Some recent events that have come to pass have reminded me of a valuable lesson I learned years ago, when I was an adolescent, and -- had I been asked -- had no need for new knowledge. The older I get, the more I realize I need to learn. I would really like to be able to pass a portion of this important information on to my progeny, but some of this stuff simply must come from painful experience.
The lesson to which I refer above had to do with two young women. The first was a girl named Brenda Combs, who originated out of North Carolina and resided for a time with her aunt and uncle -- in Athens, Tennessee -- the names of whom have escaped me over the years. I never got the details of why she was living with her aunt and uncle, but my assumption was some complication in her home life. Who knows, really?
Brenda was a short, plush and pretty girl who came and went with the metaphoric speed of an ultrasonic F-15 Tomcat in my youth. She tired of my indecipherable BS after only a few months and broke my heart before moving back to North Carolina and disappearing into the ether for all eternity. Most likely, she has no recollection of me, and -- if quizzed -- would reply, "Who?"
The second young woman was a girl named Shelia Mull (yes, I spelt it correctly -- her first name really is constructed S-H-E-L-I-A). We dated for a respectable time before becoming engaged just after high school graduation. She was, for the most part, sensible. She also was pretty, well put together, and had a resonant alto voice which she put to use in a gospel quartet, driven all over East Tennessee and other regions by her Dad, Kenneth Mull, a rail company employee. All of the quartet and musicians were members of East View Baptist Church in Etowah, Tennessee.
In my teen years, as a passenger in the King's Children van, I saw some of the smallest, backwaterest, most welcoming congregations in the history of organized religion. I met good, bad and interesting people, and learned a great deal about the human condition without even realizing that I was being educated. Then, one night at the Mull hacienda, I received the all-important lesson of which I was recently reminded.
To give you some historical data, the Jergens company used to manufacture a hair care product called, for real, Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific; and they were correct. Further, Brenda Combs -- the plush heart-breaker -- utilized said product on her long, luxurious brunette locks. Any time I was confronted with the aroma thereafter, it was a sharp reminder of the pain of this lost relationship. Mind you, I didn't dwell on it; but I didn't forget either.
A couple of years after said loss, I was at the Mull home one evening, and we were having a buffet-style meal wherein everyone served themselves, found a place to perch, and gnoshed on good, southern food (I'm fairly certain that fried chicken and mashed potatoes were involved). I was -- I can see it in my mind, and I still can't stop myself -- standing in the kitchen, plate in hand, trying to figure the best place to break line, when one of the other members of the quartet -- at about 5' 2" -- walked directly under my nose. The following came rolling out of my stupid yap, unabated by any sense of imminent danger:
"You smell like Brenda," said I, the requisite wonder and awe covered not in the least.
To the best of my recollection, I never stopped paying for that particular transgression until the inevitable -- and yes, even more painful -- break-up. Truth be known, I deserved everything I got for it. It was a stupid and hurtful thing to do, and was an important lesson in simple diplomacy.
Absolute honesty has its place on planet earth, as does thoughtful duplicity. They are the yin and yang of communication which must be applied carefully, with a good deal of forethought and compassion.
But gee, her hair really smelled terrific.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Dealing With Traffic III
Having worked in Knoxville, off and on, for the last year +, I have learned more about getting around the Big City than I ever cared to know. Getting to work is normally easy, as traffic is fairly light before 7:00 AM on I-40/I-75. However, getting home -- especially on Friday evenings -- has become and adventure in discovery.
My employment is centered just off Exit 1 from I-640, so I'm near Papermill Drive. This inspired me to try going down Northshore, which begins at Papermill and ends near Cedar Hills Golf & Country Club just north of Lenoir City. This was interesting, because last year we discovered that the KnoxPatch-Powers-That-Be had installed a roundabout at the intersection of Concord and Northshore. A roundabout; I'm dead serious. That brought about a monstrous disappointment when I first came to the intersection recently, and discovered that a traffic light had been installed. They put in the traffic signal that should have been there to begin with, but they left the roundabout. So now, one must stop at the light when it is red, then curve to the right, then back left if one is to continue in what used to be a straight line. The island in the center is intact, as if a homeless person may come along one day an pitch a tent.
The route is fine for Fridays, and though it is more mileage, I feel that it takes less time due to the lack of parking facilities such as the ones on I-40 near Papermill and Pellissippi Parkway from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM. However, I began to investigate the possibility of another alternate route one day, and found that Middlebrook Pike runs straight into Hardin Valley Road, which ends close-by to the Watt Road I-40 entrance. I know that I really don't want to hit the interstate there, but I found that Campbell Station Road also ends at Hardin Valley, and it would give me the chance to completely bypass the major Friday evening traffic tie-ups which lie in a southwesterly direction.
So, one evening, I headed down Middlebrook Pike. The first thing I learned is that one doesn't want to explore unknown country, going at a rate of 50 miles per hour or so, with the setting sun directly in one's face. It's hard to see traffic lights change, and impossible to read street signs. But, as I was headed that way, I was determined to forge on. I passed Cedar Bluff Road (which I only knew by recognition of the area), then several other streets and neighborhoods of which I have no knowledge, whatsoever. The next landmark I recognized was Pellissippi Parkway, an overpass at Hardin Valley. I knew, then, that I was at least close to Campbell Station, my ultimate goal.
I passed the fairly new Hardin Valley school complex (Home of the Hawks), then I went by a Food City -- good information to have for a person with a Food City value card, and a potential need for gasoline. I then came to the end of Hardin Valley Road, which meant that I had completely missed North Campbell Station, damn the Scots, anyway.
But, in exploration mode, I went ahead onto East Gallaher Ferry Road, which became Williams Road, then Williams Ferry Road, which brought me to Melton Hill Park, of which I had never known; and that's where my road ended. By this time, I knew that I had lost the chance at a short way home, due to the fact that I would have to turn around and retrace my tire marks.
This I did, and I tried Hickory creek road, which goes in the same general direction as the location of the interstate, but I got buffaloed there, also, and wound up retracing back to -- Hardin Valley Road. I headed back east, toward Knoxville, and -- remember that Food City I discovered? North Campbell Station Road is right in front of the Gas 'N' Go located there. With the setting sun in my hindquarters, I could see the street sign.
So, I finally found I-40, and arrived home with new information for how to get from work to here during heavy traffic. Melton Hill Park? I'll save that for some spring day when I need to get outdoors without doing any real work. There has to be something worthwhile there, other than people who have gotten completely turned around, I mean.
My employment is centered just off Exit 1 from I-640, so I'm near Papermill Drive. This inspired me to try going down Northshore, which begins at Papermill and ends near Cedar Hills Golf & Country Club just north of Lenoir City. This was interesting, because last year we discovered that the KnoxPatch-Powers-That-Be had installed a roundabout at the intersection of Concord and Northshore. A roundabout; I'm dead serious. That brought about a monstrous disappointment when I first came to the intersection recently, and discovered that a traffic light had been installed. They put in the traffic signal that should have been there to begin with, but they left the roundabout. So now, one must stop at the light when it is red, then curve to the right, then back left if one is to continue in what used to be a straight line. The island in the center is intact, as if a homeless person may come along one day an pitch a tent.
The route is fine for Fridays, and though it is more mileage, I feel that it takes less time due to the lack of parking facilities such as the ones on I-40 near Papermill and Pellissippi Parkway from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM. However, I began to investigate the possibility of another alternate route one day, and found that Middlebrook Pike runs straight into Hardin Valley Road, which ends close-by to the Watt Road I-40 entrance. I know that I really don't want to hit the interstate there, but I found that Campbell Station Road also ends at Hardin Valley, and it would give me the chance to completely bypass the major Friday evening traffic tie-ups which lie in a southwesterly direction.
So, one evening, I headed down Middlebrook Pike. The first thing I learned is that one doesn't want to explore unknown country, going at a rate of 50 miles per hour or so, with the setting sun directly in one's face. It's hard to see traffic lights change, and impossible to read street signs. But, as I was headed that way, I was determined to forge on. I passed Cedar Bluff Road (which I only knew by recognition of the area), then several other streets and neighborhoods of which I have no knowledge, whatsoever. The next landmark I recognized was Pellissippi Parkway, an overpass at Hardin Valley. I knew, then, that I was at least close to Campbell Station, my ultimate goal.
I passed the fairly new Hardin Valley school complex (Home of the Hawks), then I went by a Food City -- good information to have for a person with a Food City value card, and a potential need for gasoline. I then came to the end of Hardin Valley Road, which meant that I had completely missed North Campbell Station, damn the Scots, anyway.
But, in exploration mode, I went ahead onto East Gallaher Ferry Road, which became Williams Road, then Williams Ferry Road, which brought me to Melton Hill Park, of which I had never known; and that's where my road ended. By this time, I knew that I had lost the chance at a short way home, due to the fact that I would have to turn around and retrace my tire marks.
This I did, and I tried Hickory creek road, which goes in the same general direction as the location of the interstate, but I got buffaloed there, also, and wound up retracing back to -- Hardin Valley Road. I headed back east, toward Knoxville, and -- remember that Food City I discovered? North Campbell Station Road is right in front of the Gas 'N' Go located there. With the setting sun in my hindquarters, I could see the street sign.
So, I finally found I-40, and arrived home with new information for how to get from work to here during heavy traffic. Melton Hill Park? I'll save that for some spring day when I need to get outdoors without doing any real work. There has to be something worthwhile there, other than people who have gotten completely turned around, I mean.
Friday, November 26, 2010
18 Months
On November 22, 2010 I finally -- after 1.5 years of spotty, at best, employment -- landed a full-time job with all of the trimmings and benefits. To recap, I was dismissed from Tate & Lyle on 5/25/09 as an "economic cut-back." I was not "laid off," as the powers-that-be, clearly, invited me to never return to the facility. Thus, I took all of my personals from my work area and my locker (with the exception of my stereo, which resided in the QA laboratory; it remained until its untimely death a few months later), turned in my ID badge, left my hard hat on the ridiculous "trophy case" in the breezeway, and walked into the slobbering jowls of the unemployment dogs out in the cold, cruel world.
It's a good thing that the company felt compelled to provide me a severance package for the purpose of keeping me from finding a lawyer and suing for wrongful dismissal. First, I could not have won the case, as -- with 27 years of incidents with which to work -- they could have proven that Mother Theresa was an unfit employee. Second, Tate & Lyle is a monstrous corporation, and can afford high-dollar, pinstripe-wearing, Ivy League lawyers, whereas I would have had a problem even finding one, if he/she were across the street, waving a sign that said "Will litigate for food."
So I began slowly constructing a résumé, listing all of the areas in which I had worked in 27 years of employment with the same company, and pointing out all of my significant accomplishments. To wit, after I had it all on the word processor, I could not -- for love nor money -- fathom why I had lost my job. Now, while it is true that I am a less than sociable creature, and a bit of a curmudgeon, I worked hard, and put in long hours doing many things which other people were unwilling to do. I believe that I am conscientious, and quality-oriented. In fact, I argued many times for the deciders to upgrade our quality specs. And, when asked my opinion, I gave it freely and liberally, at times to the consternation of the inquirer.
I worked in the Receiving department for four years, Ethanol and Waste Treatment for three years; the QA laboratory (without benefit of a degree) for three years; participated in a research project at the corporate headquarters in 1991, and was selected as a shift leader for a new process; learned the sugar-from-corn process well enough to write the Skill Block manual for said process, and illustrated same utilizing PowerPoint software; went back to the QA laboratory in 2003, and got the axe in 2009.
When I called my lab manager a few days after my dismissal to ask some stupid question, she started to cry, which was just too much for me to absorb. Honestly, would you have fired me? Doesn't matter, it happened.
There was a point at which I said to my young bride how lucky I felt to have done so well, financially speaking, for so long. To this she replied, "It wasn't luck! You worked hard, and put in long days and nights to help that company move forward! They're stupid, and I hope they all die in a plane crash!" Her adamant defense of my performance aside, I pointed out that there were many other people with only a twelfth grade education who worked just as hard, and were just as dedicated as I, but who had never been able to afford a vacation to Walt Disney World; so I still felt lucky.
Anyway, after my résumé made it onto the world-wide-web, I got a call from a temp agency -- ResourceMFG -- in September, 2009 for a job that would last until the end of the year. I learned the process there well enough that they called me back for several more short stints through the spring and summer of this year. I didn't know at the beginning that they were paying me more than some of their actual employees, as well as the temp-service fee -- but, hey -- you get what you pay for. However, that company simply doesn't have enough steady business to justify offering me full-time employment.
Then, in July -- when I was trying to figure out what to do after my severance package ran out -- I got a call from another temp agency; Aerotek. They had a possibility at an independent lab that does all kinds of testing on all kinds of materials. I got myself scheduled for an interview, wore my one suit, well if you're reading this, you saw that story in the previous post.
So, I have been doing that job to the best of my ability (still without benefit of a degree), and working long hours to complete many "need-it now" type tests. I have been surviving without medical insurance, as I had gotten pretty well stocked on all of my maintenance medications. Then, I ran out of insulin -- that's bad. Upon consulting a local pharmaceutical expert at Mulberry Street Pharmacy, my young bride and I learned how much my insulin costs without benefit of insurance -- that's worse.
By contract, I still had about 290 hours to work before I was eligible for employment by Galbraith Laboratories, instead of my temp agency, so I stepped into the Lab Manager's office one afternoon, simply to ask if I would be required to work out the company-mandated 90-day probation once I made the transfer from A to B. He replied that, no, I had already been there longer than that as a temp, and my benefits would start, for the most part, upon my changing employers.
Then, he inquired why I was asking. So, I told him about my maintenance meds and the requisite expense of same. He then called the temp agency and bought out my contract. I am now a full-time lab analyst with a company that has a very good reputation for accuracy and dependability. I run samples for companies from Bowater Southern in Calhoun, TN to Saudi Arabian oil refineries looking for X in their Y samples (please excuse my tendency toward secrecy, but I don't want to bugger this job, understand?)
And yes, it's a serious cut in pay as compared to Tate & Lyle, but I'll take it. This company had enough time to see what I was like, and still hired me, curmudgeonly behavior and all. Who knew?
It's a good thing that the company felt compelled to provide me a severance package for the purpose of keeping me from finding a lawyer and suing for wrongful dismissal. First, I could not have won the case, as -- with 27 years of incidents with which to work -- they could have proven that Mother Theresa was an unfit employee. Second, Tate & Lyle is a monstrous corporation, and can afford high-dollar, pinstripe-wearing, Ivy League lawyers, whereas I would have had a problem even finding one, if he/she were across the street, waving a sign that said "Will litigate for food."
So I began slowly constructing a résumé, listing all of the areas in which I had worked in 27 years of employment with the same company, and pointing out all of my significant accomplishments. To wit, after I had it all on the word processor, I could not -- for love nor money -- fathom why I had lost my job. Now, while it is true that I am a less than sociable creature, and a bit of a curmudgeon, I worked hard, and put in long hours doing many things which other people were unwilling to do. I believe that I am conscientious, and quality-oriented. In fact, I argued many times for the deciders to upgrade our quality specs. And, when asked my opinion, I gave it freely and liberally, at times to the consternation of the inquirer.
I worked in the Receiving department for four years, Ethanol and Waste Treatment for three years; the QA laboratory (without benefit of a degree) for three years; participated in a research project at the corporate headquarters in 1991, and was selected as a shift leader for a new process; learned the sugar-from-corn process well enough to write the Skill Block manual for said process, and illustrated same utilizing PowerPoint software; went back to the QA laboratory in 2003, and got the axe in 2009.
When I called my lab manager a few days after my dismissal to ask some stupid question, she started to cry, which was just too much for me to absorb. Honestly, would you have fired me? Doesn't matter, it happened.
There was a point at which I said to my young bride how lucky I felt to have done so well, financially speaking, for so long. To this she replied, "It wasn't luck! You worked hard, and put in long days and nights to help that company move forward! They're stupid, and I hope they all die in a plane crash!" Her adamant defense of my performance aside, I pointed out that there were many other people with only a twelfth grade education who worked just as hard, and were just as dedicated as I, but who had never been able to afford a vacation to Walt Disney World; so I still felt lucky.
Anyway, after my résumé made it onto the world-wide-web, I got a call from a temp agency -- ResourceMFG -- in September, 2009 for a job that would last until the end of the year. I learned the process there well enough that they called me back for several more short stints through the spring and summer of this year. I didn't know at the beginning that they were paying me more than some of their actual employees, as well as the temp-service fee -- but, hey -- you get what you pay for. However, that company simply doesn't have enough steady business to justify offering me full-time employment.
Then, in July -- when I was trying to figure out what to do after my severance package ran out -- I got a call from another temp agency; Aerotek. They had a possibility at an independent lab that does all kinds of testing on all kinds of materials. I got myself scheduled for an interview, wore my one suit, well if you're reading this, you saw that story in the previous post.
So, I have been doing that job to the best of my ability (still without benefit of a degree), and working long hours to complete many "need-it now" type tests. I have been surviving without medical insurance, as I had gotten pretty well stocked on all of my maintenance medications. Then, I ran out of insulin -- that's bad. Upon consulting a local pharmaceutical expert at Mulberry Street Pharmacy, my young bride and I learned how much my insulin costs without benefit of insurance -- that's worse.
By contract, I still had about 290 hours to work before I was eligible for employment by Galbraith Laboratories, instead of my temp agency, so I stepped into the Lab Manager's office one afternoon, simply to ask if I would be required to work out the company-mandated 90-day probation once I made the transfer from A to B. He replied that, no, I had already been there longer than that as a temp, and my benefits would start, for the most part, upon my changing employers.
Then, he inquired why I was asking. So, I told him about my maintenance meds and the requisite expense of same. He then called the temp agency and bought out my contract. I am now a full-time lab analyst with a company that has a very good reputation for accuracy and dependability. I run samples for companies from Bowater Southern in Calhoun, TN to Saudi Arabian oil refineries looking for X in their Y samples (please excuse my tendency toward secrecy, but I don't want to bugger this job, understand?)
And yes, it's a serious cut in pay as compared to Tate & Lyle, but I'll take it. This company had enough time to see what I was like, and still hired me, curmudgeonly behavior and all. Who knew?
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Brain Work
I got another new job in July. To catch one up, I lost my employment of 27 years to "economic cut-backs" on May 25, 2009. Since that time, my medical insurance has cost me a fortune, and my bill-paying has been colorful and creative, at best. Barring the amount of cash that the company paid me to not sue, I would be one of the people who had lost their home and moved into public housing. I don't want that, not because I look down on public housing, but because, philosophically, I am against the concept, government agencies be damned.
How's that for immediate digression?
Last autumn, I got a job through ResourceMFG -- a division of Staffing Solutions -- at a company called Emerachem, which manufactures catalytic converters for industrial application. It was one of the easiest jobs I've ever had, and the shift was all daytime activity, a concept with which I have been unfamiliar since 1986. The pay was less than stellar, but it was enough for us to survive and move forward in the space/time continuum. However, it was a temp position, as opposed to a temp-to hire gig. The owner of the company, his second-in-command and the facility manager all expressed that they would like to hire me as a full-time employee, but the business they had simply didn't justify the expense. I understand this concept, though it isn't exactly happy news when one is in my position.
I worked there from late September until the end of 2009; then again from late February to April, as well as a couple of other short stints. I had an interview for a lab position at Fuji Hunt chemicals in Dayton, Tennessee, but they went with someone who had a chemistry degree. I took four weeks' worth of classes (pronounced "indoctrination") in professionalism from a company that is an hour-and-fifteen-minute drive from home, then was rejected because I used what turned out to be a questionable term in my interview, and the interviewer stopped listening to me. I was, I believed, a shoe-in for employment at the DDCE ethanol research plant, in nearby Vonore, Tennessee. I had people there lobbying for me, and did well in the testing and group exercises. Then I had a telephone interview with the facility coordinator, and completely buggered that from A to Z. Hopefully, I learned a few things from these adversities, however.
When all of this began last year, I never believed I would be one of those people who was jobless for this amount of time. I searched for a logical reason for my lack of employment, and the only explanation was me. I began to question my nature, my core philosophies, my work ethic, and my ability to communicate. I believe I am difficult to live with in good times, but this roller-coaster ride has had to be worse for my co-habitants, and -- maybe -- people simply find working with me unpleasant.
Then, in mid-July, another temp agency -- Aerotek -- came calling. They are a tech staffing company who provide folks -- who have scientific aptitude -- for employers who don't have the time or money for the search. A Knoxville employer was seeking a lab analyst, and they -- Aerotek -- were proposing that, considering my résumé, I may be a fit. The temp agent gave me the URL of the potential employer so that I could learn something about them, and said that he would get back to me about a possible interview.
The next day, I Googled the company, and here is what I learned. Galbraith Laboratories is an independent testing facility that does all kinds of laboratory work for all kinds of industries. The company was begun sixty years ago by Dr. Harry Galbraith (a UT graduate) and they have been a fixture in Knoxville, TN ever since. On the website under the "Careers" link, I found their solicitation for a lab analyst, and the e-mail address attached, so I sent them my résumé, my references and an introductory letter explaining my experience and the instrumentation (and corresponding software) with which I am familiar. That was on a Saturday morning. About an hour after I sent the e-mail, I received a reply from the lab manager, observing that I was obviously a motivated person and he would contact Aerotek post-haste to schedule an interview.
I had that interview in the middle of the next week. The day before, I was contacted by one of the Aerotek folks and given directions and some advice. When I quizzed him about how to dress, I was told that: "the lab manager wears a shirt and tie every day, so dress appropriately." Enter my fear that my one suit that fits, doesn't anymore.
However, my labor at Emerachem having been very physical in nature, I had gone from around the 208 lb. range down into the low 190s, and my pants actually fit. Somewhat snugly, yes, but not inappropriately so. So, on the appointed day, I donned my one suit and set out for another interview. I was worried, but hopeful.
During the interview, I was given a tour of the facility, and -- well -- it's a big ol' laboratory, and appropriately, a maze. I recognized many of the instruments, and made certain that the manager saw my familiarity. I was also interviewed by the production manager, who started at Galbraith through Aerotek, so he knows whence I cometh. I asked about the shift, and learned that people come and go from 5:00 AM to 10:00 PM. The only real requirement is that one clock in and out at the correct times, and put in the time necessary to complete the job. So, for me, it would be day shift.
A few years ago, I was mishandling a bout of mild depression, and in total denial. When I finally acquiesced to my young bride's begging me to seek counsel, I found Dr. Connie Cole, a doctor of psychology. The first thing we established is that she does not treat patients by throwing pharmaceuticals at a problem, she tries to find the origination, and help change the perception of it. At one point, during our first session, she asked me why I worked swing shift, the idea being that a day shift job would be easier, with my high blood pressure, diabetes, et al. I replied that I had a twelfth grade education, and made $XX,XXX per year (it was not an exorbitant amount, but I was squirreling 18% of my base pay into a 401k, and paying cash for vacations), and she said, "Ah," and that was the end of that series of quizzes.
Had I heard of Galbraith then, things might be different today.
Be that as it may, when all of the festivities were done, the Lab Manager asked me about my availability, and I told him that, if he would allow me to leave my jacket in his office, I'd go to work in my dress pants, shirt and tie. He laughed, but -- trust me -- I was serious. He told me that he would make a decision early the next week, but he had several more interviews through which to slog. I'm guessing that many of the possibilities were adorned with multiple degrees, so I had slim hopes.
Apparently, however, my one suit helped; in fact, may have been a deciding factor, for all I know. I have now been there for a couple of months, and the work is intriguing and enjoyable. I like puzzles, and this job is full of them. My young bride always points out that, "they hired you for your brain," which is a nice idea to hold close.
Again, the pay is not stellar, and -- having run out of my severance -- I'm going to have to cut back on some stuff, Like eating out and HBO. But, let's face it, when the forefathers spoke of our "inalienable rights," the movie channels weren't one of them. I am hoping that, at the end of my six-month obligation, they hire me full-time and I can get some damned medical insurance, without which it will be very hard to pay for all of my stupid maintenance medications.
And it's day shift -- who knew?
How's that for immediate digression?
Last autumn, I got a job through ResourceMFG -- a division of Staffing Solutions -- at a company called Emerachem, which manufactures catalytic converters for industrial application. It was one of the easiest jobs I've ever had, and the shift was all daytime activity, a concept with which I have been unfamiliar since 1986. The pay was less than stellar, but it was enough for us to survive and move forward in the space/time continuum. However, it was a temp position, as opposed to a temp-to hire gig. The owner of the company, his second-in-command and the facility manager all expressed that they would like to hire me as a full-time employee, but the business they had simply didn't justify the expense. I understand this concept, though it isn't exactly happy news when one is in my position.
I worked there from late September until the end of 2009; then again from late February to April, as well as a couple of other short stints. I had an interview for a lab position at Fuji Hunt chemicals in Dayton, Tennessee, but they went with someone who had a chemistry degree. I took four weeks' worth of classes (pronounced "indoctrination") in professionalism from a company that is an hour-and-fifteen-minute drive from home, then was rejected because I used what turned out to be a questionable term in my interview, and the interviewer stopped listening to me. I was, I believed, a shoe-in for employment at the DDCE ethanol research plant, in nearby Vonore, Tennessee. I had people there lobbying for me, and did well in the testing and group exercises. Then I had a telephone interview with the facility coordinator, and completely buggered that from A to Z. Hopefully, I learned a few things from these adversities, however.
When all of this began last year, I never believed I would be one of those people who was jobless for this amount of time. I searched for a logical reason for my lack of employment, and the only explanation was me. I began to question my nature, my core philosophies, my work ethic, and my ability to communicate. I believe I am difficult to live with in good times, but this roller-coaster ride has had to be worse for my co-habitants, and -- maybe -- people simply find working with me unpleasant.
Then, in mid-July, another temp agency -- Aerotek -- came calling. They are a tech staffing company who provide folks -- who have scientific aptitude -- for employers who don't have the time or money for the search. A Knoxville employer was seeking a lab analyst, and they -- Aerotek -- were proposing that, considering my résumé, I may be a fit. The temp agent gave me the URL of the potential employer so that I could learn something about them, and said that he would get back to me about a possible interview.
The next day, I Googled the company, and here is what I learned. Galbraith Laboratories is an independent testing facility that does all kinds of laboratory work for all kinds of industries. The company was begun sixty years ago by Dr. Harry Galbraith (a UT graduate) and they have been a fixture in Knoxville, TN ever since. On the website under the "Careers" link, I found their solicitation for a lab analyst, and the e-mail address attached, so I sent them my résumé, my references and an introductory letter explaining my experience and the instrumentation (and corresponding software) with which I am familiar. That was on a Saturday morning. About an hour after I sent the e-mail, I received a reply from the lab manager, observing that I was obviously a motivated person and he would contact Aerotek post-haste to schedule an interview.
I had that interview in the middle of the next week. The day before, I was contacted by one of the Aerotek folks and given directions and some advice. When I quizzed him about how to dress, I was told that: "the lab manager wears a shirt and tie every day, so dress appropriately." Enter my fear that my one suit that fits, doesn't anymore.
However, my labor at Emerachem having been very physical in nature, I had gone from around the 208 lb. range down into the low 190s, and my pants actually fit. Somewhat snugly, yes, but not inappropriately so. So, on the appointed day, I donned my one suit and set out for another interview. I was worried, but hopeful.
During the interview, I was given a tour of the facility, and -- well -- it's a big ol' laboratory, and appropriately, a maze. I recognized many of the instruments, and made certain that the manager saw my familiarity. I was also interviewed by the production manager, who started at Galbraith through Aerotek, so he knows whence I cometh. I asked about the shift, and learned that people come and go from 5:00 AM to 10:00 PM. The only real requirement is that one clock in and out at the correct times, and put in the time necessary to complete the job. So, for me, it would be day shift.
A few years ago, I was mishandling a bout of mild depression, and in total denial. When I finally acquiesced to my young bride's begging me to seek counsel, I found Dr. Connie Cole, a doctor of psychology. The first thing we established is that she does not treat patients by throwing pharmaceuticals at a problem, she tries to find the origination, and help change the perception of it. At one point, during our first session, she asked me why I worked swing shift, the idea being that a day shift job would be easier, with my high blood pressure, diabetes, et al. I replied that I had a twelfth grade education, and made $XX,XXX per year (it was not an exorbitant amount, but I was squirreling 18% of my base pay into a 401k, and paying cash for vacations), and she said, "Ah," and that was the end of that series of quizzes.
Had I heard of Galbraith then, things might be different today.
Be that as it may, when all of the festivities were done, the Lab Manager asked me about my availability, and I told him that, if he would allow me to leave my jacket in his office, I'd go to work in my dress pants, shirt and tie. He laughed, but -- trust me -- I was serious. He told me that he would make a decision early the next week, but he had several more interviews through which to slog. I'm guessing that many of the possibilities were adorned with multiple degrees, so I had slim hopes.
Apparently, however, my one suit helped; in fact, may have been a deciding factor, for all I know. I have now been there for a couple of months, and the work is intriguing and enjoyable. I like puzzles, and this job is full of them. My young bride always points out that, "they hired you for your brain," which is a nice idea to hold close.
Again, the pay is not stellar, and -- having run out of my severance -- I'm going to have to cut back on some stuff, Like eating out and HBO. But, let's face it, when the forefathers spoke of our "inalienable rights," the movie channels weren't one of them. I am hoping that, at the end of my six-month obligation, they hire me full-time and I can get some damned medical insurance, without which it will be very hard to pay for all of my stupid maintenance medications.
And it's day shift -- who knew?
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Jumping Into The Past
Because of my elongated unemployment, we -- as a family unit -- have been finding inexpensive things to do to keep us entertained over the last fourteen months. The Boy, Woodrow, and I have been to Coal Creek Armory and The Oak Ridge Sportsman Association for the blasting of various types of targets (including an Osama zombie), with an entertaining variety of firearms, into recyclable waste. As a group, before my elder child moved halfway across the universe, we spent a couple of days in and around Helen, Georgia; hiking, swimming and touring. While there, we acquired a clay butter bell that will contain better than 3/4 of a stick.
Lately, we have visited a few of the nearby Tennessee waterways that are available to the public for the purpose of making certain that the fourth dimension meets its well-deserved demise.
One afternoon, we went to the Ocoee Whitewater Center and ventured into the area called "Blue Hole," a popular swimming spot in the river. We took with us: two vehicles, five camp chairs, two coolers, swimsuits, changes of clothing, the dog -- Doris Daylily -- one sink with two faucets... well, you get the idea. We also dragged along Emily's significant other, Jeremy, who now co-resides in a suburb of Denver with my first-born offspring.
The chairs remained in the back of my truck, due to the fact that the parking area for the Whitewater Center extends to about four miles down-river. We had a decent day there, though it was crowded for a Wednesday, and we picnicked very well in the designated area below the Center, on the opposite side of the river.
On the next trip in which I was a participant, we went to the Tellico River, at the site known as Camping Area 1, just above Baby Falls (that's the place in the photograph above). That time we only had three people, corresponding camp chairs, clothing changes, two coolers, still, etc. Oh, and the dog, who always goes with us, now. We splashed about in the river, but declined to go to the falls that day because it was Friday afternoon, and overpopulated. We did munch on myriad types of food, and we drank whatever we pleased (except beer, which is wrongly banned in national park areas). I also enjoyed a fine product of Nicaragua while drying out for the drive home.
All in all, that was a very pleasant and relaxed day.
Our next waterway visit was to the Little River in Townsend. You folks who are near the half-century mark remember Townsend as a bump in the road on the way to the snaking path through the Smoky Mountains. It has grown in the last couple of decades, and not in a particularly positive way. It's mostly cheap tourist traps, convenience stores and only-okay eateries. But on the north end of town, there's a small picnic area that is nowhere near any of the madcap rafting companies, and -- on a week-day -- can be low-key and enjoyable. The water, in places, is deep enough to actually swim, and the current is negligible. We visited a small railroad museum, which told the story of of the Little River Railroad. It's a small place, but it survives on donations only, and is worth a look, especially compared to most things around town.
While we were picnicking (we're now down to one cooler and three chairs), we hobnobbed some with a Florida family who, apparently, reside in the Orlando area, but originally hail from Indiana. Because of this, my young bride and one of the Florida-Folks' teen-aged daughters waxed poetic about the Colts and Precious, moon-hanging Peyton. The girl was using whatever excuse necessary to hang near The Boy, who is six feet tall, and weighs somewhere between nothing and 150, but has no discernible fat on his body -- making him, pretty much, solid muscle.
We spent a Wednesday gadding about in Polk County around the Hiwassee River. That was only an OK trip, as the river level was high, and the current prohibitive for swimming purposes. But the food was good, the atmosphere relaxed, and the product of Nicaragua enjoyable. One of the oddities we observed was a group of Amish women, who had driven the buggies down to the river to go swimming. I had no idea we even had an Amish community in the area, but it was nice to see some young girls who weren't glued to cell phones, staring at tiny digital screens, texting and adjusting their headsets, while ignoring the world around them. And no, I don't believe that an old cell phone that only makes and receives calls would qualify as "plain."
Our last trip was another jaunt to the Tellico River and Camping Area 1. The photographs at the top of this post are from that sojourn. The fat guy in the middle of his jump is me (I had not been off the falls since 1987), and The Boy is in the gray trunks, waiting his turn. I posted that photo on my Facebook wall, and there were several happy comments from people about days-gone-by. My buddy Winnie, on the other hand, pointed out repeatedly that drowning at Baby Falls was a distinct possibility. Now, we all know that, but we all also know that driving across railroad tracks while a train is bearing down is a poor choice -- a fact that had to be reinforced with Winnie a few years back.
The food was outstanding that day, because we purchased sandwiches from the Tellico Grains Bakery down in "town." The Boy and I both had roasted pecan chicken salad sandwiches, with grapes tossed in for fun. The Boss had a BBLT, which has smoked bacon on it, and the bite I wheedled out of her was good. For those who haven't visited Tellico Plains in years, there's also a Harley-Davidson dealer in a building that used to be a "Mom & Pop" grocery.
So far, the Tellico River has been our favorite spot. The water is cold, but not freezing. The numbers of bodies have been low-to-medium, the food has been outstanding, and Doris Daylily can walk around in the water without an unexpected sploosh.
Of course, I now have a job (temp-to-hire, through the Aerotek staffing company) that is straight days, in an actual laboratory, so we may have to adjust the way we do things. But employment is good, and I will adapt.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Dealing
Currently, I am dealing with a few issues that have far-reaching implications -- well, in my life, anyway. I'll begin with my employment troubles.
I was "downsized" on 5/25/09 by Company A, exactly 27 years after I was hired by a previous incarnation of said company. I had begun in the receiving and warehouse department, moved on to one of the processes, then the lab, then back to another process, helped the company put down a union uprising in 1993 (an effort for which I will forever feel an enigmatic guilt), wrote the operation manual for one of the processes, went back to the lab several years ago, then got axed last year.
I have since worked off and on as a temp at Company B in Knoxville, where I have done a little of everything, including teaching some of the employees how to better watch after themselves (safety issues, or the lack thereof). I have also learned from the employees there, especially Jeff, Jerry and Mikey, the 13-year-old welder. But Company B is never going to hire me, because I cost too much.
Company C, for whom I would really like to work (it's only a 25-minute drive, and the pay is better than most, hereabouts), has -- thus far -- put me through their idiot testing and their group exercises, and I feel I did very well in both. My problem with Company C started when the Operations Coordinator called me for a telephone interview. I don't feel that the interview went well. Honestly, I was totally off my game, and was dealing with the fact that my first-born had moved out of my house only two days before, which tossed me for a bigger loop than I had expected. But I'm dealing with it.
I still have not received a rejection from Company C, so I hold out hope.
Company D granted me an interview after I had invested 36 hours and countless road mileage taking their "classes" (pronounced "indoctrination"). I felt that the interviews went fairly well, and believed that Company D would offer me a job, but was unsure of the money, as their pay scale is fairly low. My, how stupid I can be, sometimes.
I learned through a third party that one of the interviewers at Company D completely misinterpreted one of my attempts at humor. When she requested that I tell her a little about myself, I said "I have been married for 23 years to my 'trophy wife,' and we have two children." What the interviewer heard was, "I married my first wife, she produced me some kids, then I dumped her for a bracelet charm."
Let's get this cleared up, now. A looooong time ago, I was married for about four years. That union produced no children. I have not seen my first wife (for whom I have no negative energy) since 1986. My "trophy wife" and I have been married forever, and she is well aware that my first wife and I correspond on Facebook. She is fine with it, because there is no negative energy being produced.
I imagine that the interviewer for Company D may be the victim of an ugly split for a bracelet charm, and after the term "trophy wife" was introduced, she stopped listening. I probably can't afford to drive the distance for the remunerative compensation, but I want them to want to hire me. It's a principle thing.
Which brings me to Company E. Last week, I got a call from yet another temp agency, which provides labor with a certain degree of technical expertise for companies in the area. Company E needs an analytical chemist who has experience with liquid and gas chromatographs. Now, I did not attend an institute of higher learning for long enough to attain any kind of degree. But I have between eight and nine years of QA lab experience, and I was the only person in my lab who did not have a degree; yet I did the same work.
I believe I have convinced Company Es manager to give me a shot at this position through e-mail. And, apparently, I am much more eloquent with written words than with spoken ones, as I have demonstrated in the above text.
I always believed that I was as smooth with verbal communication as I was with written, but I am being forced to re-evaluate that judgment. Honestly, I have held my own in conversations with people of various backgrounds -- be they ditch-diggers or Doctors of Philosophy -- and I normally felt that I did okay. However, my recent struggles say otherwise, and I must learn to relax more, and think before I speak.
Let me also say this: I have been without a full-time job for nearly fourteen months, now -- but I'm dealing with it. It has been a struggle and we have adjusted things right, left, and up and down. Everyone in my house has done without many luxuries that we had learned to consider "normal." And yet, here is my trophy wife, who blames anyone but me for all of the problems we have experienced. She is hardly a simple bracelet charm, and I would challenge many life-mates to be as supportive as she has been for me in the last year.
Take that and grind it for brewing, Company D.
I was "downsized" on 5/25/09 by Company A, exactly 27 years after I was hired by a previous incarnation of said company. I had begun in the receiving and warehouse department, moved on to one of the processes, then the lab, then back to another process, helped the company put down a union uprising in 1993 (an effort for which I will forever feel an enigmatic guilt), wrote the operation manual for one of the processes, went back to the lab several years ago, then got axed last year.
I have since worked off and on as a temp at Company B in Knoxville, where I have done a little of everything, including teaching some of the employees how to better watch after themselves (safety issues, or the lack thereof). I have also learned from the employees there, especially Jeff, Jerry and Mikey, the 13-year-old welder. But Company B is never going to hire me, because I cost too much.
Company C, for whom I would really like to work (it's only a 25-minute drive, and the pay is better than most, hereabouts), has -- thus far -- put me through their idiot testing and their group exercises, and I feel I did very well in both. My problem with Company C started when the Operations Coordinator called me for a telephone interview. I don't feel that the interview went well. Honestly, I was totally off my game, and was dealing with the fact that my first-born had moved out of my house only two days before, which tossed me for a bigger loop than I had expected. But I'm dealing with it.
I still have not received a rejection from Company C, so I hold out hope.
Company D granted me an interview after I had invested 36 hours and countless road mileage taking their "classes" (pronounced "indoctrination"). I felt that the interviews went fairly well, and believed that Company D would offer me a job, but was unsure of the money, as their pay scale is fairly low. My, how stupid I can be, sometimes.
I learned through a third party that one of the interviewers at Company D completely misinterpreted one of my attempts at humor. When she requested that I tell her a little about myself, I said "I have been married for 23 years to my 'trophy wife,' and we have two children." What the interviewer heard was, "I married my first wife, she produced me some kids, then I dumped her for a bracelet charm."
Let's get this cleared up, now. A looooong time ago, I was married for about four years. That union produced no children. I have not seen my first wife (for whom I have no negative energy) since 1986. My "trophy wife" and I have been married forever, and she is well aware that my first wife and I correspond on Facebook. She is fine with it, because there is no negative energy being produced.
I imagine that the interviewer for Company D may be the victim of an ugly split for a bracelet charm, and after the term "trophy wife" was introduced, she stopped listening. I probably can't afford to drive the distance for the remunerative compensation, but I want them to want to hire me. It's a principle thing.
Which brings me to Company E. Last week, I got a call from yet another temp agency, which provides labor with a certain degree of technical expertise for companies in the area. Company E needs an analytical chemist who has experience with liquid and gas chromatographs. Now, I did not attend an institute of higher learning for long enough to attain any kind of degree. But I have between eight and nine years of QA lab experience, and I was the only person in my lab who did not have a degree; yet I did the same work.
I believe I have convinced Company Es manager to give me a shot at this position through e-mail. And, apparently, I am much more eloquent with written words than with spoken ones, as I have demonstrated in the above text.
I always believed that I was as smooth with verbal communication as I was with written, but I am being forced to re-evaluate that judgment. Honestly, I have held my own in conversations with people of various backgrounds -- be they ditch-diggers or Doctors of Philosophy -- and I normally felt that I did okay. However, my recent struggles say otherwise, and I must learn to relax more, and think before I speak.
Let me also say this: I have been without a full-time job for nearly fourteen months, now -- but I'm dealing with it. It has been a struggle and we have adjusted things right, left, and up and down. Everyone in my house has done without many luxuries that we had learned to consider "normal." And yet, here is my trophy wife, who blames anyone but me for all of the problems we have experienced. She is hardly a simple bracelet charm, and I would challenge many life-mates to be as supportive as she has been for me in the last year.
Take that and grind it for brewing, Company D.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Contraband
Back in February, my young bride took a cruise into the western Caribbean. This was arranged and remunerated by her sister, Amy, who wanted to take a vacation, but not alone. I have since pointed out to Amy that she has vacationed with her sister -- my wife -- several times over the years. She has also hosted both of my house apes at her home in Las Vegas, and arranged age-appropriate sight-seeing tours. At this writing, she is on Cozumel with her husband, who was unavailable for duty in February.
My point being that Amy has never offered to take me on vacation, and I'm waiting. Still waiting. I even suggested to her that the island of Tahiti sounds like a decent spot for relaxation and tropical beverages, because that's the type of helpful, informative person I am.
Anyway, the two girls departed from Miami on a Norwegian Cruise Lines ship -- the Dawn -- headed toward the islands in the Gulf Of Mexico. My young bride, a prolific writer of all things travel, when she but rarely is able, has -- no doubt -- penned a detailed account of her trip and stored it on our home computer. But, as I was unable to see and enjoy the western Caribbean, the details are unimportant to me, at best. I know that they ate well, swam with dolphins on Cozumel, shopped prolifically, and The Boss took a wine tasting class, where she learned that she really likes champagne; good information to have, if one is ever stuck in Paris with nothing to do.
The two important events from their trip through the "Pre-Horizon Disaster" Gulf are -- A. They returned safely; and 2. My young bride brought me a (contraband), from the Grand Caymans, as a souvenir.
Now, (contrabands) have been illegal in the United States to own and operate since 1963, although many a politician and wealthy businessman have both owned and operated them with impunity. I, personally, have been an operator of (non-contrabands) for about the last twelve years or so. This began when I discovered that a (non-contraband) shop had opened in Loudon, and it was in my path between work and home. I would stop in from time to time and select a (non-contraband) for enjoyment on my porch. I never operate a (contraband) in the house, due to the smelly left-overs.
Anyway, this continued until I discovered the Thompson (non-contraband) company, who sell legally obtained (non-contrabands) from Central America, storage units, and humidity-control paraphernalia. Since that time, I became a regular customer and get regular shipments of (non-contrabands).
However, I have had a couple of actual (contrabands) before, thanks to Amy's penchant for travel. She and her husband, Paul, vacationed a number of years ago in England, where (contrabands) are not illegal. She brought a couple of them home for me to try. One of them was a big ol' disappointment, but the other was the best (contraband) I had ever operated, at the time.
That, of course, is before my young bride took a trip to the western Caribbean, arranged and remunerated by... well, you understand. I suppose I owe half the thanks for my souvenir to Amy, without whom I would never have been able to try a (contraband), at all, in the first place.
Now, as I stated, the girls took their trip in February, which is still a cold month in Tennessee, despite the efforts of the human race to eliminate the ozone layer and Tropicalize the planet. Thus, my (contraband) went into my humidity-controlled storage unit, for use at a later date. That later date came last week.
It was the last week of May, and the weather was perfect for sitting on the porch, conversing with one's spouse (the one who had taken a cruise to the western Caribbean, arranged and... okay, I'll stop now), and operating a (contraband) for the pure enjoyment of it. As of now, this is the best (contraband) I have ever operated. Sleek, smooth and even in its aroma and overall flavor, it was a good experience from the time I began operating it, until I threw the leftover nub into the front yard (biodegradable, don't you know?)
Someday, perhaps, I will be gainfully employed again, and will be able to afford my own trip into the Caribbean islands, where I will purchase a (contraband) and enjoy it right on the spot. Someday.
Until then, Amy, the planes normally land in Papeété, and one can rent a car and drive anywhere on the island. The climate is temperate year 'round, and, barring monsoon season, I hear it's a great place to visit.
My point being that Amy has never offered to take me on vacation, and I'm waiting. Still waiting. I even suggested to her that the island of Tahiti sounds like a decent spot for relaxation and tropical beverages, because that's the type of helpful, informative person I am.
Anyway, the two girls departed from Miami on a Norwegian Cruise Lines ship -- the Dawn -- headed toward the islands in the Gulf Of Mexico. My young bride, a prolific writer of all things travel, when she but rarely is able, has -- no doubt -- penned a detailed account of her trip and stored it on our home computer. But, as I was unable to see and enjoy the western Caribbean, the details are unimportant to me, at best. I know that they ate well, swam with dolphins on Cozumel, shopped prolifically, and The Boss took a wine tasting class, where she learned that she really likes champagne; good information to have, if one is ever stuck in Paris with nothing to do.
The two important events from their trip through the "Pre-Horizon Disaster" Gulf are -- A. They returned safely; and 2. My young bride brought me a (contraband), from the Grand Caymans, as a souvenir.
Now, (contrabands) have been illegal in the United States to own and operate since 1963, although many a politician and wealthy businessman have both owned and operated them with impunity. I, personally, have been an operator of (non-contrabands) for about the last twelve years or so. This began when I discovered that a (non-contraband) shop had opened in Loudon, and it was in my path between work and home. I would stop in from time to time and select a (non-contraband) for enjoyment on my porch. I never operate a (contraband) in the house, due to the smelly left-overs.
Anyway, this continued until I discovered the Thompson (non-contraband) company, who sell legally obtained (non-contrabands) from Central America, storage units, and humidity-control paraphernalia. Since that time, I became a regular customer and get regular shipments of (non-contrabands).
However, I have had a couple of actual (contrabands) before, thanks to Amy's penchant for travel. She and her husband, Paul, vacationed a number of years ago in England, where (contrabands) are not illegal. She brought a couple of them home for me to try. One of them was a big ol' disappointment, but the other was the best (contraband) I had ever operated, at the time.
That, of course, is before my young bride took a trip to the western Caribbean, arranged and remunerated by... well, you understand. I suppose I owe half the thanks for my souvenir to Amy, without whom I would never have been able to try a (contraband), at all, in the first place.
Now, as I stated, the girls took their trip in February, which is still a cold month in Tennessee, despite the efforts of the human race to eliminate the ozone layer and Tropicalize the planet. Thus, my (contraband) went into my humidity-controlled storage unit, for use at a later date. That later date came last week.
It was the last week of May, and the weather was perfect for sitting on the porch, conversing with one's spouse (the one who had taken a cruise to the western Caribbean, arranged and... okay, I'll stop now), and operating a (contraband) for the pure enjoyment of it. As of now, this is the best (contraband) I have ever operated. Sleek, smooth and even in its aroma and overall flavor, it was a good experience from the time I began operating it, until I threw the leftover nub into the front yard (biodegradable, don't you know?)
Someday, perhaps, I will be gainfully employed again, and will be able to afford my own trip into the Caribbean islands, where I will purchase a (contraband) and enjoy it right on the spot. Someday.
Until then, Amy, the planes normally land in Papeété, and one can rent a car and drive anywhere on the island. The climate is temperate year 'round, and, barring monsoon season, I hear it's a great place to visit.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Stupid Advertising -- II
Ever since the Hardee's folks got back to basics and started making Thickburgers, I have been an advocate of their products. When I grill burgers at home, they are never less than 0.5 pounds, unless requested, because I'm American, and I like to go overboard on food. The Hardee's ad geniuses, however, have started to lose me with a couple of their more recent campaigns, and I'm torn about continuing to support them verbally and monetarily.
Late last year, there was a TV ad that emerged, depicting a bunch of guys gathering to watch what was obviously meant to be a NASCAR race. These manly men sat about an apartment, studying the race on television and gigging each other about their favorite drivers. Toward the end of the ad, the apartment dweller exits his kitchen with a cookie sheet in hand and asks, "Anybody want a fresh-baked biscuit?"
Whereupon the other "real men" only study him as if he were a giant insect who had just stepped from a worm-hole in the space-time continuum, spouting the famous soliloquy from Macbeth. The omnipotent commercial-voice then says, "Guys don't bake," and they encourage everyone to rush to Hardee's for their delicious breakfast foods.
They lost me here. "Guys don't bake?" Since when? I bake! I bake biscuits! Then I make sausage gravy to slather over them and sit down to enjoy a fine breakfast, while many millions of folks make do with dry toast and tasteless coffee! My mother taught me to make drop biscuits (no measuring cups, mind you) when I was hanging out in the kitchen on summer mornings years ago, and the lesson took. It was years, and many times of failing before I finally was able to perfect the formula for sausage gravy. I consider this one of my great culinary triumphs. "Guys don't bake," indeed! And I could rant further, but let's move on to the second irritating advertisement.
This one depicts four "regular guys" sitting in a diner. Three of them have giant American sandwiches of one kind or another, while the fourth -- the odd man out -- has ordered the grilled cheese sandwich from the kids' menu. The hot waitress brings him a coloring book and crayons, and the ad makes a big deal of him drinking his juice from a tiny box while he munches his tiny sandwich. And his compatriots -- again -- study him with ludicrous curiosity, while the other hot chicks in the diner roll their eyes.
Then they push the new "grilled cheese" sandwich from Hardee's, which features a thick slab of beef, as well as a couple of slices of bacon. This sounds delicious, don't get me wrong; I have no problem with the product. But it's a bacon cheeseburger, not a grilled cheese sandwich. Am I missing something?
The point of these ads, of course, is to appeal to the testosterone-poisoning to which all men are prone. Their target-range, however, must not include guys in my age bracket, and this I do not understand. In general, we 50-ish guys have more money to burn than all those young, image-conscious types.
I was there once, you understand. In the early to mid-'80s, I owned and wore a white cotton sport coat with colorful T-shirts and khaki slacks. I had a pair of shades for which I had paid way too much to go with this ensemble, and I shaved infrequently at best. All of this in the ridiculous pursuit of trying to imitate Sonny Crockett, because I thought he was cool. So, yeah, I get it. But now I'm too old, grumpy and impatient to care. I also have an ugly tendency to do my own thinking.
If I were one of those "real men," sitting about the apartment and watching cars travel in a continuous left-turn circle, I would be on those biscuits like slime on a slug, asking, "Where's the butter and jelly? Got any honey?" If I were out with three friends (as if I had three friends who would bother to go eat with me), the last thing on my mind would be how they perceive my menu choices. I don't care what they think, which is what constitutes real man-ism, in my mind. If I wanted something to eat, but wasn't terribly hungry, a grilled cheese sandwich is a good option. I like grilled cheese sandwiches. If I want a bacon cheeseburger, that's what I'll get, but for God's sake call it what it is! Also, if the waitress were to bring me a coloring book and crayons, I would write, "Here's your tip," on the cover next to the nickel I left. I'm kind-a snarky that way.
When I'm hungry, image and cool will not fill my (larger than it used to be) stomach. And I want what I want; not what you want me to have. I'm odd and demanding that way, also.
Late last year, there was a TV ad that emerged, depicting a bunch of guys gathering to watch what was obviously meant to be a NASCAR race. These manly men sat about an apartment, studying the race on television and gigging each other about their favorite drivers. Toward the end of the ad, the apartment dweller exits his kitchen with a cookie sheet in hand and asks, "Anybody want a fresh-baked biscuit?"
Whereupon the other "real men" only study him as if he were a giant insect who had just stepped from a worm-hole in the space-time continuum, spouting the famous soliloquy from Macbeth. The omnipotent commercial-voice then says, "Guys don't bake," and they encourage everyone to rush to Hardee's for their delicious breakfast foods.
They lost me here. "Guys don't bake?" Since when? I bake! I bake biscuits! Then I make sausage gravy to slather over them and sit down to enjoy a fine breakfast, while many millions of folks make do with dry toast and tasteless coffee! My mother taught me to make drop biscuits (no measuring cups, mind you) when I was hanging out in the kitchen on summer mornings years ago, and the lesson took. It was years, and many times of failing before I finally was able to perfect the formula for sausage gravy. I consider this one of my great culinary triumphs. "Guys don't bake," indeed! And I could rant further, but let's move on to the second irritating advertisement.
This one depicts four "regular guys" sitting in a diner. Three of them have giant American sandwiches of one kind or another, while the fourth -- the odd man out -- has ordered the grilled cheese sandwich from the kids' menu. The hot waitress brings him a coloring book and crayons, and the ad makes a big deal of him drinking his juice from a tiny box while he munches his tiny sandwich. And his compatriots -- again -- study him with ludicrous curiosity, while the other hot chicks in the diner roll their eyes.
Then they push the new "grilled cheese" sandwich from Hardee's, which features a thick slab of beef, as well as a couple of slices of bacon. This sounds delicious, don't get me wrong; I have no problem with the product. But it's a bacon cheeseburger, not a grilled cheese sandwich. Am I missing something?
The point of these ads, of course, is to appeal to the testosterone-poisoning to which all men are prone. Their target-range, however, must not include guys in my age bracket, and this I do not understand. In general, we 50-ish guys have more money to burn than all those young, image-conscious types.
I was there once, you understand. In the early to mid-'80s, I owned and wore a white cotton sport coat with colorful T-shirts and khaki slacks. I had a pair of shades for which I had paid way too much to go with this ensemble, and I shaved infrequently at best. All of this in the ridiculous pursuit of trying to imitate Sonny Crockett, because I thought he was cool. So, yeah, I get it. But now I'm too old, grumpy and impatient to care. I also have an ugly tendency to do my own thinking.
If I were one of those "real men," sitting about the apartment and watching cars travel in a continuous left-turn circle, I would be on those biscuits like slime on a slug, asking, "Where's the butter and jelly? Got any honey?" If I were out with three friends (as if I had three friends who would bother to go eat with me), the last thing on my mind would be how they perceive my menu choices. I don't care what they think, which is what constitutes real man-ism, in my mind. If I wanted something to eat, but wasn't terribly hungry, a grilled cheese sandwich is a good option. I like grilled cheese sandwiches. If I want a bacon cheeseburger, that's what I'll get, but for God's sake call it what it is! Also, if the waitress were to bring me a coloring book and crayons, I would write, "Here's your tip," on the cover next to the nickel I left. I'm kind-a snarky that way.
When I'm hungry, image and cool will not fill my (larger than it used to be) stomach. And I want what I want; not what you want me to have. I'm odd and demanding that way, also.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
An Ode To Confidentiality
In late February, I believe it was the 22nd, my phone rang. That would be my archaic, touch-tone, caller-ID-infused, non-digital land line. The ID said that the pursuant party was from Company X, for whom I had worked last autumn as a temp. The person on the other end of the line was Steve, the facility manager. He asked me what I was up to, and I replied that I was currently out of work, and still seeking employment. The gist of his text was that James, one of the regulars, was going to be on jury duty for a couple of weeks, and they needed someone to be there to help Clint, his partner-in-crime. It was only a couple of weeks, but it was work -- that pays. Thus, on February 23rd, at 7:00 AM, I was back on the job for " a couple of weeks."
The first thing I discovered is that one of my temp fellows, Tony, was already back there. Tony is a funny, odd, driven fellow. He is the sole owner/operator of a small business called Eternal Caregivers that provides year-long maintenance and things like floral arrangements for deceased loved ones here in East Tennessee. But that doesn't pay as much as it should, so Tony works when he is able to find it. And, as a 28-year veteran of a monstrous soft-drink company (somewhere in L.A.), he is quite familiar with chemicals and chemical-driven processes.
So, for a couple of weeks I helped out in any way that I could. When 14 days was up, there was still a good bit of work laying about to be done, and no one had told me to stay home, so I remained on the job-site and payroll. I performed a goodly number of small "wash jobs," the process for which will have to remain top-secret. I also worked some in the fabrication area, tearing apart spent products for recycling purposes, which I find refreshing.
In the end, I wound up where I always had assumed I would, working with Pal Tony, and Chuck, a chemical engineer whom I had dubbed "Chuckles The Science Clown," back in 2009. I don't know what Chuckles has done in life to warrant the torture of working with a couple of chumps like Tony and me, but it must have been bad.
For the job we were going to perform, there was a lot of new piping, wiring, and setting up to do. Thus, the company hired a father and son team, Randall and Shannon. As far as I can tell -- by trade -- Randall and Shannon are plumbentericians. I make this assumption based on the fact that, no matter what needed to be done, they could do it -- well. Shannon is also a member of the local fire department, which must be handy for them when they have plumbenterician-type work to be done. And even after all of the initial set-up was done, Randall and Shannon hung about, just in case. It's a good thing. I, personally, am not qualified to use a hammer and nail, both in the same day; much too complex.
But soon Tony and I were on the job and in the groove; except, of course, when Chuckles had a question, comment or suggestion. That was always at least a fifteen-minute exchange, laden with scientific theory, molecular divination, and/or philosophical rumination. Chuck loves talking theory, exchanging information and arguing methodology. Had he been a lawyer, he would be heading his own firm by now or dead at the hands of an opposing client.
One of the really fun parts of the job, was the safety gear we had to wear. Any time we were in the main area of labor, we were required to don full chemical-resistant suits, goggles and visors. This was just fine on mornings that were in the forties, Fahrenheit. But when the temperature began approaching the upper sixties, and above, things got a bit uncomfortable in water/chemical repellent togs. We were working one day, and I had planned to stop in a shop on the way home; that is, until I removed my safety gear for lunch. That's when I discovered that I absolutely reeked, and would not be encroaching on anyone's personal space until I'd had a shower or five.
Now, as I said before, I would like to give details about the difficulty and complexity of the work we did, but I am unable, due to the fact that this is a new, confidential procedure, and the folks at Company X are trying their best to keep the competition from learning the hows, whys and wherefores of the process. Suffice it to say that it involved the mixing of chemicals to create various reagents, the use of truckloads of distilled H2O, and the puzzle of working within the space of a postage stamp, such that we had to pass through others' work areas constantly, creating difficulties for everyone at Company X. It also involved the use of a gigantic air compressor and pumps of varying size and type, with all of the requisite piping and connectors that any person with industrial experience would recognize. It was a mess, but it was our mess.
And when we needed something built from metal, we had a secret weapon. Company X has a fabricator who is, as far as I can tell, about twelve years old. But, despite his youth, Mikey can weld anything. and he can make it attractive. No big, ugly welds for him. When he finishes a job, everything is neat, smooth and polished.
Mikey re-engineered a piece for us which had a pipe that was ninety degrees off, and he built us a set of hose racks for the plethora of gigantic hoses that Chuckles had bought for Tony and me to use, move about, and curse.
Chuck, Tony and I brought that job to a close on time and under budget, and I would love to tell you that the company, in glowing appreciation, hired us both as executive VPs. Unfortunately, there's still something of a recession going on, and Company X has not experienced enough growth to hire a couple of know-it alls like Tony and myself. Besides, they still have Chuckles -- and he -- despite his tendency toward elongated discussion, is most likely a tad more valuable than I. So, back on the market I go, an industrial whore in search of a John.
Anybody need a date?
The first thing I discovered is that one of my temp fellows, Tony, was already back there. Tony is a funny, odd, driven fellow. He is the sole owner/operator of a small business called Eternal Caregivers that provides year-long maintenance and things like floral arrangements for deceased loved ones here in East Tennessee. But that doesn't pay as much as it should, so Tony works when he is able to find it. And, as a 28-year veteran of a monstrous soft-drink company (somewhere in L.A.), he is quite familiar with chemicals and chemical-driven processes.
So, for a couple of weeks I helped out in any way that I could. When 14 days was up, there was still a good bit of work laying about to be done, and no one had told me to stay home, so I remained on the job-site and payroll. I performed a goodly number of small "wash jobs," the process for which will have to remain top-secret. I also worked some in the fabrication area, tearing apart spent products for recycling purposes, which I find refreshing.
In the end, I wound up where I always had assumed I would, working with Pal Tony, and Chuck, a chemical engineer whom I had dubbed "Chuckles The Science Clown," back in 2009. I don't know what Chuckles has done in life to warrant the torture of working with a couple of chumps like Tony and me, but it must have been bad.
For the job we were going to perform, there was a lot of new piping, wiring, and setting up to do. Thus, the company hired a father and son team, Randall and Shannon. As far as I can tell -- by trade -- Randall and Shannon are plumbentericians. I make this assumption based on the fact that, no matter what needed to be done, they could do it -- well. Shannon is also a member of the local fire department, which must be handy for them when they have plumbenterician-type work to be done. And even after all of the initial set-up was done, Randall and Shannon hung about, just in case. It's a good thing. I, personally, am not qualified to use a hammer and nail, both in the same day; much too complex.
But soon Tony and I were on the job and in the groove; except, of course, when Chuckles had a question, comment or suggestion. That was always at least a fifteen-minute exchange, laden with scientific theory, molecular divination, and/or philosophical rumination. Chuck loves talking theory, exchanging information and arguing methodology. Had he been a lawyer, he would be heading his own firm by now or dead at the hands of an opposing client.
One of the really fun parts of the job, was the safety gear we had to wear. Any time we were in the main area of labor, we were required to don full chemical-resistant suits, goggles and visors. This was just fine on mornings that were in the forties, Fahrenheit. But when the temperature began approaching the upper sixties, and above, things got a bit uncomfortable in water/chemical repellent togs. We were working one day, and I had planned to stop in a shop on the way home; that is, until I removed my safety gear for lunch. That's when I discovered that I absolutely reeked, and would not be encroaching on anyone's personal space until I'd had a shower or five.
Now, as I said before, I would like to give details about the difficulty and complexity of the work we did, but I am unable, due to the fact that this is a new, confidential procedure, and the folks at Company X are trying their best to keep the competition from learning the hows, whys and wherefores of the process. Suffice it to say that it involved the mixing of chemicals to create various reagents, the use of truckloads of distilled H2O, and the puzzle of working within the space of a postage stamp, such that we had to pass through others' work areas constantly, creating difficulties for everyone at Company X. It also involved the use of a gigantic air compressor and pumps of varying size and type, with all of the requisite piping and connectors that any person with industrial experience would recognize. It was a mess, but it was our mess.
And when we needed something built from metal, we had a secret weapon. Company X has a fabricator who is, as far as I can tell, about twelve years old. But, despite his youth, Mikey can weld anything. and he can make it attractive. No big, ugly welds for him. When he finishes a job, everything is neat, smooth and polished.
Mikey re-engineered a piece for us which had a pipe that was ninety degrees off, and he built us a set of hose racks for the plethora of gigantic hoses that Chuckles had bought for Tony and me to use, move about, and curse.
Chuck, Tony and I brought that job to a close on time and under budget, and I would love to tell you that the company, in glowing appreciation, hired us both as executive VPs. Unfortunately, there's still something of a recession going on, and Company X has not experienced enough growth to hire a couple of know-it alls like Tony and myself. Besides, they still have Chuckles -- and he -- despite his tendency toward elongated discussion, is most likely a tad more valuable than I. So, back on the market I go, an industrial whore in search of a John.
Anybody need a date?
Friday, April 16, 2010
Stupid Advertising -- I
Before I begin, let me state that this will be my second effort at this post, as my fingers got twitchy yesterday and I deleted the original. That's what happens when a T-rex and his tiny upper appendages attempt to utilize modern technology. We also have real trouble with shoulder massages. However, let the reanimation commence.
My good friend, Clint Davis, recently posted on his Facebook page of his frustration with election season and the number of signs and flyers that get posted on public property during this time of madness. His brutal honesty has inspired me to come clean about one of my own pet peeves involving advertising and stupidity. To those of you who are gun-control advocates, let me apologize in advance, and warn that you may not want to read further. If you choose to do so, you may be unhappy with the clear logic of my argument.
A few years ago, a government-funded agency called Project Safe Neighborhoods initiated an advertising campaign, aimed at (this term will seem quirky later in the blog) -- I assume -- young people who watch shoot-em-ups and believe this would be a cool way to conduct themselves. On my way home from my temp job, there are two billboards that are a part of the PSN efforts. On I-40 west, between Papermill Drive and Gallaher View, there is one that reads: Hope you like prison food. GUN CRIME MEANS HARD TIME. Further down on I-75 south, below the Lenoir City exit, is one that reads: No excuses. No Parole. No kidding. GUN CRIME MEANS HARD TIME.
Now, while I agree with the premise of "in general" anti-crime messages, this particular effort has a skewed logic, which I intend to point out and follow to its conclusion. Before I begin, let me state that I am a firm supporter of the 2nd Amendment to the Constitution Of The United States. This states that, "a well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed." Personally, I would -- in this day and age -- add the words, "in a responsible manner" after "arms," but in those days, responsible operation by anyone able to hold a gun without help was assumed.
Also, since this campaign targets a particular inanimate object (can we agree that firearms do not get up and fire bullets into people on their own?), it edges over into a somewhat silly dimensional portal. I am against crime, which I define as: a person infringing upon the rights of another person(s) and/or said person's property. Therefore, let us address the actual message conveyed by the billboards, as opposed to the intended message.
First, let us assume that I am a person of low principle. Let us further say that I need some liquid cash in a speedy manner, and I do not have access in any legal way to said cash. Based purely on the logic of the PSN campaign, I will drive to the local Farmer's Co-Op and purchase a fifty foot, industrial grade extension cord. You know the ones, they're Volunteer orange and about 3/8" in diameter. I will exit the Co-Op, then unpack the extension cord, and roll it up on my arm from elbow to palm.
Next, I drive to my favorite local emporium of alcoholic beverages (I don't know why liquor stores are such popular robbery spots, but they are), and exit my truck -- extension cord in hand. I walk into the store, then begin beating the cashier, head to toe, with my NOT A GUN. I convince the, now malleable store employee that, to prevent further beating, opening the register is a good idea. I remove all of the money from the till, give the poor fellow on the floor a couple more good whacks (remember, I am of dubious character), exit the store, don my truck and drive away.
Now it's possible that I might get away with this crime. However, given the forensic technology of the day, and modern investigative techniques, it is highly unlikely. So we will now assume that the Loudon County Sheriff's Department pays me a visit at home, and I leave with them, wearing shiny metal bracelets.
After a few days, I will be dragged before a criminal court adjudicator for a preliminary hearing. At some point the judge will be moved to quiz me about my choice of weapon for the alleged assault on the poor cashier. At this time, I will drag out the skewed logic of the Project Safe Neighborhoods ad campaign.
"Your Honor, those billboards on the interstate say that gun crime means hard time. Therefore, I expect any time that I serve to be quite lackadaisical."
At this point, His Honor will -- logically -- ask me, "Boy, are you stupid or sump'n?"
Because the use of any inanimate object for the purpose of committing a crime -- gun, extension cord, table lamp, salt shaker -- can land one in prison; federal prison. That's the place where men of lower moral character than myself will avail themselves of all kinds of liberties involving parts of my anatomy that I would rather not have liberated.
Thus, the ad campaign is, as implied by the title of this effort, stupid. The logic is flawed, and the whole concept useless. Because criminals are -- by definition -- optimists. They all believe that they are going to get away. The HBO program "Oz" was a better crime deterrent than the PSN billboards.
Thank you, my chest feels lighter already. Ciao, Baby.
My good friend, Clint Davis, recently posted on his Facebook page of his frustration with election season and the number of signs and flyers that get posted on public property during this time of madness. His brutal honesty has inspired me to come clean about one of my own pet peeves involving advertising and stupidity. To those of you who are gun-control advocates, let me apologize in advance, and warn that you may not want to read further. If you choose to do so, you may be unhappy with the clear logic of my argument.
A few years ago, a government-funded agency called Project Safe Neighborhoods initiated an advertising campaign, aimed at (this term will seem quirky later in the blog) -- I assume -- young people who watch shoot-em-ups and believe this would be a cool way to conduct themselves. On my way home from my temp job, there are two billboards that are a part of the PSN efforts. On I-40 west, between Papermill Drive and Gallaher View, there is one that reads: Hope you like prison food. GUN CRIME MEANS HARD TIME. Further down on I-75 south, below the Lenoir City exit, is one that reads: No excuses. No Parole. No kidding. GUN CRIME MEANS HARD TIME.
Now, while I agree with the premise of "in general" anti-crime messages, this particular effort has a skewed logic, which I intend to point out and follow to its conclusion. Before I begin, let me state that I am a firm supporter of the 2nd Amendment to the Constitution Of The United States. This states that, "a well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed." Personally, I would -- in this day and age -- add the words, "in a responsible manner" after "arms," but in those days, responsible operation by anyone able to hold a gun without help was assumed.
Also, since this campaign targets a particular inanimate object (can we agree that firearms do not get up and fire bullets into people on their own?), it edges over into a somewhat silly dimensional portal. I am against crime, which I define as: a person infringing upon the rights of another person(s) and/or said person's property. Therefore, let us address the actual message conveyed by the billboards, as opposed to the intended message.
First, let us assume that I am a person of low principle. Let us further say that I need some liquid cash in a speedy manner, and I do not have access in any legal way to said cash. Based purely on the logic of the PSN campaign, I will drive to the local Farmer's Co-Op and purchase a fifty foot, industrial grade extension cord. You know the ones, they're Volunteer orange and about 3/8" in diameter. I will exit the Co-Op, then unpack the extension cord, and roll it up on my arm from elbow to palm.
Next, I drive to my favorite local emporium of alcoholic beverages (I don't know why liquor stores are such popular robbery spots, but they are), and exit my truck -- extension cord in hand. I walk into the store, then begin beating the cashier, head to toe, with my NOT A GUN. I convince the, now malleable store employee that, to prevent further beating, opening the register is a good idea. I remove all of the money from the till, give the poor fellow on the floor a couple more good whacks (remember, I am of dubious character), exit the store, don my truck and drive away.
Now it's possible that I might get away with this crime. However, given the forensic technology of the day, and modern investigative techniques, it is highly unlikely. So we will now assume that the Loudon County Sheriff's Department pays me a visit at home, and I leave with them, wearing shiny metal bracelets.
After a few days, I will be dragged before a criminal court adjudicator for a preliminary hearing. At some point the judge will be moved to quiz me about my choice of weapon for the alleged assault on the poor cashier. At this time, I will drag out the skewed logic of the Project Safe Neighborhoods ad campaign.
"Your Honor, those billboards on the interstate say that gun crime means hard time. Therefore, I expect any time that I serve to be quite lackadaisical."
At this point, His Honor will -- logically -- ask me, "Boy, are you stupid or sump'n?"
Because the use of any inanimate object for the purpose of committing a crime -- gun, extension cord, table lamp, salt shaker -- can land one in prison; federal prison. That's the place where men of lower moral character than myself will avail themselves of all kinds of liberties involving parts of my anatomy that I would rather not have liberated.
Thus, the ad campaign is, as implied by the title of this effort, stupid. The logic is flawed, and the whole concept useless. Because criminals are -- by definition -- optimists. They all believe that they are going to get away. The HBO program "Oz" was a better crime deterrent than the PSN billboards.
Thank you, my chest feels lighter already. Ciao, Baby.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Meeting New People
One day last week, I was returning from my continuing job as a temp at the Emerachem company, and I got off I-75 at Sugar Limb Road so that I could stop by the Loudon County Justice Center. My goal was to obtain a burn permit, so that I can turn some dead, lackluster brush that is lying about into ash -- legally.
Several years ago, when Clint Davis lived next door, he was burning some residual brush when a Sheriff's deputy showed up and demanded that he cease and desist. Clint was somewhat perturbed -- but, having not obtained the proper permission from the proper authorities -- he was forced to comply. I do not want to get myself into that kind of situation. This comes from the gift of learning from the mistakes of others that I was completely without in my youth. Now, as a curmudgeonly Old Guy, I pay better attention and apply -- with malice aforethought -- what I have learned.
Thus, I walked blindly into the Justice Center. I first strolled to the bullet-resistant window at the General Sessions Court office, where there was a line of rather young women in front of me who all seemed to be acquainted. One of them would exchange words with the woman behind the glass. They would form a gridiron huddle to make a decision, then the designated representative would announce said decision to the county employee, who would tell them something else. It was like watching Peyton Manning argue with a referee, with his teammates providing cannon fodder. This went on for a few minutes, so I strolled to the other side of the building, and walked into another office, whose name I have forgotten, 'cuz I'm a Guy, and it was unimportant to me.
In the other office, a woman at a desk asked if she could help me. I replied that I hoped she could, and told her of my need for a burn permit. She informed me that I could not get that from anyone there, but that the person with whom she was speaking (sitting there in front of me) worked in the General Sessions Court office, and SHE could provide me with the appropriate phone number of the folks in control of that sort of thing.
So back to the General Sessions office I went, where the young woman wrote two numbers on a Post-It (TM) note and gave it to me. I thanked her for her aid, and headed back outside to my truck, where I SHOULD have gotten in and headed home (foreshadowing, don't you know).
As I inserted my key to unlock my door (yes, Ol' Red is THAT old), I heard a voice that had a distressed intonation attached. I turned, and saw yet another young woman -- across the parking lot -- standing next to a car. She looked straight at me and screamed, "Somebody please help me!"
I looked back into Ol' Red, with his comfortable gray, unraveling vinyl upholstery, sighed heavily, removed my key and began walking toward the girl, the entire time saying to myself, "You're about to get into some shit from which you may not be able to extricate yourself."
As I approached the car in question, the girl inserted herself into the rear seat and disappeared. When I arrived, she was lying face-down, obviously crying. Again, at this point, I could have exited, but my paternal instincts are ugly and strong. My thoughts were along the lines of, "What if this were one of my progeny, and no one stopped to help?" So, I tapped on the glass. She looked, sat up, and opened the door. I asked, "Is there something I can do to help you?"
And she started to talk. Words and sentences tumbled out of her mouth one over another, as if she were completely incapable of stopping, which is a possibility. Some things made a semblance of sense, some, not so much. I'm thinking, "She's high as a kite, and I'm the only person with a semi-clear head within reach." From her long jumble of words, I gathered the following:
She had left her car in the Justice Center parking lot. She got a ride from the person whose car she was currently in to recover said vehicle. Said vehicle was no longer in the Justice Center parking lot. She believed she knew who had it. She had provided sex for said car-thief. She lived in Tellico Village, and she was better than this. She wanted to know if I would take her to find her car.
The answer to that last question -- for those of you who don't really know me well -- was "No." In my head, I saw all of the ugly possibilities: she screams rape; we find her car and the gang of meth freaks around it; she pulls a (gun/knife), which I then have to shove down her throat, then justify said action to the authorities; she rubs all over me and I wreck my truck, then have to explain this to my young bride; etc. She repeatedly announced that she needed someone to help her, so I arrived at what I believed to be a workable solution. I ordered her to look at me; I pointed at the door only forty yards away, and said, "There is the Sheriff's Department. They can help you."
At this point, she started spewing random material again, the gist of which was, no one at the Sheriff's Department could help. She then shut the car door again. I was off the hook. I started back toward my good old, comfortable truck. Then the door opened again, and she said, "Maybe they can help me." So I went back, I positioned her toward the door, and said, "Go there."
She asked, "Will you go with me?"
Holy Jesus on a bicycle, riding backward down an interstate highway! What did I have to do to get away? But I said, "Yes," and she grabbed onto my right arm as if gravity had somehow doubled where she was standing. We walked, and she talked, non-stop.
I got her inside the door, where Sheriff Tim Guider was on his digital phone. The girl was still talking, and now gesticulating wildly. A woman who apparently works for the department came from behind her bullet-resistant glass to see is she could help. I explained as well as I could that I had found the damsel in the parking lot, and she was in some kind of distress. By the time I finished, Sheriff Guider had excused himself from his phone conversation to supervise the proceedings, thank God!
I got the girl into a seat, where she continued to talk, repeating herself vociferously. Sheriff Guider attempted to ask her a couple of questions, from which he received nothing of note or aid. At one point she said something that indicated that I was somehow involved in the trouble. For the record, I don't believe this was purposeful, it was simply more random talk bouncing from the inside of her head onto the walls around us.
The Sheriff turned to me and asked my name, which I provided, clearly and concisely. He then asked how I was involved. I explained that I was not involved; that I had found the young lady in question in his parking lot, clearly under some kind of strain. I was very careful not to imply or suggest any drug use; he's the Sheriff, it's likely he could figure that out without my help. He then turned to the girl, put his hand on her shoulder, and asked, "Young lady, do you know this gentleman?"
She, thank goodness, looked at me and said, "No." Whereupon Sheriff Guider turned to me; I said, "If you need my help, I'll stay and try to help. If you don't need my help, I'd be just as happy to leave." Good ol' Tim expressed his questionable thanks for my aid and said I could go, which was what I had been trying to do for the last fifteen minutes.
Ol' Red was waiting faithfully, with my iPod ready, and my cigar awaiting a re-light. Jackson Browne and I started up and headed for home.
Sometimes meeting new people isn't as productive, or as much fun as it should be.
Several years ago, when Clint Davis lived next door, he was burning some residual brush when a Sheriff's deputy showed up and demanded that he cease and desist. Clint was somewhat perturbed -- but, having not obtained the proper permission from the proper authorities -- he was forced to comply. I do not want to get myself into that kind of situation. This comes from the gift of learning from the mistakes of others that I was completely without in my youth. Now, as a curmudgeonly Old Guy, I pay better attention and apply -- with malice aforethought -- what I have learned.
Thus, I walked blindly into the Justice Center. I first strolled to the bullet-resistant window at the General Sessions Court office, where there was a line of rather young women in front of me who all seemed to be acquainted. One of them would exchange words with the woman behind the glass. They would form a gridiron huddle to make a decision, then the designated representative would announce said decision to the county employee, who would tell them something else. It was like watching Peyton Manning argue with a referee, with his teammates providing cannon fodder. This went on for a few minutes, so I strolled to the other side of the building, and walked into another office, whose name I have forgotten, 'cuz I'm a Guy, and it was unimportant to me.
In the other office, a woman at a desk asked if she could help me. I replied that I hoped she could, and told her of my need for a burn permit. She informed me that I could not get that from anyone there, but that the person with whom she was speaking (sitting there in front of me) worked in the General Sessions Court office, and SHE could provide me with the appropriate phone number of the folks in control of that sort of thing.
So back to the General Sessions office I went, where the young woman wrote two numbers on a Post-It (TM) note and gave it to me. I thanked her for her aid, and headed back outside to my truck, where I SHOULD have gotten in and headed home (foreshadowing, don't you know).
As I inserted my key to unlock my door (yes, Ol' Red is THAT old), I heard a voice that had a distressed intonation attached. I turned, and saw yet another young woman -- across the parking lot -- standing next to a car. She looked straight at me and screamed, "Somebody please help me!"
I looked back into Ol' Red, with his comfortable gray, unraveling vinyl upholstery, sighed heavily, removed my key and began walking toward the girl, the entire time saying to myself, "You're about to get into some shit from which you may not be able to extricate yourself."
As I approached the car in question, the girl inserted herself into the rear seat and disappeared. When I arrived, she was lying face-down, obviously crying. Again, at this point, I could have exited, but my paternal instincts are ugly and strong. My thoughts were along the lines of, "What if this were one of my progeny, and no one stopped to help?" So, I tapped on the glass. She looked, sat up, and opened the door. I asked, "Is there something I can do to help you?"
And she started to talk. Words and sentences tumbled out of her mouth one over another, as if she were completely incapable of stopping, which is a possibility. Some things made a semblance of sense, some, not so much. I'm thinking, "She's high as a kite, and I'm the only person with a semi-clear head within reach." From her long jumble of words, I gathered the following:
She had left her car in the Justice Center parking lot. She got a ride from the person whose car she was currently in to recover said vehicle. Said vehicle was no longer in the Justice Center parking lot. She believed she knew who had it. She had provided sex for said car-thief. She lived in Tellico Village, and she was better than this. She wanted to know if I would take her to find her car.
The answer to that last question -- for those of you who don't really know me well -- was "No." In my head, I saw all of the ugly possibilities: she screams rape; we find her car and the gang of meth freaks around it; she pulls a (gun/knife), which I then have to shove down her throat, then justify said action to the authorities; she rubs all over me and I wreck my truck, then have to explain this to my young bride; etc. She repeatedly announced that she needed someone to help her, so I arrived at what I believed to be a workable solution. I ordered her to look at me; I pointed at the door only forty yards away, and said, "There is the Sheriff's Department. They can help you."
At this point, she started spewing random material again, the gist of which was, no one at the Sheriff's Department could help. She then shut the car door again. I was off the hook. I started back toward my good old, comfortable truck. Then the door opened again, and she said, "Maybe they can help me." So I went back, I positioned her toward the door, and said, "Go there."
She asked, "Will you go with me?"
Holy Jesus on a bicycle, riding backward down an interstate highway! What did I have to do to get away? But I said, "Yes," and she grabbed onto my right arm as if gravity had somehow doubled where she was standing. We walked, and she talked, non-stop.
I got her inside the door, where Sheriff Tim Guider was on his digital phone. The girl was still talking, and now gesticulating wildly. A woman who apparently works for the department came from behind her bullet-resistant glass to see is she could help. I explained as well as I could that I had found the damsel in the parking lot, and she was in some kind of distress. By the time I finished, Sheriff Guider had excused himself from his phone conversation to supervise the proceedings, thank God!
I got the girl into a seat, where she continued to talk, repeating herself vociferously. Sheriff Guider attempted to ask her a couple of questions, from which he received nothing of note or aid. At one point she said something that indicated that I was somehow involved in the trouble. For the record, I don't believe this was purposeful, it was simply more random talk bouncing from the inside of her head onto the walls around us.
The Sheriff turned to me and asked my name, which I provided, clearly and concisely. He then asked how I was involved. I explained that I was not involved; that I had found the young lady in question in his parking lot, clearly under some kind of strain. I was very careful not to imply or suggest any drug use; he's the Sheriff, it's likely he could figure that out without my help. He then turned to the girl, put his hand on her shoulder, and asked, "Young lady, do you know this gentleman?"
She, thank goodness, looked at me and said, "No." Whereupon Sheriff Guider turned to me; I said, "If you need my help, I'll stay and try to help. If you don't need my help, I'd be just as happy to leave." Good ol' Tim expressed his questionable thanks for my aid and said I could go, which was what I had been trying to do for the last fifteen minutes.
Ol' Red was waiting faithfully, with my iPod ready, and my cigar awaiting a re-light. Jackson Browne and I started up and headed for home.
Sometimes meeting new people isn't as productive, or as much fun as it should be.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Coaching Changes
Okay, let's just go ahead and get this out of the way. All of the folks who are upset about Lane Kiffin bolting the University Of Tennessee for USC -- huh? Are you nuts!? Here are my varied and sundry thoughts on the matter.
When Mike Hamilton tossed Phillip Fulmer aside like a dirty dishrag, I was of two minds about the whole thing. John Majors, not my favorite head coach ever, had achieved, at UT, a record of 116-62-8, then had been thrown out in a like manner in 1992. And while I was not a big fan, this was a dirty way to treat a guy who had attended, played for, and coached the Vols. The funny thing is, this had to have been done with Fulmer's knowledge and endorsement, as he was the replacement-in-waiting.
That having been said, the same scenario sixteen years later doesn't correct the mistake, although Coach Majors probably saw it as a rather spooky comeuppance. Let's face it, I refuse to root for the Dallas Cowboys ever since Jerry Jones showed Tom Landry the door in a very similar fashion.
Thus, Doug Dickey was wrong to treat Majors as he did, and Mike Hamilton -- who should have learned from a poor example -- was also wrong. In the first place, Fulmer was and is (merely opinion, folks) a much better representative of the university, and extends a better public image. Also, at 152-52, he was a better coach, because he won more and lost fewer games. And he won a national championship at UT.
So, I did not endorse the firing of Coach Fulmer. But that did not cause me to be against Coach Kiffin when he was hired. Kiffin had been hired and fired by the ancient and demented Al Davis, the worst owner in the history of the NFL. The Oakland Raiders' bad-boy image is a direct extension of their owner thinking he's king of all he sees. Davis is a bully who hides behind his money, and that's the mentality he wants in his players. Of them all, Howie Long has escaped that image more quickly and efficiently than any. Most Raiders and ex-Raiders are of the same ilk as Lyle Alzedo, who broke rules regularly, depended on steroids to make him stronger and faster, then wanted sympathy when he came up with cancer due to his stupidity. I never root for the Raiders. I root for Dallas when the two teams are playing, because Jerry Jones is merely the 2nd worst owner in NFL history.
Therefore, the firing of Lane Kiffin by Davis was -- in my opinion -- a ringing endorsement. One of the contentious issues between Davis and Kiffin was Lane's attempt to fire Randy Hanson, an assistant who is, apparently, one of Al's lap dogs. This was brought to the fore when Hanson got his jaw broken because he couldn't shut his yap in the presence of Tom Cable, Kiffin's replacement. Cable handled Hanson less delicately than Kiffin, and I'm okay with that. If Davis gets rid of Cable, maybe UT should give him a look (that's a joke, folks).
So, I was not against the hiring of Kiffin, I was against the firing of Phillip Fulmer. I waited to see what Lane would do, though my young bride was against him from the start, just 'cuz she loves Fulmer and his public image, and he coached her sweetheart, Peyton Manning.
Lane-boy arrived in Knoxville, and the first thing he did was shoot off his half-cocked, adolescent mouth, trash-talking Urban Meyer and UF. All right, here's another thing we need to get out in front. I am a Florida fan. I root against them one game per year, and that's when they're playing UT. I root for them against UGA, and Alabama, and I was happy when they squashed Cincinnati and taught them a lesson about playing with the big boys.
But I wasn't upset about the WHOM, I was upset about the WHAT. Honestly, could he not do his talking on the field? Did Fulmer ever respond to Spurrier's jabs other than by coaching and playing the game? No! So, I wasn't happy with Kiffy, though I wouldn't go so far as to root against the team, as The Boss did. I even got tickets (through my brother-in-law, Paul Turner -- thanks again) to the South Carolina game last year, which was played on my birthday. Paul and I sat/stood in the rain for most of the game as UT thrashed a team that had been ranked in the top 25 only a couple of weeks before. It was glorious.
Here's what I predicted would happen after the first time Kiffy ran his stupid mouth. Over a few years, he would be exposed as the trash-talking, 13-year-old that he is, and UT trustees would call for his head. At that time, Hamilton would be let go, 'cuz he's a moron, and Fulmer -- who still hasn't taken another coaching position -- would be installed as AD, and he would hire David Cutcliffe to be head coach, who would re-hire John Chavis as defensive coordinator.
That was my prediction, and I was willing to wait it out. Then Pete Carroll left USC, and Los Angeles came calling on Coach Kiffy, and the dumb young people on campus gave the local news something to yak about for days on end. I contend that the frat boys were protesting simply because they didn't want Coach's hot wife to leave with him.
Hamilton (I still believe his hiring of Bruce Pearl to be an extremely happy accident), scrambled quickly, doing a very good impression of Johnathon Crompton exiting the pocket. Trustees were already beginning to situate themselves on Fulmer's doorstep, the AD job in their little paws, and Hamilton needed to find a receiver, fast. He looked to Texas for Will Muschamp, covered. He looked to Cutcliffe at Duke University, but ol' Davey is one of Phil's boys, and he waved Hamilton off. He even looked at Jon Gruden -- another former Raider coach, who had taken Tony Dungy's team in Tampa and won a Super Bowl, then began making them one of the worst franchises in the league. None of them bit.
So Derek Dooley wound up with the football. The Boss is all upset because she -- like everyone in Tuscaloosa before Saban showed up -- thinks we should hire someone with a history at UT. She was a history major, and I understand her position.
But, as I was willing to give Kiffy an opportunity, I am willing to give Coach Dooley an opportunity also. Coach could have attended the University of Georgia, where his father is a legend, and been assured of a place on the team. But he went to the University Of Virginia, where he walked on, and earned a scholarship with his play. I admire that mentality.
One of ESPN's Pat Forde's comments about Kiffy was that he "was born on third base, and acts like he hit a triple all the time." Mixed metaphors aside, Derek Dooley doesn't seem that way. From appearances, he hasn't tried to trade on his famous father's name to make it in coaching. The best thing we can do -- again, opinion -- is to sit back and see what he's made of, on and off the field.
He could begin by hiring John Chavis, who crafted the #3 defense in the NCAA in 2008, away from LSU. It would be a start.
When Mike Hamilton tossed Phillip Fulmer aside like a dirty dishrag, I was of two minds about the whole thing. John Majors, not my favorite head coach ever, had achieved, at UT, a record of 116-62-8, then had been thrown out in a like manner in 1992. And while I was not a big fan, this was a dirty way to treat a guy who had attended, played for, and coached the Vols. The funny thing is, this had to have been done with Fulmer's knowledge and endorsement, as he was the replacement-in-waiting.
That having been said, the same scenario sixteen years later doesn't correct the mistake, although Coach Majors probably saw it as a rather spooky comeuppance. Let's face it, I refuse to root for the Dallas Cowboys ever since Jerry Jones showed Tom Landry the door in a very similar fashion.
Thus, Doug Dickey was wrong to treat Majors as he did, and Mike Hamilton -- who should have learned from a poor example -- was also wrong. In the first place, Fulmer was and is (merely opinion, folks) a much better representative of the university, and extends a better public image. Also, at 152-52, he was a better coach, because he won more and lost fewer games. And he won a national championship at UT.
So, I did not endorse the firing of Coach Fulmer. But that did not cause me to be against Coach Kiffin when he was hired. Kiffin had been hired and fired by the ancient and demented Al Davis, the worst owner in the history of the NFL. The Oakland Raiders' bad-boy image is a direct extension of their owner thinking he's king of all he sees. Davis is a bully who hides behind his money, and that's the mentality he wants in his players. Of them all, Howie Long has escaped that image more quickly and efficiently than any. Most Raiders and ex-Raiders are of the same ilk as Lyle Alzedo, who broke rules regularly, depended on steroids to make him stronger and faster, then wanted sympathy when he came up with cancer due to his stupidity. I never root for the Raiders. I root for Dallas when the two teams are playing, because Jerry Jones is merely the 2nd worst owner in NFL history.
Therefore, the firing of Lane Kiffin by Davis was -- in my opinion -- a ringing endorsement. One of the contentious issues between Davis and Kiffin was Lane's attempt to fire Randy Hanson, an assistant who is, apparently, one of Al's lap dogs. This was brought to the fore when Hanson got his jaw broken because he couldn't shut his yap in the presence of Tom Cable, Kiffin's replacement. Cable handled Hanson less delicately than Kiffin, and I'm okay with that. If Davis gets rid of Cable, maybe UT should give him a look (that's a joke, folks).
So, I was not against the hiring of Kiffin, I was against the firing of Phillip Fulmer. I waited to see what Lane would do, though my young bride was against him from the start, just 'cuz she loves Fulmer and his public image, and he coached her sweetheart, Peyton Manning.
Lane-boy arrived in Knoxville, and the first thing he did was shoot off his half-cocked, adolescent mouth, trash-talking Urban Meyer and UF. All right, here's another thing we need to get out in front. I am a Florida fan. I root against them one game per year, and that's when they're playing UT. I root for them against UGA, and Alabama, and I was happy when they squashed Cincinnati and taught them a lesson about playing with the big boys.
But I wasn't upset about the WHOM, I was upset about the WHAT. Honestly, could he not do his talking on the field? Did Fulmer ever respond to Spurrier's jabs other than by coaching and playing the game? No! So, I wasn't happy with Kiffy, though I wouldn't go so far as to root against the team, as The Boss did. I even got tickets (through my brother-in-law, Paul Turner -- thanks again) to the South Carolina game last year, which was played on my birthday. Paul and I sat/stood in the rain for most of the game as UT thrashed a team that had been ranked in the top 25 only a couple of weeks before. It was glorious.
Here's what I predicted would happen after the first time Kiffy ran his stupid mouth. Over a few years, he would be exposed as the trash-talking, 13-year-old that he is, and UT trustees would call for his head. At that time, Hamilton would be let go, 'cuz he's a moron, and Fulmer -- who still hasn't taken another coaching position -- would be installed as AD, and he would hire David Cutcliffe to be head coach, who would re-hire John Chavis as defensive coordinator.
That was my prediction, and I was willing to wait it out. Then Pete Carroll left USC, and Los Angeles came calling on Coach Kiffy, and the dumb young people on campus gave the local news something to yak about for days on end. I contend that the frat boys were protesting simply because they didn't want Coach's hot wife to leave with him.
Hamilton (I still believe his hiring of Bruce Pearl to be an extremely happy accident), scrambled quickly, doing a very good impression of Johnathon Crompton exiting the pocket. Trustees were already beginning to situate themselves on Fulmer's doorstep, the AD job in their little paws, and Hamilton needed to find a receiver, fast. He looked to Texas for Will Muschamp, covered. He looked to Cutcliffe at Duke University, but ol' Davey is one of Phil's boys, and he waved Hamilton off. He even looked at Jon Gruden -- another former Raider coach, who had taken Tony Dungy's team in Tampa and won a Super Bowl, then began making them one of the worst franchises in the league. None of them bit.
So Derek Dooley wound up with the football. The Boss is all upset because she -- like everyone in Tuscaloosa before Saban showed up -- thinks we should hire someone with a history at UT. She was a history major, and I understand her position.
But, as I was willing to give Kiffy an opportunity, I am willing to give Coach Dooley an opportunity also. Coach could have attended the University of Georgia, where his father is a legend, and been assured of a place on the team. But he went to the University Of Virginia, where he walked on, and earned a scholarship with his play. I admire that mentality.
One of ESPN's Pat Forde's comments about Kiffy was that he "was born on third base, and acts like he hit a triple all the time." Mixed metaphors aside, Derek Dooley doesn't seem that way. From appearances, he hasn't tried to trade on his famous father's name to make it in coaching. The best thing we can do -- again, opinion -- is to sit back and see what he's made of, on and off the field.
He could begin by hiring John Chavis, who crafted the #3 defense in the NCAA in 2008, away from LSU. It would be a start.
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