It’s been like three days since I’ve had anything even remotely resembling an idea of something interesting to write about. I hate coming back to this, but here it is, another one of these “I don’t know what to write about,” pieces. It’s like, OK, I’ll sit down to write. And the page is blank. And there’s plenty of time before I have to go to work. So just don’t freak out, just take a deep breath, look out the window for a second. You know what? Maybe I should water my plants. I have a garden. A small garden. Well, I guess it’s not the smallest garden. It’s big enough. I don’t like calling it gardening though, because I feel like I’m being robbed of my masculinity just a little bit. So I call it farming. Because what’s manlier than farming? Nothing. Well, maybe knife-fighting. Or alligator wrestling. Or motorcycle stunt driving. Or glass eating. And I’m not saying that women can’t do any of the above professions. I’m just talking about gender stereotypes. But now that I mention it, I don’t think I’ve ever met any female glass-eaters. But now that I mention that, I can’t really remember meeting any male glass-eaters either. I’m trying to think if I’ve ever even seen anybody eat glass, or if I’ve only heard about it maybe, or perhaps I saw something on TV once, but that’s not really saying much, because you can see anything on TV, and for me to make these sweeping generalizations about the genders based on a fleeting idea about some manly glass-eater who may or may not exist, well, this is probably an all-time high for me in terms of ignorance, in terms of gender insensitivity, and so I’d like to offer an apology, a brief apology, brief but sincere, to women, but not just to women, but to men also, to all humans really, because in running my mouth about accepted roles for men or for women, I’ve done a disservice to both men and women. But more of a disservice to women. In fact, I’m going to make a pledge right now, to myself, to the world, to my future unborn daughter, sweetie, when you grow up, I want you to eat as much glass as possible. I’m going to be right there behind you, every step of the way, I’ll get you regular shards of glass, but I’ll also go to the beach and look for really cool green pieces of sea glass that have been polished and smoothed down by years of slowly getting caressed by individual grains of sand. You’re going to be the best glass eater in human history honey, and you’ll show the world what glass eating is really all about, and I’ll have showed you, so I’ll indirectly have showed the world, and by that point in my life, hopefully I’ll have made up for my completely unacceptable remarks above about manliness and farming and … you know what? I should just come clean, a blanket admission. I have a garden. I enjoy gardening. There, I said it. You know what? I actually don’t think I’m really comfortable with that, I don’t think I’m ready for that big of a leap. I’d like to backtrack a little, if I could still refer to it as farming, I hope that’s OK with everybody. I still stand by all of the things that I wrote about gender equality and acceptance, but there’s just a part of me that still cringes inside when I picture myself telling people that I like to garden. What’s next? Gardening gloves? A nice handcrafted gardening spade? With the handle having the same matching pattern as my gardening gloves? And I may as well buy a gardening apron while I’m at it, you know, just make sure my clothes don’t get all dirty. And a nice floppy hat, because seriously, if I’m spending all of that time outside, well I don’t want to get too much sun, I don’t want to suffer any more sun damage than I already have. Yeah, you see, this isn’t really rolling off the tongue the same way farming does. I can’t see myself gardening, but I can totally see myself farming. I’m picturing myself in nothing but overalls, one strap undone, no shirt on underneath, and I’m barefoot, and I’m not even using any tools, I’m just plowing the soil with my bare hands, and I’m covered in sweat and my fingernails are blackened with dirt, and I’m not even harvesting vegetables, I’m growing steaks. They’re coming right out of the ground and landing straight on the grill. And then I’ll pick them right off the coals, again, no tools for the grilling either, and I’ll just chow down, no utensils, no napkins, no plates, just me, overalls, and a perfectly cooked steak. Alright, maybe a little salt and pepper, just a little, just for some seasoning, just to really make those natural flavors pop.
Monthly Archives: August 2012
I’m on strike! I’m on strike!
I really want to go on strike. I’ve never been part of a picket line before. Every once in a while I’ll pass by some workers who are striking against something. I’ll always want to shout out some support, some solidarity, but I never know what I should say. “Yeah!” That’s a thought, but I don’t think I’m making it clear enough who I’m supporting. Just saying “Yeah!” could mean anything. It could mean nothing. If I were in a car I would just honk. That’s really the best way to support a strike. You’re putting yourself out there without actually having to slow down really. But I don’t have a car, I’m always just walking. I could buy a horn, like a clown horn, but, no, that would be way too weird. And I’d just be walking on by, slowly. Someone would probably ask, “What’s with the clown horn?” and I’d be like, “I’m honking! Honk if you support the strike!” They might be like, “Oh, OK. Well. Thanks?” Maybe it would just detract from the cause. Maybe there would be too much attention on the clown horn and less attention on the issues. So usually when I pass by some strikers I just try to act natural. But whenever I try to act natural I feel like I’m making a really weird face. And my shoulders are like locked in a clenched position. It’s the opposite of natural really. And do the strikers find it suspicious that I’m acting so weird? Do they think I’m maybe a corporate spy?
One time I was walking by a strike and I actually did show some solidarity, I just went for it. I started clapping, like a semi-slow hard clap. And I nodded my head at the strikers. But whenever you’re addressing a large group of people, there’s always the problem of where you’re supposed to look. Where do I focus my eyes? I saw a TV show one time where one of the main characters was taking a public speaking class. I think whole point of the episode was that this character was afraid of public speaking, and so it was funny watching him get all bent out of shape in front of the class. But it must not have been that funny, because I don’t remember anything about the show, like what show it was, or who was in it. And also, it’s really hard for a TV actor to convincingly act like he or she is afraid of public speaking, which is essentially acting within acting. A movie actor could pull it off, like a really good actor. But, like I said, this show was probably terrible, and so the only actor they could afford was one who acted out the scene really poorly. Whatever, he was probably doing the best he could. I think the writers are really to blame. I mean, why were they writing such a role for an actor who clearly couldn’t handle it? Anyway, what I do remember from this episode was that the professor gave a tip, about addressing large groups, something about making eye contact with random people in the group, so as to engage better with the audience, to feel more engaged yourself. I think that was it. So I’m walking by this group of strikers and I started this slow, semi-slow clap. And as I started clapping, the whole group of strikers looked at me, because I was making noise, attention-grabbing noise. And I thought, shit, where do I look? I remembered that TV show and told myself to make eye contact with a few different people. So I started making eye contact with this one random guy. I was going to hold it for a few seconds and then move on to another striker. But this first guy that I made eye contact with just kind of pointed to himself and said, “Who, me?” And here I am, just slowly applauding this one guy, and I’m looking at him directly in the eye. And I was just like, “No. Well, yeah, you. You and everbody else. I’m applauding everyone.” And he said, “Oh, OK. Because you were looking right at me. Sorry. Thanks for the support.” And it was just super awkward and I wanted out of there fast.
I love everything about strikes, though. There’s like this whole different set of rules and cool things going on that only ever go on at strikes. There’s a picket line. And you’re not supposed to cross it. And people take it pretty seriously. I think that’s pretty cool. And there are always tons of refreshments. Every time I pass by a strike there’s always a table with water and donuts. And then there’re the scabs. And your unions. There’s just this whole awesome set of strike-related vocabulary.
You know, all of this talk about strike has really got my blood just boiling. You know what, that’s it. I’m on strike. It’s official. I’m officially on strike. I can’t take it anymore. I’m striking. I’m not going to stop striking until all of my demands are met. I’m going on strike and even if you meet my demands, I’m just going to make even more demands, and you’ll have to reassess the situation and realize that, well, his demands are just too high. There’s no workable solution. That’s exactly what a fat cat like you would say. No workable solution. There’s always a workable solution. And I’m not going to stop until you figure out a way to make it happen.
Was that convincing? Was that a convincing strike? I’m telling you, I would be great at this. Strikers should hire me to strike with them, to give their strike that little something extra. And I’ll make business cards. They’ll just say: Rob G. Striker. But wait a second. What happens if the strikers start taking advantage of me? What if they start paying me lower and lower wages? How would I protest? Could there be like a strike within a strike? Or a strike from a strike?
Q & A
I’m thinking about changing this blog into one of those life advice type blogs. You know, I’ll tackle life issues, give out recipes for how to deal with problems, how to turn it all around. People just naturally feel comfortable with me, somehow free to open up, about life, about problems. And I’m not just talking about close friends and family. It’s like complete strangers also. I’ll be buying some toothpaste at the drugstore and it’ll be my turn in line, and I’ll say to the cashier, “How’s it going?” not like a real question, just, you know, like as a formality, just as a way of saying hi. Most people, if they respond at all to most other people, they’ll just say like, “Fine,” or “Hey.” But I’ll say “How’s it going,” and the cashier will let out a big sigh. “Well …” and I’m just like, here we go. But I’m generally receptive to it all.
I think I’ll start off the first few posts like a Q&A format. I’ll post questions, you know, questions about problems, about life, and then I’ll answer them. Like this:
Q: Where are you going to get all of these questions from?
A: Excellent question. At first I’ll probably just have to make them up myself. Just to get the ball rolling. People might not be comfortable being the first person to volunteer a question. It’s tough, I know. Much easier to be third or fourth, or even easier to be like twenty-seventh. I know what you’re thinking. You’re saying, Rob, you’ve got it so together. You’ve got it all figured out.
Q: How are your questions going to be convincing enough to trick readers into thinking that you’re dealing with an actual problem?
A: Another great question. Look, I’m a writer. I’m just being creative. I’ll just make up some problems. If anything, it will make this whole thing even more convincing, because what are the chances that I’m going to throw myself a total curveball of a question? Can you imagine that? If by putting myself in the head of somebody with real problems, somebody who decided to ask me for some real life advice, that I came up with a question so loaded, that I wound up just totally stumped? Is it even possible to stump oneself? I’m pretty sure it’s not.
The plan is, after I get it started, people will be so impressed with my wisdom and my advice that they’ll naturally start sending in their own questions. This will be great because they’ll be doing a lot of my work for me, coming up with stuff for me to write about. Like a lot of the time I’ll sit down to write something and I can’t think of anything. Or sometimes I’ll think of something, something that at first might seem like it will have enough substance to make up an entire blog post. And I’ll just start writing it. Like this one, this blog post that you’re reading right now. I had this idea when I got up this morning to write about writing a life advice blog. But now here I am, three paragraphs in and I’m already questioning whether or not I’ve made a huge mistake. But it’s too late. I’m already like five hundred words deep. I don’t quit at five hundred. Three hundred, yeah, I’ll feel free to toss that in the trash. Not a real trashcan, though, and not really tossing. I’m using a computer, so I can just hit delete.
But now I’m re-rethinking it and I’m starting to think that maybe it is a good idea. It would be nice to just open my inbox and see all of these people desperately asking me for advice and then I’d be able to pick and choose a topic. And I’ll write and give generic enough help and then I’ll get all the credit of being a great writer, a great thinker, a great person. And I’ll grow a mustache and I’ll go bald on top and I’ll start a talk show years from now called Dr. Phil: The Next Generation.
But that would only work if the real Dr. Phil were still on the air. He would be totally caught off guard, completely unable to respond to my stealing the very nature of his on-air persona. He’d probably try to sue but I would just ignore all of the subpoenas. Then I would casually drop the Next Generation part out of my title and I’d start calling my show just Dr. Phil. And now the real Dr. Phil would get super pissed off. I’d go on my show and claim that I’ve been the real Dr. Phil all along, and that the original Dr. Phil is a total an imposter.
The only way to settle it, I’ll say, is for one of us to appear as a guest on the other’s show. And I’ll make a gesture, to be the bigger person, to be the bigger Dr. Phil, that I’ll be the guest on his show. But right as I get introduced to come out on stage, I’ll immediately head right towards Dr. Phil and I’ll push him out of his chair. I’ll rip the microphone off of his jacket lapel and I’ll attach it to my jacket’s lapel. And then I’ll say, “I’m the real Dr. Phil! And this is my show!” Dr. Phil probably won’t take it lying down, and we might get in a little scuffle, but I’ll win, because I’m much younger and stronger. I’ll put him in a sleeper hold until he cries uncle. But it won’t be enough. He’ll scream, “Never! Let go!” And I’ll scream, “Not until you admit that I’m the real Dr. Phil!” And he’ll resist for a little bit, but the blood will be accumulating in his head and he’ll fold under the pain and pressure. “Fine! You’re the real Dr. Phil!”
Everyone will applaud wildly. But, like I said, I’m the bigger person, so I’ll give him a shot to be a co-host on my show. We could call it Dr. Phils. Or, Drs. Phil? I’m not sure. We’re going to have to consult with a marketing firm, have some focus groups react to both names, to see which one garners more of a connection with an actual audience. It’s going to be so lucrative. I’m going to be so successful. Look at that, I just gave myself some life advice in my very first Q&A column. I can’t help it. I told you, I’m a natural. Keep those questions coming people.
The world’s most dangerous man
I thrive on danger. I’d say danger’s my middle name, but it’s not, and I feel like somebody’s already said that somewhere else, but I can’t remember where. Whenever I ride a bike, I never wear a helmet. Please, what do I look like, a total loser? Not only do I not wear a helmet, but I don’t even use brakes. I had them removed. It really makes me ride with a sense of purpose. I get this feeling of intense concentration, which I like. But it’s really hard to stop, which I don’t like, not as much. Actually, it’s impossible to stop. No brakes, you know, so, if I really have to, like if there’s a car that’s about to hit me, I can jump off the bike. I did it one time, and I landed on my feet fine. I looked around at everyone staring at my near-perfect landing, raised my hands in the air and said, “ta-da!” Some people started clapping. My bike got destroyed though, and I haven’t bought a new one yet. But once I do, I’m going to take the brakes right off. Just rip them right out, with my hands. And maybe the handlebars too.
When I’m riding in a car? You guessed it, no seatbelt. Seatbelts are for complete weenies. Trust me, I don’t need a seatbelt. I have great posture. If I’m ever rear-ended or if I ever drive into a pole, well my back is always just really straight, and my neck muscles are so strong that I don’t think I’ll have whiplash. No, I’m definitely sure I won’t. But there’s always the problem of the police. Every once in a while they’ll hide out and stop every single driver and do a seatbelt check. One time I got stopped on a long line of cars. The person I was driving with told me it was a seatbelt check, and that I had better buckle up. But I refused. First of all, I don’t listen to side-seat drivers. If I’m behind the wheel, don’t tell me what to do, all right? Second of all, I’m not going to be bullied around by any cops. I got a ticket. But it doesn’t matter because I threw it out. Anytime I’m driving now, I always wear these custom shirts that I made myself. I took a bunch of seatbelts and sewed them diagonally across the chest, so it looks like I’m wearing a seatbelt, even though I’m not.
Boating? No life jackets. Rollerblading? Leave the kneepads at home. Soccer? Shin-guards are for babies. Do I look like a baby? Whenever I go swimming, I make sure that I eat a huge meal right before I jump in. Like the second before. When I’m in the water, I’m still chewing my last bite. Charlie horses aren’t really a big deal. I don’t understand why they’re so dangerous. It’s just like a stomachache. I’m not one to start crying over a little tummy ache. Just don’t go in the deep end. I’m not talking about me, I’m talking to you, because you probably wouldn’t make it. I only go in the deep end. If there’s no deep end, I start diving. Stupid sign. You don’t know how good of a diver I am.
The last time I had strep throat the doctor gave me antibiotics. But then I took some anti-antibiotics. I wanted to make it more interesting. I wanted to see which ones would win. I think the regular antibiotics won though, because my sore throat went away after a few days.
I used to play ice hockey with no skates. No shoes either. Just bare feet. Everyone told me I was out of my mind. My parents told me my feet would freeze off. My coach told me if they didn’t freeze, someone would skate over them. And he was right, one time that really happened. But my feet were fine. It were the other guy’s skates that broke. Cracked right in half. You can look it up. I was on the news. Oh yeah, and of course I wasn’t wearing any other protection either. No helmet. No gloves. No padding. Nothing. I was practically naked out there on the ice. I never even used a stick. That was on the news one time also. Check it out.
One time I went zip lining over a cliff and I didn’t use a harness. One time I went on an upside-down rollercoaster and I unbuckled the seatbelt right before we took off. When I’m on a plane I always turn my cell phone on and start making as many calls as possible. I just never talk, so the flight attendants never catch on. I’m supposed to take some sort of medicine before I go to the dentist. He always asks if I took it, and I always say yes. But I never do. What a clown.
Why is morale so low around here?
Morale is at an all time low. We’re not blind to that fact. We get it. We were just ignoring it for a while, seeing if it might not starting going up again by itself. Maybe it was just a weird phase. Maybe everyone would start getting happy again. But it’s not. And since we first identified the all time low, things have dropped even lower. A new all time low. It’s dropping so fast that I can’t even keep up with labeling right now correctly as an all time low, because before I even have a chance to complete my sentence, it’s dropped even further, and so it’s technically not true anymore. But you get the idea. Very, very low morale.
Which is why we’ve decided to take some morale boosting measures, make some morale boosting rules. We’re positive that these rules will turn morale around in no time. The first rule concerns hugging. From now on, whenever you see somebody, you have to give him or her a hug. And not one of those fake hugs. It has to be an actual embrace. For at least five second. You actually have to count to five. Not necessarily out loud, but if you’re not saying it out loud, make sure you’re screaming it as loud as you can in your head. Block out all other thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. But not too fast. You can count Mississippi afterwards, but only if it helps. It’s not necessarily required. But if you finish hugging and it’s too short, you have to start over. We’re going to have to be very strict here.
I’m looking at some numbers here. It looks like morale is on the up and up already. That’s good news. Very good news. I’d say count to six in your head. This way you’ll be positive that you’re hugging for at least five seconds. I’ve always found it much better to overshoot than to undershoot. Plus, if you’re counting to five, and it’s a little fast, but the person you’re hugging is counting slower, at a more appropriate pace, well then you’re grip is going to be a little off, you’ll be letting go of the hug too early. But the other person will still be hugging. And that might get a little awkward, like you’re feeling like you’re just being held, your limp body just kind of there in this other person’s arms. We’re looking for a casual mutual embrace here, not one party holding another party. Hugs will definitely improve morale. But if it’s off for even a second, well, the studies aren’t back yet on how morale will be affected, but it’s always safe to assume the worst, right? That way we’ll be prepared.
You know what? I think that both parties should count out loud, to five. And scratch the Mississippis. We don’t want to be vocalizing a preference of one state over another. Corporate’s going to be down our throats. Just count a thousand. Don’t count to a thousand, just count, one one-thousand, two one-thousand, etc. We’re really just looking for a syllable count here, something to keep a measure, like beats. Just so everybody’s on the same page.
More numbers. Looks like morale’s turning around here folks. Well, it hasn’t completely turned around yet. But it’s not plummeting as fast. This has got to be some good news, a break in downward momentum. Wait a second, even more numbers. These numbers are terrible. This isn’t good news … wait. Wait, more numbers. OK, these are some great numbers. I think it worked. It definitely worked. Don’t discount morale. Any good team needs morale. Any good organization. Get over here, you. You. What’s your name, you. Just, I’ll go left, you go right. No, not like … OK. There. A little tighter. That’s it. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four one-thousand, five one-thousand. Terrific.