I have a word with you in my office?” Wow. Joe wants to talk to ME. I knew that he wanted to discuss that he was pleased that I was speaking up and that I was a valuable addition to the team. I think I floated into his office.
Joe shut the door behind me and did not ask me to sit. He did not sit either. He crossed his arms. His lips were pursed. He paused for effect. He spoke. “Doug. Did I hear you say, “Suck my cock” today?”
I thought. I remembered. Oh shit.
Flash back four hours earlier. Erik was in the back hallway with his arms full of trash, heading for the dumpster. I was in the back hallway making blueprint copies. Erik playfully said something to the effect of, “You are new here. Why don’t you open the door.” And I said, “Why don’t you suck my cock?” I can see those words leaving my mouth, drifting through the paper thin wall and into Joe’s office and landing on his desk. Waiting for him to hand them back to me.
Yes, yes I did say suck my cock.
What followed was obviously not the congratulatory speech that I had been expecting. No pats on the back. I don’t remember what he said, but basically he took the “respect of others” angle and quietly ripped into me for 45 seconds.
There’s really no lesson here except for the “Do not say suck my cock” during your first month on the job. I don’t know if that laid the foundation for my next five years with the Studio or if Joe even remembered the event. Since that time, I usually try to hide my crude language under several layers of entendre. At least for the first two months.
Good luck, Lacey.
Lucky Me
"I don’t believe in fate, but I root for luck and wish for karma."
- Noel Bodkins
"I'd rather be lucky than rich." - some poor guy
I have been very lucky my whole life. Good things seem to happen to me or at least I get away with the bad. I read a study once that basically said “lucky” people are just more observant than “unlucky” people. For instance, a lucky person finds a $20 bill on the sidewalk, while an unlucky doesn’t see the $20 or the uneven pavement that they trip over and break their wrist.
The study also mentioned that lucky people have a positive outlook on life. If an unlucky person falls down a flight of stairs and breaks their arm, they think, “I am so freaking unlucky. Why me?” while a lucky person thinks, “Wow, I only broke my arm, I could have been killed.”
I am starting to regret liking the concept of karma because for some of the crap I’ve pulled, the hammer is gonna come down pretty hard one of these days. John and I have always said that when one of us dies and goes to the pearly gates, St. Peter will say, “Could you please step to the side and wait until your friend gets here? We want to do you both at the same time.” Of course, neither one of use believes in pearly gates and more than likely, we’ll die at the same time.
All in all, I can't believe in luck and karma because as soon as I do, the universe is going to check out it's tally sheet and see that I'm due for an audit. Try and be at least 300 yards from me when that happens.
(You should know that I tend to make up quotes and credit them to people from my past. Noel Bodkins was a chair salesman from Cleveland who had a voice like gravel rubbing together.)
- Noel Bodkins
"I'd rather be lucky than rich." - some poor guy
I have been very lucky my whole life. Good things seem to happen to me or at least I get away with the bad. I read a study once that basically said “lucky” people are just more observant than “unlucky” people. For instance, a lucky person finds a $20 bill on the sidewalk, while an unlucky doesn’t see the $20 or the uneven pavement that they trip over and break their wrist.
The study also mentioned that lucky people have a positive outlook on life. If an unlucky person falls down a flight of stairs and breaks their arm, they think, “I am so freaking unlucky. Why me?” while a lucky person thinks, “Wow, I only broke my arm, I could have been killed.”
I am starting to regret liking the concept of karma because for some of the crap I’ve pulled, the hammer is gonna come down pretty hard one of these days. John and I have always said that when one of us dies and goes to the pearly gates, St. Peter will say, “Could you please step to the side and wait until your friend gets here? We want to do you both at the same time.” Of course, neither one of use believes in pearly gates and more than likely, we’ll die at the same time.
All in all, I can't believe in luck and karma because as soon as I do, the universe is going to check out it's tally sheet and see that I'm due for an audit. Try and be at least 300 yards from me when that happens.
(You should know that I tend to make up quotes and credit them to people from my past. Noel Bodkins was a chair salesman from Cleveland who had a voice like gravel rubbing together.)
Fred’s Sister
Do you have some tidbit of worthless information stuck in your brain that won’t or can’t leave? I do.
In grade school, I had a friend named Fred. Fred had an older sister named Jodi. (We all thought Jodi was hot. We secretly dreamed about losing our virginity to her.)
Fred had a nickname for Jodi. JidaBean.
Every year, Fred would add a new name on to her old nickname. The next year, he added Fat Banana. JidaBean-FatBanana.
Then Bullwinkle Moose. JidaBean-FatBanana-BullwinkleMoose.
He continued this for several years.
By the time we were too old for such things her nickname was: JidaBean-FatBannana-BullWinkleMoose-HowieThorton-CrazyEddie-ShirleyPimple-TheIncredibleBulk-MalinCralin-Pimplesquim-Delbert.
I will never forget that.
And just in case you are wondering, yes, I did lose my virginity to Jodi. Do you know how hard it is to scream “JidaBeanFatBannanaBullWinkleMooseHowieThortonCrazyEddieShirleyPimpleTheIncredibleBulkMalinCralin PimplesquimDelbert” during twenty seconds of awkward sex?
In grade school, I had a friend named Fred. Fred had an older sister named Jodi. (We all thought Jodi was hot. We secretly dreamed about losing our virginity to her.)
Fred had a nickname for Jodi. JidaBean.
Every year, Fred would add a new name on to her old nickname. The next year, he added Fat Banana. JidaBean-FatBanana.
Then Bullwinkle Moose. JidaBean-FatBanana-BullwinkleMoose.
He continued this for several years.
By the time we were too old for such things her nickname was: JidaBean-FatBannana-BullWinkleMoose-HowieThorton-CrazyEddie-ShirleyPimple-TheIncredibleBulk-MalinCralin-Pimplesquim-Delbert.
I will never forget that.
And just in case you are wondering, yes, I did lose my virginity to Jodi. Do you know how hard it is to scream “JidaBeanFatBannanaBullWinkleMooseHowieThortonCrazyEddieShirleyPimpleTheIncredibleBulkMalinCralin PimplesquimDelbert” during twenty seconds of awkward sex?
Rochester to Buffalo
My cousin Andy was getting married in Rochester, NY and my whole family was gathering from here and there to attend. I drove up with my parents and sister. My brother was coming in from Toledo with his girlfriend.
The wedding was very nice and it was great to see my extended family. As the reception was winding down, my brother suggested he and I bail and go meet his buddy at a bar. The bar was called The Bug Jar. His buddy’s name was Fatty.
Fatty liked to drink. A lot. And Fatty wasn’t fat. Something about weed and smoking it.
The Fatty story I heard that night before we met him at the bar included the following: drinking, a telephone pole, cops, radiator fluid and a long strand of blonde hair. Fatty was driving home with his girlfriend in the passenger seat. My brother was in the pass-out-enger seat; lying in the back of the car. Fatty was turning right at a light and decided to pass out in the middle of the turn. His car slammed into a telephone pole. Both driver and passenger mashed their faces against the windshield. Steve just rolled onto the floor. The smashing of the face into the windshield woke Fatty up and he threw the car into reverse and completed the drive a few blocks down the road to his house. Once in the driveway, they all piled out of the car and randomly fell into the front yard of Fatty’s home… they were safe. Eight blocks away, a curious police officer saw the broken glass, mangled telephone pole and trail of anti-freeze dripping off into the distance. He called in backup and began to follow the bread crumbs back to the gingerbread house. The officers found the three still in the front yard. The cops gathered IDs and questioned the three. Fatty had a past history of driving while drunk and so his girlfriend took the blame for the accident. The cops didn’t believe it. Our curious officer found a strand of blonde hair stuck in the windshield… on the passenger side. Fatty was fucked. He was taken off to jail. Poor Fatty.
Back in Rochester, we were at The Bug Jar and having a post wedding beer when we heard a horrible noise. Last Call. Fatty wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Fatty had a plan. “Let’s go to Buffalo.” As it turns out, the bars in Buffalo are open until 4:00am. Fatty said that Buffalo was only half an hour away. We could stop at his house and pick up some beers for the road. It was an awesome plan. Fatty liked to drink.
We left the bar and I drove Steve’s car to Fatty’s. Beers and weed were gathered and we hit the road. It was 2:30am.
At 2:45am we passed a sign that read “BUFFALO – 58 MILES.”
Oddly enough, it takes more than 30 minutes to drive 58 miles. My loud questioning of this fact did not faze Fatty. Fatty said, “The college is on the east side of town... we’ll be there soon. I know exactly where it is at.”
At 3:40am, after getting lost and unlost, we parked in front of a bar. We walked in just as the bartender was calling last call. My brother and his girlfriend, who had been drinking the entire trip, slumped into a booth and basically fell asleep. Fatty audibly grabbed the bartender and slurred, “Give me three pitchers.” The bartender said, “We don’t sell pitchers.” “Well give me 16 beers.” What the fuck! The bartender opened 16 cans of beer and Fatty gathered some. I gathered the rest. We went to the booth and Fatty was yelling at my brother and his girlfriend to drink. No way. They were done. I was half way through beer 1 of 16 when Fatty said to me, “Let’s get out of here.” I was very sober and felt as though I had to take care of the guy. I followed him out the door.
Next door they sold pitchers. Fatty ordered two. For some reason, he asked for six cups.
Relocated at a countertop that wrapped a column, Fatty put down the six large plastic cups. He poured the entire contents into the cups and said the following. (I’m making this into a new paragraph to add emphasis.)
“Chug all six of these beers. If you have to puke, puke in the pitcher.”
No way, I said. I had to drive home. No way.
So I started chugging the first beer. I finished it, but there was no way I was going on any further. I did have to drive these drunken fuckers home. All 71 miles.
Fatty called me several versions of the word pussy and then chugged cup number two. And cup number three. He gagged down cup number four. Half way through cup number five he started to puke. He grabbed the empty pitcher and puked in it. It looked like beer, just foamier. In an act of pure alcoholism, he chugged cup number six.
We left the bar ( I left, Fatty staggered) and gathered Steve and his girlfriend. Everyone passed out in the car, except me. I drove. And drove. I didn’t know how to get to Fatty’s house from the highway, only from our hotel. So I went to the hotel first and dropped my brother and girlfriend off. I then drove towards Fatty’s. He wanted breakfast. He puked out the car door. I dropped him off and he asked again if we were getting breakfast. I drove back to the hotel with him lurching in the driveway.
Drive. Park. I got into the room that I was sharing with my brother. It was 7:15am. I lay down in bed and looked up at the ceiling. Afterimages from the lines on the road hummed on the ceiling. I just wanted to sleep.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Steve. Doug. Do you want breakfast? It was Mom. It was 7:18am.
“No Mom.”
Two hours later I was asleep in my parent’s car. My face wedged between the seat and window. I woke up in Lancaster, six hours later.
That was a great wedding. And it’s still not half and hour from Rochester to Buffalo.
The wedding was very nice and it was great to see my extended family. As the reception was winding down, my brother suggested he and I bail and go meet his buddy at a bar. The bar was called The Bug Jar. His buddy’s name was Fatty.
Fatty liked to drink. A lot. And Fatty wasn’t fat. Something about weed and smoking it.
The Fatty story I heard that night before we met him at the bar included the following: drinking, a telephone pole, cops, radiator fluid and a long strand of blonde hair. Fatty was driving home with his girlfriend in the passenger seat. My brother was in the pass-out-enger seat; lying in the back of the car. Fatty was turning right at a light and decided to pass out in the middle of the turn. His car slammed into a telephone pole. Both driver and passenger mashed their faces against the windshield. Steve just rolled onto the floor. The smashing of the face into the windshield woke Fatty up and he threw the car into reverse and completed the drive a few blocks down the road to his house. Once in the driveway, they all piled out of the car and randomly fell into the front yard of Fatty’s home… they were safe. Eight blocks away, a curious police officer saw the broken glass, mangled telephone pole and trail of anti-freeze dripping off into the distance. He called in backup and began to follow the bread crumbs back to the gingerbread house. The officers found the three still in the front yard. The cops gathered IDs and questioned the three. Fatty had a past history of driving while drunk and so his girlfriend took the blame for the accident. The cops didn’t believe it. Our curious officer found a strand of blonde hair stuck in the windshield… on the passenger side. Fatty was fucked. He was taken off to jail. Poor Fatty.
Back in Rochester, we were at The Bug Jar and having a post wedding beer when we heard a horrible noise. Last Call. Fatty wouldn’t have anything to do with it. Fatty had a plan. “Let’s go to Buffalo.” As it turns out, the bars in Buffalo are open until 4:00am. Fatty said that Buffalo was only half an hour away. We could stop at his house and pick up some beers for the road. It was an awesome plan. Fatty liked to drink.
We left the bar and I drove Steve’s car to Fatty’s. Beers and weed were gathered and we hit the road. It was 2:30am.
At 2:45am we passed a sign that read “BUFFALO – 58 MILES.”
Oddly enough, it takes more than 30 minutes to drive 58 miles. My loud questioning of this fact did not faze Fatty. Fatty said, “The college is on the east side of town... we’ll be there soon. I know exactly where it is at.”
At 3:40am, after getting lost and unlost, we parked in front of a bar. We walked in just as the bartender was calling last call. My brother and his girlfriend, who had been drinking the entire trip, slumped into a booth and basically fell asleep. Fatty audibly grabbed the bartender and slurred, “Give me three pitchers.” The bartender said, “We don’t sell pitchers.” “Well give me 16 beers.” What the fuck! The bartender opened 16 cans of beer and Fatty gathered some. I gathered the rest. We went to the booth and Fatty was yelling at my brother and his girlfriend to drink. No way. They were done. I was half way through beer 1 of 16 when Fatty said to me, “Let’s get out of here.” I was very sober and felt as though I had to take care of the guy. I followed him out the door.
Next door they sold pitchers. Fatty ordered two. For some reason, he asked for six cups.
Relocated at a countertop that wrapped a column, Fatty put down the six large plastic cups. He poured the entire contents into the cups and said the following. (I’m making this into a new paragraph to add emphasis.)
“Chug all six of these beers. If you have to puke, puke in the pitcher.”
No way, I said. I had to drive home. No way.
So I started chugging the first beer. I finished it, but there was no way I was going on any further. I did have to drive these drunken fuckers home. All 71 miles.
Fatty called me several versions of the word pussy and then chugged cup number two. And cup number three. He gagged down cup number four. Half way through cup number five he started to puke. He grabbed the empty pitcher and puked in it. It looked like beer, just foamier. In an act of pure alcoholism, he chugged cup number six.
We left the bar ( I left, Fatty staggered) and gathered Steve and his girlfriend. Everyone passed out in the car, except me. I drove. And drove. I didn’t know how to get to Fatty’s house from the highway, only from our hotel. So I went to the hotel first and dropped my brother and girlfriend off. I then drove towards Fatty’s. He wanted breakfast. He puked out the car door. I dropped him off and he asked again if we were getting breakfast. I drove back to the hotel with him lurching in the driveway.
Drive. Park. I got into the room that I was sharing with my brother. It was 7:15am. I lay down in bed and looked up at the ceiling. Afterimages from the lines on the road hummed on the ceiling. I just wanted to sleep.
Knock. Knock. Knock. Steve. Doug. Do you want breakfast? It was Mom. It was 7:18am.
“No Mom.”
Two hours later I was asleep in my parent’s car. My face wedged between the seat and window. I woke up in Lancaster, six hours later.
That was a great wedding. And it’s still not half and hour from Rochester to Buffalo.
Escalator
I had an odd experience the other day.
I am on the road this week for work. My flight on the way to Wilmington transferred in Atlanta. The Atlanta airport has four terminals that are joined by a tram system. You need to take a long escalator down to the tram level. I went down and hopped on the tram to head to my connecting terminal. (I also tried to stand on the tram without holding on to the grab bar. I failed and jammed my finger as I grabbed for it when the tram took off at 125 MPH.)
My stop was a popular terminal and a large group of travelers got off the tram and headed for the escalator. It was immediately apparent that something was not right. People were bunched up at the bottom. Ah, the escalator was not working and people were climbing it like stairs. I, along with the other schmucks, started hoofing up the awkward metal steps.
It was a long trek and I started to get a weird 9/11 feeling. It was creepy. Technology had failed. I was stuck in a social group of others in a similar position. The woman in front of me was struggling in heels. She had asthma or lung cancer or was just lazy, but she was laboring taking one step at a time. In a different situation, I could have carried her like hero or thrown her over the rail like a survivalist.
And then we were at the top. Several people were catching their breath. Others ran off to make up for lost time. I had 60 minutes to kill so I walked. (Actually it was 180 minutes, my flight was delayed.)
Since then on the jobsite, I’ve almost had my fingers crushed, nearly been decapitated by a falling loading dock door and just about run over by a forklift. But as I sit here in the hotel room thinking of such things, the memory of climbing the escalator keeps nudging my brain. It’s fading though.
I am on the road this week for work. My flight on the way to Wilmington transferred in Atlanta. The Atlanta airport has four terminals that are joined by a tram system. You need to take a long escalator down to the tram level. I went down and hopped on the tram to head to my connecting terminal. (I also tried to stand on the tram without holding on to the grab bar. I failed and jammed my finger as I grabbed for it when the tram took off at 125 MPH.)
My stop was a popular terminal and a large group of travelers got off the tram and headed for the escalator. It was immediately apparent that something was not right. People were bunched up at the bottom. Ah, the escalator was not working and people were climbing it like stairs. I, along with the other schmucks, started hoofing up the awkward metal steps.
It was a long trek and I started to get a weird 9/11 feeling. It was creepy. Technology had failed. I was stuck in a social group of others in a similar position. The woman in front of me was struggling in heels. She had asthma or lung cancer or was just lazy, but she was laboring taking one step at a time. In a different situation, I could have carried her like hero or thrown her over the rail like a survivalist.
And then we were at the top. Several people were catching their breath. Others ran off to make up for lost time. I had 60 minutes to kill so I walked. (Actually it was 180 minutes, my flight was delayed.)
Since then on the jobsite, I’ve almost had my fingers crushed, nearly been decapitated by a falling loading dock door and just about run over by a forklift. But as I sit here in the hotel room thinking of such things, the memory of climbing the escalator keeps nudging my brain. It’s fading though.
The Consequences of Truth
I am very fortunate to be married to Miss Sally. She is beautiful and mostly tolerant of my antics. We make a good team because one makes up where the other lacks. One sphere of relationships where I lack and Sally excels is in the area of knowing when not to speak the Truth.
For me, speaking the Truth seems self apparent. Why wouldn’t you tell someone what they need to hear? (Red Flag – need to hear in my opinion.) If someone’s tag is sticking out the back of their shirt, tell them. If someone is being an ass, tell them. If someone is about to make a really crappy life decision, tell them. If you’ve got a glob of mustard on your face, I’ll be the first to tell you. I think most people don’t say anything because they do not want to embarrass the guy with the mayo on his forehead. That is mayo, right?
(SIDE NOTE: Back a while ago, Greg and Doob traveled from Lancaster to Columbus to visit a newly built mall. Before they went a-malling, they had lunch at the Spaghetti Warehouse. Hours later, as they walked through the mall, Doob turned to Greg and said, “If I had spaghetti sauce on my face, would you tell me?” Greg said, “Yes. Yes I would.” Doob said, “You’ve got spaghetti sauce on your face.” I have found this phrase a great way to start the usually embarrassing “something on your face” conversation. Try it. Just not three hours later.)
Miss Sally and I, as a team, have a policy that goes against my Truth motto. Summed up it states, “Standing up for your friends requires you to forget the Truth.” In some situations, we tend not tell our friends how we really feel. It’s deceivingly simple: when a friend takes a stance, we side with them and support their decisions based on that stance. Under most circumstances, we stick with our friends whether or not we actually believe in what brilliance/nonsense they are spouting off. Luckily, we run with a group of friends who aren’t joining the KKK or debating the merits of polygamy. We usually aren’t put in a position to defend really dumb decisions.
By now you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t a true friend always be truthful?” Well, YES and NO. Let’s start with the NO.
NO (A true friend isn’t always truthful)
Our friend Lynne is very smart and spiritual. An odd combination because you would think that someone as smart as she is would not believe in fate or signs from a higher power. She’s had more than her fair share of shit dumped on her, but she seems to always come out shining. Maybe it is a good combination.
Lynne has a dog named Thea. Thea started to have problems with her back leg. Several hundreds of dollars later, Thea was diagnosed with bone cancer. Surgery and treatments, that were not guaranteed to work, would cost THOUSANDS of dollars. THOUSANDS!! I have a theory about pets. I do not pay for any procedure that costs more than the euthanization of the animal. That’s not entirely true, but if a cat needs $500 worth of surgery… there are plenty of healthy cats at the shelter that could use a good home.
Lynne, or should I say dirt poor Lynne, was bound and determined to get the treatments for Thea. There were a number of friends, including me, that were against this. Several friends were adamant about saving Lynne the heartache and from wasting THOUSANDS of dollars. Several friends shared the Truth with Lynne. Miss Sally said, “No matter how we feel on this, Lynne is determined to save Thea and we should support her.” So we did. It was very hard for me, but as determined as Lynne was, she needed some friends on her side. We gave her our support, secretly knowing that even if she could scrape together the money, Thea would probably relapse and die anyways.
Through a combination of luck and what others would call fate, Lynne’s mom called her with some interesting news. Due to several accounting errors, the IRS actually owed her mother THOUSANDS of dollars. The money was Lynne’s if she needed it. (Lynne’s mother was not aware of the surgery Thea needed. This was completely random. Oh wait, sorry… fate.) Turns out mom, Lynne could use the money. Lynne had just started working nights and weekends to make the needed cash and the money from her mom would pay for the initial surgery.
Thea had the surgery. Thea went through the treatments. Thea had a second surgery. Thea went through more treatments. That was five years ago. Thea, still alive and still very active, lives with Lynne in Copenhagen. (There’s another story in itself.)
Honesty isn’t always the best policy. See how smart we are... oh, right. The other side.
YES (A true friend should always be truthful)
Miss Sally has a very good friend named, for this story, Sarah. Over the years, Sarah had dated several guys and none seemed to be the right one. It was always tough on me because when she broke up, I’d have too as well. Sarah always got Miss Sally and I in the boyfriend divorce. The ex would get to keep the lawn chairs.
Then, Sarah met Mr. Right. As she dreamily described him, he was perfect. Same likes, similar backgrounds, great personality. Over the phone the guy seemed a perfect match… finally.
You can see where this is going.
From our initial contact, we really didn’t like the guy. We went on several outings, camping trips and even a reunion. The guy was an ass. We tried to like him. We tried to see past his scowl and snide remarks. It just wasn’t happening. We developed what you might call a hate for the guy. But, Sarah was in love. She saw something in this guy that we just couldn’t. When she started talking about marriage, we couldn’t have been happier! Really, we are very happy for the two of you. Really.
Other friends said, “That guy is a dick.” We said, “We trust Sarah’s judgment.”
Family said, “I don’t like him.” We said, “You need to know him like Sarah does.”
At home with the doors shut, we waited for Sarah to see the Light. Wedding plans were in full motion. We debated our now tarnished policy.
Luckily, she saw a bit of the Light. The guy was such an ass that it started leeching through Sarah’s love blinders. She started to dig her heels in on the wedding. He turned up the dick. She was feeling a whole lot of doubt about the relationship. As soon as we saw our opening, we shared the Truth with her. We hated the guy. He is bad news. Get out now.
Sarah was amazed. Why didn’t we tell her how we really felt? As good friends, she would have understood our feelings and trusted our judgment. Looking back, I think she is half right. I think we should have told her a lot earlier than we did. There is a big problem with telling someone in love that their perfect person is wrong for them. It tends to push the two closer together when you doubt their judgment. So close that anything you say or do from that point on just bounces off the love nest. It’s an easy way to lose a friend.
We learned our lesson. There is a point where Truth overrides friendship. Or perhaps that friendship is based on the ability to know when Truth needs to rear its ugly mug. A good friend should be supportive, up until a point. It’s finding that point that I leave up to Miss Sally.
I, of course, am always available to give you the Truth on an individual basis. If you are willing to listen to my version of it. And able to pay the going rate of one Captain and coke every half hour. Buy four hours, get the fifth for free.
For me, speaking the Truth seems self apparent. Why wouldn’t you tell someone what they need to hear? (Red Flag – need to hear in my opinion.) If someone’s tag is sticking out the back of their shirt, tell them. If someone is being an ass, tell them. If someone is about to make a really crappy life decision, tell them. If you’ve got a glob of mustard on your face, I’ll be the first to tell you. I think most people don’t say anything because they do not want to embarrass the guy with the mayo on his forehead. That is mayo, right?
(SIDE NOTE: Back a while ago, Greg and Doob traveled from Lancaster to Columbus to visit a newly built mall. Before they went a-malling, they had lunch at the Spaghetti Warehouse. Hours later, as they walked through the mall, Doob turned to Greg and said, “If I had spaghetti sauce on my face, would you tell me?” Greg said, “Yes. Yes I would.” Doob said, “You’ve got spaghetti sauce on your face.” I have found this phrase a great way to start the usually embarrassing “something on your face” conversation. Try it. Just not three hours later.)
Miss Sally and I, as a team, have a policy that goes against my Truth motto. Summed up it states, “Standing up for your friends requires you to forget the Truth.” In some situations, we tend not tell our friends how we really feel. It’s deceivingly simple: when a friend takes a stance, we side with them and support their decisions based on that stance. Under most circumstances, we stick with our friends whether or not we actually believe in what brilliance/nonsense they are spouting off. Luckily, we run with a group of friends who aren’t joining the KKK or debating the merits of polygamy. We usually aren’t put in a position to defend really dumb decisions.
By now you might be thinking, “Shouldn’t a true friend always be truthful?” Well, YES and NO. Let’s start with the NO.
NO (A true friend isn’t always truthful)
Our friend Lynne is very smart and spiritual. An odd combination because you would think that someone as smart as she is would not believe in fate or signs from a higher power. She’s had more than her fair share of shit dumped on her, but she seems to always come out shining. Maybe it is a good combination.
Lynne has a dog named Thea. Thea started to have problems with her back leg. Several hundreds of dollars later, Thea was diagnosed with bone cancer. Surgery and treatments, that were not guaranteed to work, would cost THOUSANDS of dollars. THOUSANDS!! I have a theory about pets. I do not pay for any procedure that costs more than the euthanization of the animal. That’s not entirely true, but if a cat needs $500 worth of surgery… there are plenty of healthy cats at the shelter that could use a good home.
Lynne, or should I say dirt poor Lynne, was bound and determined to get the treatments for Thea. There were a number of friends, including me, that were against this. Several friends were adamant about saving Lynne the heartache and from wasting THOUSANDS of dollars. Several friends shared the Truth with Lynne. Miss Sally said, “No matter how we feel on this, Lynne is determined to save Thea and we should support her.” So we did. It was very hard for me, but as determined as Lynne was, she needed some friends on her side. We gave her our support, secretly knowing that even if she could scrape together the money, Thea would probably relapse and die anyways.
Through a combination of luck and what others would call fate, Lynne’s mom called her with some interesting news. Due to several accounting errors, the IRS actually owed her mother THOUSANDS of dollars. The money was Lynne’s if she needed it. (Lynne’s mother was not aware of the surgery Thea needed. This was completely random. Oh wait, sorry… fate.) Turns out mom, Lynne could use the money. Lynne had just started working nights and weekends to make the needed cash and the money from her mom would pay for the initial surgery.
Thea had the surgery. Thea went through the treatments. Thea had a second surgery. Thea went through more treatments. That was five years ago. Thea, still alive and still very active, lives with Lynne in Copenhagen. (There’s another story in itself.)
Honesty isn’t always the best policy. See how smart we are... oh, right. The other side.
YES (A true friend should always be truthful)
Miss Sally has a very good friend named, for this story, Sarah. Over the years, Sarah had dated several guys and none seemed to be the right one. It was always tough on me because when she broke up, I’d have too as well. Sarah always got Miss Sally and I in the boyfriend divorce. The ex would get to keep the lawn chairs.
Then, Sarah met Mr. Right. As she dreamily described him, he was perfect. Same likes, similar backgrounds, great personality. Over the phone the guy seemed a perfect match… finally.
You can see where this is going.
From our initial contact, we really didn’t like the guy. We went on several outings, camping trips and even a reunion. The guy was an ass. We tried to like him. We tried to see past his scowl and snide remarks. It just wasn’t happening. We developed what you might call a hate for the guy. But, Sarah was in love. She saw something in this guy that we just couldn’t. When she started talking about marriage, we couldn’t have been happier! Really, we are very happy for the two of you. Really.
Other friends said, “That guy is a dick.” We said, “We trust Sarah’s judgment.”
Family said, “I don’t like him.” We said, “You need to know him like Sarah does.”
At home with the doors shut, we waited for Sarah to see the Light. Wedding plans were in full motion. We debated our now tarnished policy.
Luckily, she saw a bit of the Light. The guy was such an ass that it started leeching through Sarah’s love blinders. She started to dig her heels in on the wedding. He turned up the dick. She was feeling a whole lot of doubt about the relationship. As soon as we saw our opening, we shared the Truth with her. We hated the guy. He is bad news. Get out now.
Sarah was amazed. Why didn’t we tell her how we really felt? As good friends, she would have understood our feelings and trusted our judgment. Looking back, I think she is half right. I think we should have told her a lot earlier than we did. There is a big problem with telling someone in love that their perfect person is wrong for them. It tends to push the two closer together when you doubt their judgment. So close that anything you say or do from that point on just bounces off the love nest. It’s an easy way to lose a friend.
We learned our lesson. There is a point where Truth overrides friendship. Or perhaps that friendship is based on the ability to know when Truth needs to rear its ugly mug. A good friend should be supportive, up until a point. It’s finding that point that I leave up to Miss Sally.
I, of course, am always available to give you the Truth on an individual basis. If you are willing to listen to my version of it. And able to pay the going rate of one Captain and coke every half hour. Buy four hours, get the fifth for free.
Dumb Wish
I wish I were dumb. Not that I’m intelligent by any means. Clever, sure. But I’m not very smart. When I say dumb, I’m suggesting that I wish that I could take certain information and knowledge that I have retained and flush it down my brain stem. The reasoning for this starts out with some really great news:
Miss Sally is pregnant. That’s great news.
The not so great news is that this is #2 for us. Greg is #1. During the Age of Greg, much knowledge was gained about where a baby comes from, what hormones it disturbs for nine months, and how insanely purple an umbilical cord is. Other areas explored were the eat, shit, sleep cycles and the learning to not fall down and babble interpretation. All of this information was learned through brute reality and sleep deprivation. It was a tough time, but because I had no idea what was about to happen next, a blessedly dumb time. The Age of Greg is moving on. We are now entering the Age of Two Kids. Also know as the Doug’s Not Going Out For Another Six Years Era.
So to get back to the point, I’m not so dumb anymore. Now I know ahead of time what hormones get riled up. And because nature is such a bitch, they are going to be different ones than before. Now I know that I’m not going to get any sleep. It’s not like I can store up 45 naps to use at a later date. And any of the joy that was shared by the three of us before, now needs shared by four with a three year old who doesn’t share.
Please don’t get me wrong. I am incredibly happy. Miss Sally and I wanted to have two kids and that was always the Plan. The reality is that it is sometimes best to be oblivious to some of the realities of pregnancy and child birth. Now I know ahead of time about Braxton-Hick’s contractions and Sally’s unrelenting discomfort and stirring and that there’s more than just water when the water breaks.
So I wish I were dumb. Only because there is responsibility with knowledge. Now that I am not dumb, I can plan ahead for these possible issues. I can be the one that steps up and keeps Greg occupied while Miss Sally doesn’t sleep, but has to try. The fridge can be stocked with vanilla pudding and then re-stocked with chocolate because all of a sudden the sight of vanilla makes Miss Sally nauseous. The heating pad is staged. There is always filtered water. I’ll park the car as far as possible on the right side of the garage.
I guess in the end, me being dumb only helps me. Me not being dumb helps Miss Sally. And besides lifting heavy things, helping Miss Sally is about all I can do that has any merit.
I love me. But I love Miss Sally just a little bit more. (And believe me, that’s a lot.)
Miss Sally is pregnant. That’s great news.
The not so great news is that this is #2 for us. Greg is #1. During the Age of Greg, much knowledge was gained about where a baby comes from, what hormones it disturbs for nine months, and how insanely purple an umbilical cord is. Other areas explored were the eat, shit, sleep cycles and the learning to not fall down and babble interpretation. All of this information was learned through brute reality and sleep deprivation. It was a tough time, but because I had no idea what was about to happen next, a blessedly dumb time. The Age of Greg is moving on. We are now entering the Age of Two Kids. Also know as the Doug’s Not Going Out For Another Six Years Era.
So to get back to the point, I’m not so dumb anymore. Now I know ahead of time what hormones get riled up. And because nature is such a bitch, they are going to be different ones than before. Now I know that I’m not going to get any sleep. It’s not like I can store up 45 naps to use at a later date. And any of the joy that was shared by the three of us before, now needs shared by four with a three year old who doesn’t share.
Please don’t get me wrong. I am incredibly happy. Miss Sally and I wanted to have two kids and that was always the Plan. The reality is that it is sometimes best to be oblivious to some of the realities of pregnancy and child birth. Now I know ahead of time about Braxton-Hick’s contractions and Sally’s unrelenting discomfort and stirring and that there’s more than just water when the water breaks.
So I wish I were dumb. Only because there is responsibility with knowledge. Now that I am not dumb, I can plan ahead for these possible issues. I can be the one that steps up and keeps Greg occupied while Miss Sally doesn’t sleep, but has to try. The fridge can be stocked with vanilla pudding and then re-stocked with chocolate because all of a sudden the sight of vanilla makes Miss Sally nauseous. The heating pad is staged. There is always filtered water. I’ll park the car as far as possible on the right side of the garage.
I guess in the end, me being dumb only helps me. Me not being dumb helps Miss Sally. And besides lifting heavy things, helping Miss Sally is about all I can do that has any merit.
I love me. But I love Miss Sally just a little bit more. (And believe me, that’s a lot.)
Smokin’
Back when I had the greatest job in the world, I spent eight months at the Museum of Natural History in Denver, Colorado. During that time I made friends with Stephanie, who was a volunteer at the museum. We became good friends and better drinking buddies.
Stephanie had a roommate whom I will refer to as The Witch. Well, she was a self proclaimed witch. She had the books and the hair and wore gothy clothes. I didn’t really think she was a witch. That was until Steph and I walked in on her sitting naked in a ring of candles. It might have been a pentagram, but she knocked some over running to the bathroom. (Oh yeah, that reminds me, she was really pale, too.)
The Witch had an ex-boyfriend. He was a drummer. She should have known better. Unlike other drummers, this guy had a job as an assistant manager at a grocery store. Also unlike other drummers, this guy had a car which he left unlocked while he was working as an assistant manager at a grocery store.
One night, The Witch wanted to get some revenge on the ex-boyfriend. I’m not sure who brought the smoke bombs or where they came from, but needless to say, they were there in the car with the three of us as we sat parked across the street from the grocery store. The Witch thought it would be funny if we tossed a smoke bomb in his car and then watched his reaction as he opened up the door.
Steph and I hunkered down in her car as The Witch made her way though the increasingly protective darkness. Like a total dude, the drummer ex had backed into his parking spot. Like a total ass, he parked right up next to the store in one of the better spots. The Witch made it to the car and wisely checked to see if the passenger side backdoor was unlocked. It was. She lit a smoke bomb. In one fluid motion she threw it into the car and slammed the door. Not-so-stealthily she ran back to the car and flopped in the backseat. We quietly laughed hysterically.
We peeked out the windows and waited to see roiling smoke through the windows of his car. We waited for the great gouts of smoke to erupt. We waited. Nothing. Debate ranged between whether the smoke bomb had not gone off or if one was not enough. The solution to both possibilities was to throw two additional smoke bombs into the car.
This time, The Witch walked right up to the car. We could see her silhouette with the store’s double entry doors lit on the other side of the car. She lit the two smoke bombs. She opened the door.
A great murky fog squeezed out from the top, bottom and side of the door. The first smoke bomb had gone off. Whether it was the slight tint to the windows or if we had not been paying enough attention while laughing, we missed that the car had filled with smoke.
With witch-like determination, she tossed the two other smoke bombs in the car, slammed the door and ran back. The first smoke bomb now had two new friends to hang out and smoke with.
I want to remember that we laughed even harder, but I think we were all stunned. If one smoke bomb created that much smoke… shit.
We waited for drummer ex to leave the store. Twenty minutes later, lights started to go off in the building and people started to come out the front doors. As an added bonus, the drummer ex was a kind enough assistant manager to ensure that all the workers got to leave at the same time, so there were five additional witnesses. The bastard made us wait an extra few minutes as he chit chatted with his five buddies. Probably about his stinking band. He then opened his car door.
As expected, smoke belched from the car. Unexpectedly, it just kept coming out. Even in the dark, you could see the smoke oozing out. The other dudes ran over to the car. Drummer ex kept saying, “Dude! Dude!” They opened all the doors. The co-workers insisted that his car was on fire. Drummer ex kept saying, “Dude!”
We drove off before they started looking for witnesses.
Later, after The Witch got back together with the drummer (duh,) we found out some other details. Drummer though that the smokage had been committed by an ex-worker. (We were safe.) The smoke bombs burnt a hole in his carpet, but did not start a fire. (We were not felons.) The car never lost the sulfur smell of the smoke. (We were avenged.)
Steph is now married and a semi-professional photographer. The Witch is into scrapbooking. I’m still trying to figure out where those smoke bombs came from.
Stephanie had a roommate whom I will refer to as The Witch. Well, she was a self proclaimed witch. She had the books and the hair and wore gothy clothes. I didn’t really think she was a witch. That was until Steph and I walked in on her sitting naked in a ring of candles. It might have been a pentagram, but she knocked some over running to the bathroom. (Oh yeah, that reminds me, she was really pale, too.)
The Witch had an ex-boyfriend. He was a drummer. She should have known better. Unlike other drummers, this guy had a job as an assistant manager at a grocery store. Also unlike other drummers, this guy had a car which he left unlocked while he was working as an assistant manager at a grocery store.
One night, The Witch wanted to get some revenge on the ex-boyfriend. I’m not sure who brought the smoke bombs or where they came from, but needless to say, they were there in the car with the three of us as we sat parked across the street from the grocery store. The Witch thought it would be funny if we tossed a smoke bomb in his car and then watched his reaction as he opened up the door.
Steph and I hunkered down in her car as The Witch made her way though the increasingly protective darkness. Like a total dude, the drummer ex had backed into his parking spot. Like a total ass, he parked right up next to the store in one of the better spots. The Witch made it to the car and wisely checked to see if the passenger side backdoor was unlocked. It was. She lit a smoke bomb. In one fluid motion she threw it into the car and slammed the door. Not-so-stealthily she ran back to the car and flopped in the backseat. We quietly laughed hysterically.
We peeked out the windows and waited to see roiling smoke through the windows of his car. We waited for the great gouts of smoke to erupt. We waited. Nothing. Debate ranged between whether the smoke bomb had not gone off or if one was not enough. The solution to both possibilities was to throw two additional smoke bombs into the car.
This time, The Witch walked right up to the car. We could see her silhouette with the store’s double entry doors lit on the other side of the car. She lit the two smoke bombs. She opened the door.
A great murky fog squeezed out from the top, bottom and side of the door. The first smoke bomb had gone off. Whether it was the slight tint to the windows or if we had not been paying enough attention while laughing, we missed that the car had filled with smoke.
With witch-like determination, she tossed the two other smoke bombs in the car, slammed the door and ran back. The first smoke bomb now had two new friends to hang out and smoke with.
I want to remember that we laughed even harder, but I think we were all stunned. If one smoke bomb created that much smoke… shit.
We waited for drummer ex to leave the store. Twenty minutes later, lights started to go off in the building and people started to come out the front doors. As an added bonus, the drummer ex was a kind enough assistant manager to ensure that all the workers got to leave at the same time, so there were five additional witnesses. The bastard made us wait an extra few minutes as he chit chatted with his five buddies. Probably about his stinking band. He then opened his car door.
As expected, smoke belched from the car. Unexpectedly, it just kept coming out. Even in the dark, you could see the smoke oozing out. The other dudes ran over to the car. Drummer ex kept saying, “Dude! Dude!” They opened all the doors. The co-workers insisted that his car was on fire. Drummer ex kept saying, “Dude!”
We drove off before they started looking for witnesses.
Later, after The Witch got back together with the drummer (duh,) we found out some other details. Drummer though that the smokage had been committed by an ex-worker. (We were safe.) The smoke bombs burnt a hole in his carpet, but did not start a fire. (We were not felons.) The car never lost the sulfur smell of the smoke. (We were avenged.)
Steph is now married and a semi-professional photographer. The Witch is into scrapbooking. I’m still trying to figure out where those smoke bombs came from.
Yield
I love yield signs.
The concept is simple: YIELD = merge with traffic, but make sure you give the right of way to oncoming traffic. In some situations, you might have to completely stop, but that would show everyone behind you how much of a pansy you are.
The yield sign has a different meaning depending on which side of the sign my ego is accelerating from.
Say for instance, I am the one with the yield sign. As I approach the sign, I accelerate to match the flow of traffic I'm about to intrude upon. There’s nothing as gratifying as passing someone on the inside of the merge lane. As I accelerate, I expect that if there is a car that is beside me, they will continue on their way and that I will slow down, slightly, to allow them in front of me. I will then slide in behind them like a good little boy. If there is a car right behind the first car, I expect them to understand that I am yielding, but to keep the flow of traffic going, they should maintain their speed to allow me to sneak in. If they do not allow me in, then the next few seconds are a bit hairy. Usually, as the merge lane ends, there are scraps of trash, tires, bits of steel and (if you live in Jersey) mattresses on the side of the road. As you drive over these items, they kick up, like a James Bond car secret weapon, and rain down upon the car behind/beside you. It causes them to change lanes or slow down so that you can merge. You win! You’ve got three flat tires, but damnit you won!
Now let’s say I’m the oncoming traffic and some idiot is trying to merge in MY lane. First off to the mergers, accelerate. Yield sign is red like a stop sign, but that does not mean slow down, so you should use the merge as a launching pad. If you are going as fast as the traffic you are merging with, you’ll have more MPH to negotiate with. As I approach the people merging, I classify them into two categories; Jerks and Grandmas. Jerks are OK. They speed up and cut you off and sometimes kick up a mattress off the side of the road. I can live with that. If I see a spoiler, neon or hear bass from ¼ mile away, I know that with a few hand gesture transactions, we’ll all make it through the yield OK. Grandmas will kill you. You don’t have to have silver hair to be a Grandma either. It’s the hesitating. The stopping. The talking on the cell phone and looking over the shoulder. It’s best to change lanes or just drive into the concrete barrier and be done with it. Grandmas are why everyone is late to work or dead.
Basically, what it boils down to is that yield signs are for everyone else. If I am merging with you, you should be kind enough to let me in. If you are merging with me, follow the law, slow down and get behind me. I would hate to see what would happen in an alternate universe where I would have to merge into traffic with myself.
The concept is simple: YIELD = merge with traffic, but make sure you give the right of way to oncoming traffic. In some situations, you might have to completely stop, but that would show everyone behind you how much of a pansy you are.
The yield sign has a different meaning depending on which side of the sign my ego is accelerating from.
Say for instance, I am the one with the yield sign. As I approach the sign, I accelerate to match the flow of traffic I'm about to intrude upon. There’s nothing as gratifying as passing someone on the inside of the merge lane. As I accelerate, I expect that if there is a car that is beside me, they will continue on their way and that I will slow down, slightly, to allow them in front of me. I will then slide in behind them like a good little boy. If there is a car right behind the first car, I expect them to understand that I am yielding, but to keep the flow of traffic going, they should maintain their speed to allow me to sneak in. If they do not allow me in, then the next few seconds are a bit hairy. Usually, as the merge lane ends, there are scraps of trash, tires, bits of steel and (if you live in Jersey) mattresses on the side of the road. As you drive over these items, they kick up, like a James Bond car secret weapon, and rain down upon the car behind/beside you. It causes them to change lanes or slow down so that you can merge. You win! You’ve got three flat tires, but damnit you won!
Now let’s say I’m the oncoming traffic and some idiot is trying to merge in MY lane. First off to the mergers, accelerate. Yield sign is red like a stop sign, but that does not mean slow down, so you should use the merge as a launching pad. If you are going as fast as the traffic you are merging with, you’ll have more MPH to negotiate with. As I approach the people merging, I classify them into two categories; Jerks and Grandmas. Jerks are OK. They speed up and cut you off and sometimes kick up a mattress off the side of the road. I can live with that. If I see a spoiler, neon or hear bass from ¼ mile away, I know that with a few hand gesture transactions, we’ll all make it through the yield OK. Grandmas will kill you. You don’t have to have silver hair to be a Grandma either. It’s the hesitating. The stopping. The talking on the cell phone and looking over the shoulder. It’s best to change lanes or just drive into the concrete barrier and be done with it. Grandmas are why everyone is late to work or dead.
Basically, what it boils down to is that yield signs are for everyone else. If I am merging with you, you should be kind enough to let me in. If you are merging with me, follow the law, slow down and get behind me. I would hate to see what would happen in an alternate universe where I would have to merge into traffic with myself.
Conversation
Me to Friend: Are you hooking up with whatshername?
Friend: No.
Me: You can tell me.
Friend: I’m not hooking up with whatshername.
Me: But if you were hooking up with her, you would tell me that you weren’t, right?
Friend: Probably
Me: So, are you hooking up with whatshername?
Friend: No.
Me: That’s all I needed to know.
Friend: No.
Me: You can tell me.
Friend: I’m not hooking up with whatshername.
Me: But if you were hooking up with her, you would tell me that you weren’t, right?
Friend: Probably
Me: So, are you hooking up with whatshername?
Friend: No.
Me: That’s all I needed to know.
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