One of the least appealing aspects of adulthood is having to acknowledge the world for what it is and not turn it into something it should be.  Kids don’t see the world for what it is – kids see the world as a huge playground.

Case in point: when I was 10 years old, my friend John and I accompanied John’s mother to the local supermarket.  To John’s mother, the supermarket was a place to purchase groceries.  For John and little me, it was an amusement park – complete with bumper cars (which the adults would only see as grocery carts) and racing speedways (which the adults call “aisles”).

With John’s mother wandering the aisle in search of whatever, John and I devised a new game.  John would pilot a grocery cart and I would ride shotgun on the side of the cart.  John would power this vehicle to zoom up and down the speedways (or aisles, if you will) with the idea of trying to dislodge me from my roost on the side of the cart.  For a pair of 10 year olds, this was a perfectly logical activity.  (Odd, but even today, many years after the fact, it still seems like a good idea!)

Initially, the game worked brilliantly.  John would push the cart at Chuck Yeager-worthy speeds and I clinged to it without losing my grip.  At the end of the aisle, John stomped down and broke the propulsion of the cart’s thrust – at this point I sometimes jumped off or sometimes held on.  Amazingly, there were no shoppers or supermarket clerks to interrupt our play.

Naturally, things got out of hand.  John raced and pushed the cart at a ridiculous speed and then (either accidentally or otherwise) let go of the cart.  At that particular moment, John’s mother was moseying around the far end of the aisle.  Imagine her surprise at being greeted by the sight of John at the opposite end of the aisle, sweaty and huffing, while a runaway cart featuring me as its shotgun passenger came barreling in her direction.

The cart began to veer wildly at a strange angle and in panic I jumped from it, causing the cart to propel faster along its erratic path.  John’s mother watched in total horror as the cart careened into an endcap display of Hostess pastries – causing a shower of Ring-Dings, Ding-Dongs, Hostess Cupcakes and Fruit Pies.  At this point, the hitherto absent store management made themselves known and came racing to the site of the pastry catastrophe.

And as I recall, John’s mother’s grocery takeout for that day seemed to have an excess of dented Hostess pastries boxes.  Not surprisingly, she never invited us to go grocery shopping with her again.

To paraphrase Gene Rayburn, my boss is so dumb...

My mother lives outside of Hartford, Connecticut, and one Saturday morning she asked me to drive her to a dental appointment in White Plains, New York.  Not because there is a lack of dentists in Connecticut, but because my family is originally from New York and we kept our regular dentist after moving from the state.

However, time was not our ally that morning and we were running late.  As with any person who is behind the time, the natural reaction is to step on the gas.  So we were zooming down the Merritt Parkway and from the right corner of my eye I noticed a blur on a hill overlooking the road.  The blur looked like a grey car with flashing lights on its roof.  You get the idea.

About three minutes later, I saw that blur in my rear view mirror.  Its lights were flashing and my super-duper hearing could pick up the faint trace of a distant siren.  “Ma, we’re going to be pulled over,” I said to my mother.

“Why?” she asked, not aware that I parted company with the speed limit.  After I informed her what to expect, my mother suddenly showed a side of her personality that I never saw before: a flair for drama.  Having sat up with perfect posture for the trip, my mother slowly began to rock to her right sight and crawl into a half-fetal position.  She then rested her head on the window of her passenger-side door and began to look ill.

I pulled the car to the side of the road and parked directly on the thick white line separating the lane from the shoulder from the parkway.  This would require the cop to approach us from the passenger side – which he did, first greeting my mother.  The cop’s initial view was of this silver-haired lady scrunched up in what appeared to be lethal pain; her eyes looked beyond the officer and searched the clouds above, perhaps in the hope of spotting St. Peter at his Pearly Gates toll station.

“Do you realize how fast you were going?” the cop said to me, trying not to look at my mother.  “You were going 78 miles per hour.”

“I am sorry, officer,” I said.  “I am taking my mother to a medical appointment in New York.”

My mother then let out a groan not heard since the Prophet Jeremiah saw this visions brought to reality.  The cop stepped back slightly, looked down at my mother, and then back at me.  “So why didn’t you call for an ambulance?” he asked.

“Because it is not a life-threatening illness,” I said.  My mother promptly groaned anew with gusto, as if to contradict my statement.  “And I don’t want to take an ambulance out of service for use as a private taxi.” 

My mother let off another fatalistic groan and then buried her head in her chest.  The cop, obviously not eager to be audience to her perceived demise, quickly did the license-and-registration bit with me.  I suspect he didn’t go through the usual procedure of running checks, as he returned almost as quickly as he left.  I was given a firm warning and shooed off.  In a way, I am surprised I wasn't arrested for attempted matricide.

Once the cop car was out of sight, my mother resumed her perfect posture and smoothed out her hair.  She offered a proper motherly scolding of driving too fast.

“Well, the cop should get his facts right,” I complained.  “I wasn’t going 78 miles per hour.”

“How fast were you going?” asked my mother.

“I was going 82 miles per hour,” I answered.

We didn’t converse for the remainder of the trip.

Office noise is killing me slowly...

Currently (Monday at 2:50pm ET), I am listening to the sounds of dozens of fingers scattered about the vast expanse of my office as they pound the keyboards of their computers.  I assume the dozens of fingers belong to different people and are not part of one person’s hands (either that or the human resources department neglected to inform us that the multi-limbed Hindu deity Shiva is now working as a typist in our company).

At the far corner of the floor, some women are croaking and laughing about something (most likely whether they'll meet again in thunder, lightning or in rain). 

Behind me, our office intern has headphones covering his ears.  They don’t cover them very well, as some of his music is wafting across the floor in to my ears.  And I am not getting the good stuff, either.  He is swaying to whatever beat is filling his eardrums.  I am getting the residue of it and sounds like that blah-blah noise made by the adult characters in the Charlie Brown cartoons.

Opposite my desk is a closed door to a conference room that clicks in asymmetrical rhythms.  Why it cannot sit still in its frame like a good door is not clear.  It either needs an oil can or a mule to kick it down.  Someone is in the conference room, so I can’t leave the door open.  I believe it may be occupied by the weirdo at the other end of the office who only uses the phone to yell at his wife.  No, I spoke to soon – he is present, wheezing about something or other (he is in a good mood – I guess the wife stayed out of his way today).

Then there is the girl with the flip-flops.  When she walks around, it sounds like a horse is clomping around the stable.  She needs a blacksmith.

From a sonic perspective, this office is like a Jacques Tati movie...except it is not funny in a French sort of way.

Some years ago, I was in New Orleans to speak at a business trade conference (obviously the conference organizers were in desperate need of talent if I was being pegged to work the stage).  Of course, in the pre-Katrina days no one ever went to New Orleans strictly for business purposes.  And being of the philosophical nature that hedonism is therapeutic, I opted to get to the city a few days ahead of the conference to ensure this trip didn’t devolve into an “all work and no play” situation.

I was strolling on Bourbon Street, popping in and out of the various tourist trap boutiques, when a somewhat disheveled young man meekly approached me.  His story was somewhat rickety: he was stuck in the French Quarter without money and his car’s gas tank was bare.  He needed some money to fill his tank and motor away to his home across the Mississippi.

As panhandling tales go, this one was not among the best.  Still, I was in an uncommonly good mood and fortunate circumstances blessed with some extra dollars in my pocket.  I gave the fella a few bucks.  He seemed genuinely touched and I was genuinely touched at his display.

Then he asked me if I was a local.  I told him that I was visiting the city for a business conference.  He asked if I liked New Orleans and I affirmed that I enjoyed it a lot.

And then he asked me if I liked sex.  At that point, I realized my generosity and goodwill was probably not put to the most productive use.  Not expecting the question and not willing to discuss my libido on Bourbon Street, I smiled and stated: “Sometimes.”

My plan was to exit the scene, but the guy then stepped closer to me.  Perhaps a little too close for comfort.  He informed me that he thought I was attractive and then suggested that we either retire to my hotel or go back to his place.  (Filling the gas tank to get to his place wasn’t mentioned.)  Then stepping even closer, he suggested that we engage in an activity that the authors of the Book of Leviticus would categorize as a one-way ticket to eternal damnation.

Now how was I going to get out a situation like that while remaining polite?  After all, there is no profit in rudeness – and I was already working at a financial loss in this situation.

My solution came quickly.  I looked at the guy, looked up at the bright sunny sky, looked back at him and gave a Ronald Reagan-worthy grin and headshake.  “I’m sorry,” I said.  “But it’s just too nice of a day to be inside.”

The guy stepped back, blinked twice, and then stared at me dumbfounded for about 45 seconds.  “Is that it?” he finally said.

“It appears that way,” I answered.

He then mumbled a goodbye and gave a half-salute as I exited down Bourbon Street.  The moral to the story, I suppose, is that I kept my morals.  However, the guy kept my money.  I wonder who came out ahead on that transaction?

I tend to approach cooking in a fairly reckless manner, which has done little to enhance the appetites of those around me.

I first learned how to cook in eighth grade.  The meals were not exactly five-star cuisine (watery applesauce you can drink with a straw and chocolate chip cookies that made great doorstops), but I had a way of making sure the cooking process wasn't boring (iincluding my opening a cabinet door on my friend Brett’s nose and flooding the classroom sink and the surrounding floor after neglecting to turn off a faucet).

My subsequent adventures in adult culinary experiments have either created problems to property (my initial foray into pan-broiling a hamburger set off a smoke alarm) or family (too much garlic in my lasagna, which I made for my mother’s pleasure, nearly resulted in pasta-induced matricide).  Even the mention of my star dish, octopus stew, has a way of putting people off food.

To spare myself and those around me from further mishaps, I tend to limit my kitchen forays into commentary (along the lines of “Mmmm, that smells good”) or light chores (such as pouring water or uncorking wine – although the latter has created an occasional splatter).  Usually, I am welcomed as a guest at the table than the founder of the feast.  And, honestly, I cannot complain about that – being the one in the apron tends to give the impression of “run away” instead of “come and get it.”

When I was in fourth grade (circa 1974), the principal of my elementary school happily called the kiddies into an assembly with a grand announcement: a suggestion box was created for the students to actively participate in the governing of the school.  The suggestion box would hang outside of the principal’s office and anyone with a bright idea was welcome.  All you needed to do was write out the idea on a piece of paper, fold it up, and drop it in the box.

About three days later, the principal called another school-wide assembly.  This time, she wasn’t so happy.  It seems the suggestion box was being removed because it was overstuffed with too many notions along the lines of “I’d like to see all of the girls in the school walk around in the nude.”  (That wasn’t my idea – it is always disconcerting when someone comes up with a good idea faster than I can.)  The principal then spent a ridiculous amount of time berating the students for not taking the suggestion box seriously.

But really, why the anger?  Did the principal genuinely believe a bunch of fourth graders would come up with suggestions that could meaningfully impact the schools’ fiscal, staffing or facility needs?  And even if the students’ ideas were closer in spirit to Benny Hill than Maria Montessori, so what?  Why solicit ideas if you will only get angry with the input?

Years after that incident, I was on the editorial staff of a banking magazine.  Our editor called a staff meeting to discuss the cover of an edition – it seemed the color design for the cover was imperfect and the resulting printout looked dreadful.  The editor asked everyone present: “What do you think of this cover?”

Everyone answered the same way, noting that the design was unattractive.  When it was my turn, I answered that I felt the story that received cover status was not strong enough to warrant that level of exposure.  I then pointed out six other stories in the magazine which I felt were of greater importance to the readers and which may have been better candidates for cover status.  My editor boiled and afterwards scolded me for daring to question his judgment on the cover story.  To which I said:  “Well, you asked me what I thought of the cover.  I told what I thought.  If you don’t want my opinion, don’t ask for it.”  I left that job five months later (I would’ve gone sooner except I couldn’t locate another job earlier and the editor’s promises of firing me never came to fruition).

If you are seeking opinions solely as an affirmation of your own judgment, you are an insecure fool.  If you are seeking opinions but then turn around and belittle them, you are a bastard/bitch (confirm your gender and take your epithet).  And if you are seeking opinions but wind up ignoring them, you’re wasting everyone’s time and space.

Bad writing is like bad cooking – you know it immediately upon impact and it is never tasty – unless you hold it up to ridicule, of course.

Here is an unedited text that is supposed to go into the publication where I am currently laboring.  I won’t ID the writer here, but let’s just say this is actually one of her better efforts! 

<<< 

Use and Abuse of Web Videos - Signed, Anonymous

Former presidential candidate Al Gore’s documentary “An Inconvenient Truth” made waves this summer as both a blockbuster hit and a requiem on the state of global warming, but last week a controversy surrounding the movie surfaced, putting a public affairs/PR firm in the hot seat: A video spoof of Gore’s film shown on YouTube.com that was allegedly created by a 29-year-old Beverly Hills resident has been traced back to a computer registered with Washington D.C.-based DCI Group.  While the firm has declined to comment on why press communications with the supposed video maker appear to originate in their office, the news raised eyebrows all around, especially considering that DCI counts once-environmental-offender Exxon Mobile Corp. among its clients.

Al Gore and DCI Group do have one thing in common, though.  Both have used the Internet as a tool to position themselves in the global warming debate.  Gore and his film distributor Paramount Classics used a Web video on YouTube.com to generate word-of-mouth buzz before the release of the film, while DCI Group has used its opinion Web site Tech Central Station to raise doubts about the legitimacy of global warming.  The conclusion: Web videos are playing an increasing role in PR, adding yet another dimension to new-media channels.

>>>

Okay, now let's play the copy editor from hell and dissect this inert body:

“Former presidential candidate Al Gore’s documentary “An Inconvenient Truth” made waves this summer as both a blockbuster hit and a requiem on the state of global warming, but last week a controversy surrounding the movie surfaced, putting a public affairs/PR firm in the hot seat”

Two clichés in one sentence (made waves and the hot seat), plus aa bizarre definition of his film (how can you have a requiem for something that is still alive?).  

“A video spoof of Gore’s film shown on YouTube.com that was allegedly created by a 29-year-old Beverly Hills resident has been traced back to a computer registered with Washington D.C.-based DCI Group.  While the firm has declined to comment on why press communications with the supposed video maker appear to originate in their office, the news raised eyebrows all around, especially considering that DCI counts once-environmental-offender Exxon Mobile Corp. among its clients.”

More clichés (the reference to “raised eyebrows all around” makes it seem like a population of Groucho Marx imitators have taken over).  And is there any importance that the spoofer was a 29-year-old Beverly Hills resident?  And how about “once-environmental-offender Exxon Mobile Corp.” (Exxon is in the cell phone business now?).

“Al Gore and DCI Group do have one thing in common, though.  Both have used the Internet as a tool to position themselves in the global warming debate.  Gore and his film distributor Paramount Classics used a Web video on YouTube.com to generate word-of-mouth buzz before the release of the film, while DCI Group has used its opinion Web site Tech Central Station to raise doubts about the legitimacy of global warming.  The conclusion: Web videos are playing an increasing role in PR, adding yet another dimension to new-media channels.”

The conclusion: if the writer of this story was the navigator on the Santa Maria, Columbus would've discovered Spain.

I need to thank my friend Jason for bringing me back to God – because whenever Jason is driving and I am his passenger, I inevitably find myself in direct communications with the Almighty (my conversation usually runs along the paths of “Please don’t let me die...”).

Jason has a remarkable approach to the road: in his book, a green light means you step on the gas, a yellow light means you step harder on the gas, and a red light means you bang the gas pedal to the floor.  I am not concerned that he’s breaking the speed limit – I am concerned he is breaking the sound barrier.

Jason is also eccentric when it comes to getting from Point A to Point B.  He prefers the scenic route, but I am usually unable to enjoy the scenery because (1) I am trying to rehearse my alibi in the event a state trooper pulls us over, (2) I am trying to decipher the logic in going from Tenth Avenue to First Avenue by way of the Delaware Water Gap, and (3) everything beyond the window is a supersonic blur, so the scenery ultimately resembles an Impressionist painting left out in the rain.  But in fairness, Jason actually gets to Point B with minutes to spare – if only because of his Chuck Yeager approach to transportation. 

And yet, in the years he has driven me about, we’ve never been in an accident.  We were pulled over once by a New York cop because Jason made an illegal right turn on Second Avenue (though in fairness, I would’ve made the same mistake).  Plus, I clearly survived many trips with him to ride another day.

Which means that either my fears are not worthy of consideration or the power of prayer does work.  Amen!