If burgers were music, green chile would be the electric guitar.
Your daily metaphor
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Category Archives: Observations
A message to the Gatorade marketing team.
I was in the grocery store yesterday. My shopping list had three items: beer, tea, and Gatorade. (I was thirsty.)
I found the tea no problem and then went over to the gatorade section. I was standing there, slowly going cross-eyed, when a helpful employee asked if she might be of some help. I started with an easy one, a question I already knew the answer to, but just had to ask anyway. “Don’t they have the half-gallon size anymore?” The gallon jugs were still there, but they’re too big to drink from while driving. They had the quarts, but out in the desert with the top down I go trough those things awfully fast. It costs more, and there’s more packaging cluttering up my floorboards and eventually destroying the Earth.
“No,” the friendly woman replied. “They have those, now.” She gestured to the eight-packs of pint sized bottles. Take my objections to the quart, multiply by two, and add a handle.
Somehow we managed to converse about the changing world of Gatorade sizes for a bit, then I asked my real question. “What the hell does a Riptide Rush taste like?” I was holding a bottle of purple liquid, and there was not a single word on the label to give any clue whatsoever as to what that liquid might do to my taste buds. (Answer: grape. Grape, Riptide Rush. Obvious in retrospect.) Not only are half the different concoctions not identified in any helpful way, there are now different series of meaningless flavors. There’s Gatorade AM, Gatorade Xtreme, and so forth. Presumably the AM is morning-friendly flavors. (I was hoping those had caffeine.) I think the real difference between the different series of flavors is the opacity of the liquid inside. Apparently as the day progresses one is inclined to increase opacity in one’s beverages.
In the end, the only meaningful clue to the flavors within was the color of the liquid. Despite the fact that Riptides are more well-known for killing swimmers than for providing a pleasing drinking experience (maybe it should be ocean water flavor — the last flavor a drowning man ever experiences), I went for the rush. Then I found one a very transparent orange-colored one mysteriously labeled “tangerine”. It was tangeriny, but way too sweet. I think that’s the innovation behind all these flavors, a lot more sugar. So much for being a thirst quencher.
The flavor I really wanted was Gatorade flavor, from back when there was just the one flavor. I scanned the yellow-green offerings for something like “original recipe”, but I was out of luck. Maybe it’s been renamed “Tangential Skylark” or something equally informative.
MY kind of NASCAR
If I was in charge of NASCAR, there’d be an 8-track in every car, with a sound system equal to the task of being audible in that environment. Race officials would randomly monitor what drivers were playing, and would penalize drivers for tunes that were not appropriate for the event. ZZTop, Lynyrd Skynyrd, and the like would be expected. Perhaps different race tracks could have different lists of acceptable bands, but ideally all tapes would be certified yard sale purchases.
Actually, that wouldn’t make a bad advertisement…
INT RACECAR
Out the windows we see that the car is in the middle of a big race. Things are jittery and the driver is twitching the steering wheel, pushing things to the limit. Cut INT/EXT and back to give perspective and excitement. BTO’s “Let it Roll” is blasting, then gets garbled and stops.
DRIVER
What the…?
Driver pulls the tape out of the 8-track, the tape is hanging in a ruined mess.
DRIVER
HECK!
Driver tosses the tape into a battered cardboard box filled with 8-track tapes with barely-legible labels. He begins to rummage around with one hand.
EXT RACETRACK
The car swerves a bit going down the straightaway.
ANNOUNCER 1 (Voice Over)
Something seems to be wrong in the Number 8 car!
INT RACECAR
Driver pulls a tape out of the box, glances at it, then throws it back in frustration.
EXT RACETRACK
ANNOUNCER 1
Number 8 is definitely slowing down!
ANNOUNCER 2
We’ve just learned from our people down in the pits that Johnson’s had an Overdrive failure…
ANNOUNCER 1
That could be costly!
INT RACECAR
Driver pulls out another tape and holds it up. With a nod he slams it home. There is a click and .38 Special begins to blast from the speakers. Driver pumps his fist and mashes the gas pedal to the floor.
EXT RACETRACK
With the music blasting, number 8 begins passing all the other cars.
ANNOUNCER 2
It looks like he’s got things straightened out now.
ANNOUNCER 1
Look at him go!
Of course, you’d have to sneak some product in there somewhere so someone will pay to make the ad.
Dream a Little Dream
This morning as I drifted in and out of consciousness, I had a series of dreams. (I started to say strange dreams, but that would imply that there is another sort.) At one point in a dream I was getting increasingly embarrassed by a chain of events and the people responsible for them. I was starting to wake up, I suppose, because the idea that this was a dream started to make sense. I calmed myself. Only a dream. “Maybe,” I thought, “But they don’t know that!”
Neither rain, nor snow…
Time flies when you’re clueless
I am sitting at the Little Café Near Home, facing the television (there was hockey on earlier). I glanced up from my work and noticed the clock on the tuner atop the TV glowing greenly. The clock is in 24-hour mode.
I did a double-take. Is it 2007 already? Crap, I know I’m out of touch— oh, wait 20:07. That’s all right, then.
The Transitional Seasons
Piker Press just published a story of mine, a decidedly springtime one. It didn’t feel at all strange to have it come out as the days are getting shorter, however; spring has more in common with autumn than with her neighbors. Lazy, shimmering, devil-may-care summer is too self-absorbed, while brooding, fierce winter will not contemplate another’s voice.
Spring and autumn are the seasons of change, when we feel the passing of time. It makes perfect sense to me that spring and autumn are the times when new fashion lines are revealed, summer and winter are when one coasts along, enjoying or enduring according to personal preference. Excitement comes with uncertainty and change, with the realization that today will not be a repeat of yesterday.
Spring is often compared to birth, and of course Halloween could not come at any other time of year. Autumn is spookier than winter, even though winter is darker. There is a restlessness to the season; leaves skitter and twirl aimlessly on city sidewalks and in fields harvested and prepared against the coming cold. There is anticipation in the air, the certaintly that something is coming, but there’s no telling when it will arrive. It’s the same feeling that horror films so often fail to achieve.
They are the seasons of scent. In autumn there is the smell of decay in the air, leaves piling up, but it is not death, it is autumn passing a note to spring, right under winter’s nose, the down-payment on spring’s vitality. In return spring fills the air with the scent of flowers and the songs of birds — dialogues of reproduction, as spring creates sprawling vibrant life poised and ready to take all the energy it can from summer’s plenty, the return message to her friend on the other side of the sun. They are in cahoots, spring and autumn, giddy seasons sharing the joke that is life, while summer and winter are none the wiser.
At least part of me is getting exercise…
I’ve noticed a few times lately that my scowling muscles have been fatigued to the point of aching. I’m having to consciously unclench my brows as I write this.
Dammit! There I go again, scowling at my writing about scowling. There’s a japanese comic book (Manga, for those in the know) that I followed for a while before it got awfully damn tiresome. In this story, the main dude sometimes has to leave his body, and a convenient spare spirit (unfortunately, a failed lab experiment) has to take over. The replacement spirit is much more happy-go-lucky, to the confusion of those on the sidelines. Early on the spare spirit comments, “how do you keep scowling like this all the time? it hurts“.
Life
Listen up kids. Life is not a toy. Life is not something you throw against a wall to see what happens. Life is not something you leave out in the rain. Life is a puppy. It’s crazy and spastic and will pee on you sometimes and poop in your shoes, but you have to take care of the puppy.
Seriously. Take care of the puppy. I’ve had enough bad news this week.
Hospitality
Today I was served a huge meal by my brother’s wife’s brother’s girlfriend’s mom. She had almost no warning that we were coming, and we had no intention of staying for food, but there you have it. We were in southern Bohemia, two kilometers from the Austrian border. As had been the case the night before, the conversation was almost entirely in Czech, but I did get a little more tech support. There was a story about our host, who had been a border guard during the communist times until he got caught helping people escape into Austria. I never did learn what happened next.
A troubling sign
This may not be news to locals, but I don’t think they understand the true import of the event. TGIFriday’s has arrived in Prague. Sure, McDonald’s has been here for a while now, as has KFC, and I assume there’s a Hard Rock Café around here somewhere. (Note to self: If there isn’t, make a deal with a bootlegger at a flea market to buy up a bunch of fake Hard Rock Prague t-shirts and flog them in Old Town Square.)
If McD’s and The Colonel are the cavalry, the vanguard of capitalism sent to root out the native businesses and push them into the locations no one wants, TGIFriday’s and the others sure to follow represent the next wave. They are the settlers. Moving into areas firmly established by those that came before, they will gradually push the boundaries, creating expanding zones of Urban Interchangeable, where local businesses will have the choice to play the game or move out.
TGIFriday’s will succeed here, no doubt about it. A few other restaurants in town have good burgers, but they don’t have a continent-leaping marketing machine. Now there is a place in town that every American will associate with a higher grade of burger than the fast-food places. They will go. The locals will follow. Why? Because burgers are good. Better burgers are better. I have no idea what the replaced business was selling. That in itself is telling, because I walked past the place regularly. Oh, the power of a name.
I may not know what the previous establishment sold, but it wasn’t burgers. It was different. Maybe not better, but different.
Love Pentagram
All these names are made up, but the people are painfully real, and make me glad I’m a crusty old codger.
Veronika is nutty crazy for Vaclav. Sadly, Vaclav is completely blind to any woman other than Martina, who is committed to Tomas. Finally there is Miki, who seems to alternate between pining for Veronika and Martina. Happy Tomas and Martina! They actually like each other, mutually, and they are one of those ‘cute couples’. This just adds to the anguish of the other three points of the pentagram; the joy of the loving couple is what we all seek. When that lightning smile flashes between the two everyone in the room wants to catch the electricity; I know how good it would feel to be bathed in the warmth of her bright-eyed smile. Anyone would want to feel that.
The other points live in a balance of hope and despair, mistaking the person for the emotion. And I? I watch, quietly, not courting hope, not risking despair.
Sometimes you just have to take a chance
I just ordered one of today’s lunch specials here at U Kormidla. My near-worthless dictionary translated Vepřový vrabec as “Pork sparrow”. I ignored the little voice in the back of my head saying “if there’s no translation for that part of the pig, you probably don’t want to eat it” and decided to give it a try.
As I finished typing the above my meal arrived, and I can confirm that nothing on my plate bears even a fleeting resemblance to a songbird. Between the chunks of fat there are some nice morsels of meat, however, and piled up with the pickled cabbage and dense potato dumplings, they are quite tasty.
Strč tinkerbell prst skrz
whork
It was a typo. I wrote whorker rather than worker. I looked at the word. I liked the word. I’ve been savoring it for a couple of days now, searching for the best way to explain it.
Tonight, Soup Boy gave me the answer. I haven’t seen much of him lately, and moments ago I got a message from him about how working thirteen-hour days was beating him down. I nodded, understanding. That’s a hell of a long work day.
Only, I’m on hour thirteen as I write this. I’m tired, but although today was uphill, good things came of it in the end. I made some real progress, mostly identifying problems I will need to fix later, but you have to do that sometimes.
I am a slacker, apparently, simply because I love what I do. (True, I make almost no money at it, but when was that ever a measure of success?) I spend my days working, to the exclusion of my frustrated friends and bemused family members, but because I genuinely enjoy what I do to a degree that may not be healthy, to many of them I am not working. Today, part of my job was to read a fascinating piece by Milan Kundera about Franz Kafka. It was not an easy read; there was much to think about with each paragraph. It was fun, but it was work. I work every day. Enter whork.
If you’re watching the clock, pining for the whistle that marks the end of your shift, you’re not working. You are whorking. I had a blast building a software company, but eventually my work became whork. It took me a long, long, time to realize that, and in the meantime I whorked myself into a position where I can work for a while now, without worrying too much where the next slice of pizza is coming from. No, I am not in any way above whorking; I have done it and will almost certainly do it again. I simply wish working was given as much respect. Suffering on the job has been elevated to the point where your job can’t be worthwhile if you don’t feel trapped and suffocated. Suffering on the job has become a virtue. Somewhere along the way whork has become more meaningful than work.
That’s messed up.
And I probably have it all wrong. Blame Kafka. [Let us pause for the moment while the author clinches down really hard to repress the urge to compare Kafkan bureaucracy to modern America, where the state is granted the right to define existence, and privacy is unpatriotic. Must… avoid… insane… rant!]
There are plenty of days I don’t work thirteen hours. Every now and then there is a day I don’t work at all (not seriously, anyway—there’s no way to stop a writer from testing words and savoring phrases). The most magnificent part of my life is that I am not whorking. Not for the moment, anyway. When I find myself muttering, “ah, crap. Astounding wants another Tin Can story,” then perhaps I will discover my inner whore once more. (It’s there. Don’t let my pompous language fool you. My whole career is a campaign to sell out.)
Crazily, happily, there are accountants who love numbers, who work rather than whork. There are probably damn few teachers who are whorkers. I’d even go so far as to say that there are more workers out there than there are whorkers. And now, by gum, I’m one of them. It feels great.