While flipping through the notebook I always carry, found this in my near-illegible scrawl:
Convertable driving across bridge. Pelican flies over, poops on windshield. If you don’t know, pelicans poop A LOT. Windshield covered, driver turns on wipers in panic. It spreads and flies over windshield and into car, splashing on passengers. Panic and hijinx ensue.
The hell is wrong with me?
If the internet gets sentience it’s first sentence will be, “There’s this thing I don’t like so I told everyone I don’t like it then people were mean but they’re stupid ’cause I can say anything and I don’t like that and why can’t everything be about meeeeee.”
Then the bombs go off.
Try not to paraphrase Darth Vader while in meetings. Examples include:
The following is not an appropriate email response to being late for work:
I was grabbed by some terrorist group. See, they’ve got this megalomaniacal leader with a really bad accent who wanted to pluck out my eyes. Because then he could serve them to Bosnian Fur Traders in exchange for the last piece of an obscure Peruvian map. It’s supposed to lead them to some tomb where some dude is buried. Oh, and have a mystical, all-powerful weapon. But if you watch enough movies, you know they’ll fail at the last minute due to some stoic anti-hero and their wise-cracking sidekick, so I’m not that worried.
But thanks for asking.
I have no idea how I remain employed.
You know which of your addictions holds sway when you think, “I’d be drinking but I’m out of cigarettes.”
It’s a day. Work is work and you plow through, the mindless drone comforting and infuriating in it’s repetitive boredom, when the call happens. Your Uncle has passed. You disagreed on politics, you had different visions of what was supposed to be, but he was a smart, rational man. Once you got past the propaganda chain emails, you could have a discussion. And you’d end up with a better view, seeing another side an understanding that your way is not always the best.
You’d like to think he saw it the way.
He was never old until the past year. Then, slowly, he aged. He couldn’t walk as upright, but he could still work.
And he aged.
Breathing became labored, but not enough that he couldn’t walk with his wife.
And he aged.
Illness. In and out of hospitals. His breathing became more labored, things ignored suddenly an issue. But he could still write, and he could talk, and he didn’t let you forget that it was all a gift.
And he aged.
Assisted living. Hospice. Machines to help the breathing, morphine to dull the pain. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.”
And he aged.
The machines are now quiet. He is silent. No more stories of misspent youth and how “you youngsters” didn’t know how to get things done. No more asides of things your parents did, replicas of things you did, and why they were so upset. No more advice, sometimes silly, sometimes helpful, always comforting.
We hadn’t spoken in a while, and now I can’t. An unanswered email stares back at me, silently judging.
More news. A friend from high school. Her daughter died in a car accident. She was 12. I didn’t now her, had not spoken to her mother in almost 20 years, but it still hurts. That’s a level of pain I pray is never visited upon me. It’s something I can’t fathom. But it somehow dulls my own pain.
I feel guilty for writing that.
So now I sit on the couch, not drinking, petting the dog and writing this with no poignancy, no end. Just a quiet house and my thoughts.
There has been a pair of brand new, still in the box Chuck Taylor’s in the back of my closet for over a decade. Put them back for safe-keeping because the old ones aren’t quite broken in yet.
Two cups of coffee, one Red Bull, a 16oz. Coca-Cola, a mid-sized pack of beef jerky and a Baby Ruth candy bar and should not be consumed within a two-hour time period. Gastrointestinal calamities aside, the caffeine to chronology ratio may result in you turning up a song very, very loud and dancing on your desk while shouting, “Yeah, can you feel that shit!”
So last month I put this on Twitter:
It seemed to resonate with people, and that gave me a nice feeling. Now, however, you call tell the world you’re a Sparkly Code Princess on either a t-shirt or a mug.
Yeah, I made a Zazzle store. Go shop now. Or not. I’m not the boss of you.
Work bio, take three.
Timothy Asher was born a poor dirt farmer in the fields of Los Angeles. At age 4, he built his first computer, utilizing spare parts, earthworms, and a stolen credit card. By 7, he was a premier hacker, utilizing the original definition as “one who cuts or severs with repeated irregular or unskillful blows,” because how else does on farm dirt? At age 12 he was accepted into the prestigious California State Juvenile Correctional Facility, where in 4 years he excelled in avoiding gang rape.
Upon his release, there’s a 20 year gap where he’s off the grid. Jesus also had this gap, so we can only assume their circumstances were similar.
Asher reappeared over 13 years ago when he took employment as a janitor/ninja. He has shown initiative, drive, and a fine eye for creating forts out of just about any materials laying around.
In his spare time, he writes bios.
Work did not like my last bio and asked me to resubmit.
This was my second take.
Timothy Asher began his career over 13 years ago. At the time he was a bright, fresh-faced lad who wanted to change the world with gumption, a smile, and 3.6 cubic tons of Semtex. Since that third one was illegal, he opted to instead begin work on this new invention called “the internet” and not, as originally planned, blow the Moon just enough out of orbit so it would spin into the sun, thus averting the disaster when the Moon hatches and the dragons come.
Once firmly established in the company, Asher now uses hugs and understanding to create innovative, compelling products. Some people call them “choke holds and psychological torture,” but they are HUGS AND UNDERSTANDING.
In his spare time, Asher collects various slimes, molds, and fungi just like his mentor and confidant, Egon Spengler.
Let him hug and understand you.
If the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, I’m unsure if work is crazy or if it’s me.
