First of all, let us establish that I am not a clothes horse; very much the opposite, in fact. I know little about pop culture, and less about fashion, but I know what I like. It is my opinion (for what it's worth) that -- for men -- the most flattering types of formal wear are the tuxedo and the military dress uniform. Having never been a military person, I don't get the honor of wearing the latter, but the former, I would don daily if I had the liquid assets and the excuse. I love a nice tuxedo. Of course that "liquid assets" thing pretty much eats away at my opportunity for tuxedo-donning.
This post is not about a tuxedo, but will explain my inner angling toward hors-i-ness.
In 1991, when I was an employee of Sta-Con-Tatelyle (I never know what to call it these days, as it has been passed around like a small-town whore), I was assigned to the corporate headquarters -- Decatur, IL -- for an industrial research effort. This effort involved a good deal of overtime and swing-shift labor, but was the most exciting working year of my life. The company was booming, the checkbook was open, and we learned something new and interesting every day.
We, the family, resided in an apartment, paid for by the company, about 1.5 miles from the local mall. At the mall was a Bachrach's haberdashery, and in the window was a suit after which I lusted, mightily. The suit was a black, double-breasted, pin-stripe affair, with the stripes alternating a teal and mauve in color. Now "teal" and "mauve" are made-up words to describe the colors green and lavender for women. In fact, "teal" is a kind of duck, and "mauve" is actually an in-between color of burgundy leaning towards lavender. But, to communicate with the fairer and more intelligent gender, these are the words I must use.
One week, in the spring, after a particularly lucrative compensatory notification, I told my young bride that I was going to Bachrach's to purchase the suit. I was excited about it, as was she, because she had not -- heretofore -- seen this side of my personality. Thus, off we went.
We arrived at the haberdashery, and -- for the first time since I had noticed it -- the suit was gone from the window. This caused me to worry, but in we went, so that I could inquire. I went to the counter to ask after the suit, and the clerk asked, "You mean this one?" and pointed behind him at the wall, where it hung, handsomely, in all its wool finery. I told the young man that I wished to purchase the suit, and he zipped from behind the counter to show me all of the accoutrements that I would need to go with it.
This was a new thing for me, but it made sense as we dove headlong into the process. Why buy a new suit if one has no socks, shirts or ties with which to complement it? I got measured for the purpose of securing the proper size jacket (40 regular), and making certain that the pants were properly trimmed (32/30; I was in better physical condition at the time). After the measurements, I had to select some dress shirts. I believe they successfully sold me on four of them, as well as accompanying ties with each. Then I had to get matching socks, so I didn't look goofy with -- well -- plain black, for God's sake. Oh, and pocket squares! Can't forget those! That was a new folding talent I had to learn.
After all was said and done, I left the store with the extras, a promise of the suit's readiness a few days later and a receipt that registered between $750 and $800. I felt like such a spendthrift.
You know what? It was totally worth it, every time I put the thing on. Especially when I wore the plain white Perry Ellis shirt, the most comfortable dress shirt I have ever worn. It was like wearing a cloud, but lighter and softer. Maybe I was totally in touch with my feminine side, but --when I wore the suit -- I felt good, head to toe.
Of course, I can't wear it anymore, 'cuz that was 20 years and pounds ago. It still hangs in my closet, looking abandoned and forlorn, wishing that I would simply drop the extra weight and don it again, promising the same old feeling. Like that'll happen.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Reaching The Science Fiction Future
Once again, because I am aging -- as opposed to gracefully dying young -- a recent event has reminded me of an adventure from my youth. The Boy (Woodrow Robert, according to official state records) has rendered his old box spring set useless. This is probably a no-fault occurrence, as he has been on this bed set for several years. Thus, my young bride betook herself to our local furniture gallery, Greer's, to procure a replacement. We have shopped here exclusively for the past decade due to superior aid and service, as well as decent prices.
She explained to the person who helped her that she was looking for a twin box spring at a discount price, since The Boy is eighteen and will be going on to his Naval career (his decision) in only a few years. He located a discontinued model whose price had been heftily lowered, quoted the cost, and the deal was made. When she inquired about method of payment, debit card, check, whatever, he actually said that cash was good. Cash? Nobody takes cash anymore, without a gun pointed directly at their temple.
I went the next day with my truck (the one that is now old enough to vote and buy tobacco products), and, when the time came to render remuneration, I dragged out my wallet and produced the government issue, paper representations of my labor. Then the woman behind the counter counted out my change, without benefit of any electronic device, coins first, then bills, as God intended. It was very surreal, in an historic context.
I remember reading futuristic fiction and watching films in my adolescence, wherein people would buy things and pay with "credits." Our society has now reached that point, such that my debit card takes care of my fuel and food purchases, as well as the occasional stop for consumption-grade ethanol at Bob's. Which, finally, brings me to the memory that reared up from all of these occurrences.
When I was married the first time, all those years ago, we -- as a couple -- decided to spend July 4th weekend, 1980, in Knoxville. For young people who had hardly ever been anywhere, or done anything, this was a big deal. I made a reservation at what is now the Marriott, but was then the Hyatt Regency, near the Civic Coliseum/Auditorium building. At that time, this was the closest thing to a luxury hotel that Knoxville had. We parked the car as near to the front door as possible, and perambulated to the front desk, where the young lady who was operating things was deep into a terribly important conversation, which I interrupted, being the rude person that I am.
I made known that there was a reservation with my last name attached, and she grudgingly checked the records. She then asked how I intended to pay, and, with not a hint of guilt on my part, I pulled a wad of filthy, possibly terminal, cash from my wallet (Lord knows where it had been). Now, in my fuzzy memory, I can see the young lady handling the bills -- two-fingered -- as if they were infected with cholera, or perhaps anthrax. I'm certain that is just my mind doing a little creative editing, but it entertains me, nonetheless.
Having procured my, probably diseased, change we made our way to the hotel room. Here is what I remember about it, with absolutely no memory edit whatsoever:
-- It was dusty. I wrote my name into the dust on the bureau; it was that bad.
-- It needed to be vacuumed. There were dust bunnies under both beds. I looked out of curiosity inspired by the coating on the furniture.
--There was a beautiful window view of the rear parking lot.
-- The water heater did not work. Cold showers, what a treat!
When we checked out the next morning, cutting our two-night stay to one, I detailed the reasons with the desk-charge-of-the-moment. He was somewhat apologetic, and inquired if another room might be offered, but I said, "No, I've had enough luxury for one weekend. I'll find a hotel that wants my business and money." I got my second night's lodging money returned, and we stayed that night at a Holiday Inn that was on Papermill Drive.
The room was sparking clean, and had been vacuumed that morning, as far as I could tell. Also the water heater was obnoxiously efficient, such that I spent extra time in the shower, just 'cuz I could.
Oddly, I don't really remember any details of meals eaten or events attended, though I'm certain we watched fireworks somewhere. But those memories are so clouded by the events at our "luxury" hotel, that I simply cannot seem to recover them, and that bothers me. I nearly always remember good meals and times, but not from this experience. It's a consternation.
Someday, maybe, there will be a neurological instrument that can restore memories. I hope I have enough credits to hire it out.
She explained to the person who helped her that she was looking for a twin box spring at a discount price, since The Boy is eighteen and will be going on to his Naval career (his decision) in only a few years. He located a discontinued model whose price had been heftily lowered, quoted the cost, and the deal was made. When she inquired about method of payment, debit card, check, whatever, he actually said that cash was good. Cash? Nobody takes cash anymore, without a gun pointed directly at their temple.
I went the next day with my truck (the one that is now old enough to vote and buy tobacco products), and, when the time came to render remuneration, I dragged out my wallet and produced the government issue, paper representations of my labor. Then the woman behind the counter counted out my change, without benefit of any electronic device, coins first, then bills, as God intended. It was very surreal, in an historic context.
I remember reading futuristic fiction and watching films in my adolescence, wherein people would buy things and pay with "credits." Our society has now reached that point, such that my debit card takes care of my fuel and food purchases, as well as the occasional stop for consumption-grade ethanol at Bob's. Which, finally, brings me to the memory that reared up from all of these occurrences.
When I was married the first time, all those years ago, we -- as a couple -- decided to spend July 4th weekend, 1980, in Knoxville. For young people who had hardly ever been anywhere, or done anything, this was a big deal. I made a reservation at what is now the Marriott, but was then the Hyatt Regency, near the Civic Coliseum/Auditorium building. At that time, this was the closest thing to a luxury hotel that Knoxville had. We parked the car as near to the front door as possible, and perambulated to the front desk, where the young lady who was operating things was deep into a terribly important conversation, which I interrupted, being the rude person that I am.
I made known that there was a reservation with my last name attached, and she grudgingly checked the records. She then asked how I intended to pay, and, with not a hint of guilt on my part, I pulled a wad of filthy, possibly terminal, cash from my wallet (Lord knows where it had been). Now, in my fuzzy memory, I can see the young lady handling the bills -- two-fingered -- as if they were infected with cholera, or perhaps anthrax. I'm certain that is just my mind doing a little creative editing, but it entertains me, nonetheless.
Having procured my, probably diseased, change we made our way to the hotel room. Here is what I remember about it, with absolutely no memory edit whatsoever:
-- It was dusty. I wrote my name into the dust on the bureau; it was that bad.
-- It needed to be vacuumed. There were dust bunnies under both beds. I looked out of curiosity inspired by the coating on the furniture.
--There was a beautiful window view of the rear parking lot.
-- The water heater did not work. Cold showers, what a treat!
When we checked out the next morning, cutting our two-night stay to one, I detailed the reasons with the desk-charge-of-the-moment. He was somewhat apologetic, and inquired if another room might be offered, but I said, "No, I've had enough luxury for one weekend. I'll find a hotel that wants my business and money." I got my second night's lodging money returned, and we stayed that night at a Holiday Inn that was on Papermill Drive.
The room was sparking clean, and had been vacuumed that morning, as far as I could tell. Also the water heater was obnoxiously efficient, such that I spent extra time in the shower, just 'cuz I could.
Oddly, I don't really remember any details of meals eaten or events attended, though I'm certain we watched fireworks somewhere. But those memories are so clouded by the events at our "luxury" hotel, that I simply cannot seem to recover them, and that bothers me. I nearly always remember good meals and times, but not from this experience. It's a consternation.
Someday, maybe, there will be a neurological instrument that can restore memories. I hope I have enough credits to hire it out.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
$Control$
I am something of a control freak when it comes to money. I realize -- and have for a long time -- how very irritating that can be to family members, and I sympathize, somewhat. However, if I were not a control freak, now that my annual income has basically been halved, we would not have been able to keep our home, and would likely be in public housing, dodging meth mongers and bullets, at any given time.
Thus it is a source of consternation to me when people are loose with cash, and have little knowledge and no control, for the most part. I was divorced at the tender age of 23 years, and remarried around four years later. In that span of time, my checkbook was out of balance once in the amount of $0.05. That's a nickel for those of you who don't follow cash-flow charts. It took me a couple of days, but I finally worked out where the mistake had been made, thank God, because then I could sleep again.
Several years ago, I was confronted by a co-worker with the old saw "time is money," and -- for the first time ever -- I really put some thought into the saying, and came up with this core philosophy: Time is not money. The exact opposite is true. Money is not the paper bills you receive from the bank and spend at retail outlets. Money is not the gold stored in Fort Knox, up yon in Kentucky. And it absolutely is not that seemingly magic plastic in your purse or wallet. Money is all of the time that I am forced to spend away from my home and family at labor for an employer. The numbered paper bills and credit cards are mere pale representations of the time I must spend at my job, keeping the earth spinning on its axis.
Thus, one of my core philosophies: Money Is Time.
When one desires a particular manufactured item or a nice meal, one must decide if it is worth the time spent gathering the funds necessary. When I was employed by Tate & Lyle, I worked a good deal of overtime so that I could pay cash for my vacations. And we had some outrageous vacations that were worth all of the time it took to pay for them. Our hiatuses were paid in full before we left the house, and if the credit card was used, it was because it had been prepaid.
In my in-between years -- my early to mid-twenties when I was a swinging bachelor -- I lived for a short time in Cougar Town. I had a tendency to date women of a certain age, because I found that, mostly, they were less pretentious, and approached life with a cynical eye forward, as I did.
At one point I was seeing a woman who was more than a decade older than I, and had two sons, thirteen and seventeen. I had received from work, as a safety award, a $50 gift certificate to the restaurant of my choice. I chose Chesapeake's, a Knoxville seafood emporium, given to fresh seafood and excellent service. I left Athens with my gift certificate and $150, cash, in my possession.
The meal consisted of cocktails, an appetizer, our chosen entrées with appropriate wine, and dessert. When the repast was done, the waiter brought the check, and I dug out of my wallet the certificate and necessary cash to take care of the bill and tip. My date, however, was absolutely incredulous that the gift certificate had not covered the cost in its entirety. I looked at her. Then I asked how long it had been since anyone had taken her to a decent place to eat.
She admitted that it had been some time since she had been confronted with an atmosphere of Chesapeake's caliber. I told her then that, when I intended to have a dinner the likes of which we had just finished, along with a tag-along date, I never stepped out of the house with less than $200, ever. She was flabbergasted. I then told her that $200 was always more than enough to cover the check, but better too much than not enough. However,had the money not been in my possession, we would not have gone there. Foreknowledge of the potential expenditure is part of the control aspect.
And, of course, I always kept a running total of my available funds pinned to the bulletin board in my head. I still do, but the funds are less impressive these days, so there are a lot fewer meals out than there were, back in the day. Vacation, of course, is a distant dream, as I believe in taking enough cash to burn a wet mule.
Which brings me to Exhibit B.
More than twenty years ago, my Young Bride and I took our first trip to Walt Disney World. We had friends living in Orlando, and the plan was that we would spend three nights in a local inn, then four with Jim and Peytyn. Also, the host couple planned to accompany us on our third day at WDW, spent in the Magic Kingdom.
We had an okay day there, and when it got on toward time for dinner, we shopped about for an eatery. The Liberty Tree Tavern looked workable, so Jim and I stepped into the foyer to look at the menu. When my best friend got a gander at the prices, he got that look on his face. "I can't afford this," he said. Remember, he was not on vacation. I asked to see the menu.
It was gourmet fare, surely, with escargot on the appetizer menu and various types of steak and seafood for entrées. I did some quick math in my head and said, "Buddy, this one's on me." Let's not forget that this couple was putting us up for several days, gratis. That philosophy of having enough money to light up a creature of equine heritage paid off. And, let me say, without hesitation, that this favor has been paid back many times over in the intervening decades. That's how it works.
But, had I not been able to afford the meal, we could have easily eaten hot dogs at Casey's, or burgers at Cosmic Ray's. The ability to do simple multiplication also helps in the arena of control.
And if I ever have that kind of cash again, trust me, off we'll go. But I won't leave the hacienda until I have the money/time my hands; 'cuz that's the kind of control freak I am.
Thus it is a source of consternation to me when people are loose with cash, and have little knowledge and no control, for the most part. I was divorced at the tender age of 23 years, and remarried around four years later. In that span of time, my checkbook was out of balance once in the amount of $0.05. That's a nickel for those of you who don't follow cash-flow charts. It took me a couple of days, but I finally worked out where the mistake had been made, thank God, because then I could sleep again.
Several years ago, I was confronted by a co-worker with the old saw "time is money," and -- for the first time ever -- I really put some thought into the saying, and came up with this core philosophy: Time is not money. The exact opposite is true. Money is not the paper bills you receive from the bank and spend at retail outlets. Money is not the gold stored in Fort Knox, up yon in Kentucky. And it absolutely is not that seemingly magic plastic in your purse or wallet. Money is all of the time that I am forced to spend away from my home and family at labor for an employer. The numbered paper bills and credit cards are mere pale representations of the time I must spend at my job, keeping the earth spinning on its axis.
Thus, one of my core philosophies: Money Is Time.
When one desires a particular manufactured item or a nice meal, one must decide if it is worth the time spent gathering the funds necessary. When I was employed by Tate & Lyle, I worked a good deal of overtime so that I could pay cash for my vacations. And we had some outrageous vacations that were worth all of the time it took to pay for them. Our hiatuses were paid in full before we left the house, and if the credit card was used, it was because it had been prepaid.
In my in-between years -- my early to mid-twenties when I was a swinging bachelor -- I lived for a short time in Cougar Town. I had a tendency to date women of a certain age, because I found that, mostly, they were less pretentious, and approached life with a cynical eye forward, as I did.
At one point I was seeing a woman who was more than a decade older than I, and had two sons, thirteen and seventeen. I had received from work, as a safety award, a $50 gift certificate to the restaurant of my choice. I chose Chesapeake's, a Knoxville seafood emporium, given to fresh seafood and excellent service. I left Athens with my gift certificate and $150, cash, in my possession.
The meal consisted of cocktails, an appetizer, our chosen entrées with appropriate wine, and dessert. When the repast was done, the waiter brought the check, and I dug out of my wallet the certificate and necessary cash to take care of the bill and tip. My date, however, was absolutely incredulous that the gift certificate had not covered the cost in its entirety. I looked at her. Then I asked how long it had been since anyone had taken her to a decent place to eat.
She admitted that it had been some time since she had been confronted with an atmosphere of Chesapeake's caliber. I told her then that, when I intended to have a dinner the likes of which we had just finished, along with a tag-along date, I never stepped out of the house with less than $200, ever. She was flabbergasted. I then told her that $200 was always more than enough to cover the check, but better too much than not enough. However,had the money not been in my possession, we would not have gone there. Foreknowledge of the potential expenditure is part of the control aspect.
And, of course, I always kept a running total of my available funds pinned to the bulletin board in my head. I still do, but the funds are less impressive these days, so there are a lot fewer meals out than there were, back in the day. Vacation, of course, is a distant dream, as I believe in taking enough cash to burn a wet mule.
Which brings me to Exhibit B.
More than twenty years ago, my Young Bride and I took our first trip to Walt Disney World. We had friends living in Orlando, and the plan was that we would spend three nights in a local inn, then four with Jim and Peytyn. Also, the host couple planned to accompany us on our third day at WDW, spent in the Magic Kingdom.
We had an okay day there, and when it got on toward time for dinner, we shopped about for an eatery. The Liberty Tree Tavern looked workable, so Jim and I stepped into the foyer to look at the menu. When my best friend got a gander at the prices, he got that look on his face. "I can't afford this," he said. Remember, he was not on vacation. I asked to see the menu.
It was gourmet fare, surely, with escargot on the appetizer menu and various types of steak and seafood for entrées. I did some quick math in my head and said, "Buddy, this one's on me." Let's not forget that this couple was putting us up for several days, gratis. That philosophy of having enough money to light up a creature of equine heritage paid off. And, let me say, without hesitation, that this favor has been paid back many times over in the intervening decades. That's how it works.
But, had I not been able to afford the meal, we could have easily eaten hot dogs at Casey's, or burgers at Cosmic Ray's. The ability to do simple multiplication also helps in the arena of control.
And if I ever have that kind of cash again, trust me, off we'll go. But I won't leave the hacienda until I have the money/time my hands; 'cuz that's the kind of control freak I am.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Big Comedy From (Some) Small People
I am a nut for comedy. Some of my favorite films are "Bringing Up Baby," featuring Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn, as well as "What's Up Doc?," one of the films it inspired. Also, Dudley Moore, as "Arthur" is an all-time great in my perfect world. Of all the cable channels available, Comedy Central is one of my top picks, along with ESPN and Discover, mostly because they both have amusing content at any given time. Those of you who are fans of "MythBusters" and "Pardon The Interruption" know from whence I emerge.
I have seen a respectable number of live comedy shows over the years. My eyes were opened in the early '80s when some smart person in Knoxville first opened a place called The Funny Bone, a low-rent comedy club located behind an unpainted furniture store on Kingston Pike. That was my first experience with live, stand-up comedy, and I fell in love with it to the point that I actually took a stab at it once on open mic night. While I didn't totally bomb, I can see with clear 20-20 hindsight that I am not cut out for the comedy stage. I'm not adept enough, in the verbal sense, and I have a tendency to go ugly-sarcastic more quickly that I ought when heckled.
However, let me tell you about the big-time names I've seen through the years.
Years ago, in the early '90s, my Young Bride and I saw Paula Poundstone at the Comedy Catch, in Chattanooga. We also saw Pam Stone there, she who played Dauber Dybinski's girlfriend on the TV show, "Coach." At that show, we were seated front and center, and Ms. Stone quizzed us and bantered openly with us for improv material. Those were both very good shows. I also saw, at the Comedy Catch, my high school buddy Bart, and his comedy troupe that worked out of St. Petersburg, Florida, in the waning days of his service in the United States Navy.
In the early part of the past decade, my Young Bride was visiting her sister in Las Vegas. My sister-in-law, Amy, called one afternoon to inform me that she had scored tickets to see Kathleen Madigan at Harrah's Casino, and they would attend that very evening. I called Amy ugly name, and charged her with getting me an autographed T-shirt. When my Young Bride returned, T-shirt in hand, I almost forgave them.
However, only a few months later, I learned that Ms. Madigan would be headlining at Zanies in Nashville. I was, at the time, still employed by Tate & Lyle, and had ready cash and loads of vacation to burn, so I nearly ripped my hip pocket off to nab my VISA for procurement of tickets. It was at that show (photo above -- my autographed T-shirt in evidence) that we first saw a youngish man named Keith Alberstadt (It's Pronounced Jenkins). Now, opening acts are always a roll of the dice at comedy clubs, as the entrepreneurs normally rely on local "talent." This is understood; however, we were blown away by Mr. Jenkins and his observational humor.
Turns out he is a graduate of Vanderbilt University, which doesn't suffer fools, and has since moved from Nashville to Manhattan, where he writes, now, for Weekend Update on SNL. He has also been across the oceans to entertain our military troops several times, and appeared on David Letterman. All of these things can be learned on his website, keithcomedy.com.
And, lest we forget, the trip was made to see Kathleen Madigan, whose career I had followed since the early 1990s. Smart, self-deprecating, and loves to rip on her Irish-rooted family (something we have in common). She was rip-roaring funny, and my diaphragm hurt for a couple of days afterward.
At the post-show line-up, I got a photo (above), and a hug from Kathleen, which I still can feel when put my feeble mind to work. She's hot, don't you know? And little. She must get the bulk of her clothes from Gap Kids. I also wrote a column about it for the local rag, which she posted on her website, kathleenmadigan.com.
Since that show, we have seen Keith three times in Knoxville at the club that began as The Comedy Zone, and has evolved into Sidesplitters. We have also seen Blake Clark there, twice, and I acted as a host for a charity golf tournament sponsored by Mr. Clark, who is the nicest, most down-to-earth guy ever to be forced to live in the insanity that is Los Angeles. After the first time we saw him, we waited in the bar at The Comedy Zone. He had gone to his hotel to change clothes, as the lights cause anyone to perspire profusely.
When he arrived in the lounge, he and the Young Bride had old home week, because they both originate from Georgia (the state, not the former Soviet country), and exchanged pleasantries about places only they knew.
At Mr. Clark's golf tournament, I played babysitter to Tom Parks, one of my favorites from the late '80s and HBO's "Not Necessarily The News." The night before the golf began, we were introduced at a hotel off the Cedar Bluff exit. We chatted, as middle-aged men will, and I was explaining to Mr. Parks that, if I began acting erratically while on the golf course, he should instruct me to drink my juice, which would be in the cart with us. He rolled his eyes at me, and withdrew an automatic syringe from his right pocket. As co-diabetics, we watched out for each other.
Since that time, we have seen Ron White in concert twice, once at the Civic Auditorium, and once at the Tennessee Theatre, both shows rib-graspingly hilarious. We also saw Lewis Black at the Tennessee Theatre, and his anger-inspired, physically demonstrative comedy was even better live than it is on "The Daily Show" and HBO.
Recently, I got notification from Keith Alberstadt ('cuz I'm on his mailing list) that he would be appearing in Knoxville yet again, and we should come see him, which we did. He's as good as ever, though he seems to be misplacing more and more of the hair from the front of his head, which he covers more than adequately in his program (the "losing-his hair" subject, not his balding head). Now, while at Sidesplitters, we learned that only the next week, none other than Bobcat Goldthwait would be appearing there at Sidesplitters.
Let me iterate, here, Bobcat is one of my top favorites -- ever. His HBO special, "Is He Like That All The Time?"(1989) is a remote tosser at my house to this day.
Okay, I don't have that great-paying job anymore (which, we understand, I only had for 27 years, so no great loss), but -- come on -- it's Bobcat. So I jinked a little here, juked a little there, and came up with the cash for three tickets down front, stage right. Bobcat, if you know who he is, has a history of interaction with people near the stage, and he had a blast talking to The Boy, because he's eighteen years old, and looks about thirteen. He also had a heckler get on his bad side about half-way through the show, so he had a mid-show snack, and I cried, it was so funny.
After the show, of course, we stuck around to see if he would emerge in the lounge. He did, and -- you can believe this or not -- he was as gracious and nice as any celebrity with whom I have been confronted. Well, he didn't hug me like Kathleen did, but -- hey -- I didn't ask.
And, of course, the photographic evidence of our meeting is on my blog page now, 'cuz it's Bobcat, for God's sake! Notice the similarity of our eye-wear, and how very tiny a person he is. I never realized, but he may be one of those leprechauns that Ms. Madigan talks about in her latest Showtime special, "Gone Madigan (oh, my God, she's still hot)."
Anyway, it was great, and I will remember it much longer than Bobcat does, naturally.
I can hardly wait until Keith AlberJenkins shows up again. I'll go. It's comedy, and I like it.
Friday, December 31, 2010
My Continuing Education
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.
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.
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?
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