Short Game 32
I spent another week in Chicago and came back with flu/plague/pestilence/the whites or whatever else this stuff is that you always get on a long flight. And yet, airlines always claim the recirculated air is clean. Har, I say. Hardy-har-har. And a big ol’ gob of phlegm on all your pointy alligator shoes. It was a great trip, however. Working on a project I like with people I like. Rarely do you get both at one time.
***
According to USA Today, people with PDAs feel compelled to stay connected to work when they aren’t there. In fact, 41% of us go less than a half hour between check ins. Conclusion: We are one pathetic lump of losers to feel so insecure that 41% of us can’t make it through half a massage without getting antsy. Good grief, people. Remember when we used to have the courage to concentrate on something without allowing ourselves to be lured by something else? That was back when PDA meant public display of affection. I met a guy this week who will not allow his associates to bring their PDAs into meetings. He feels he can’t keep their attention if they do. True enough. It’s a matter of respect, I think. Now, has anyone seen my Blackberry …
***
I just received a full bag of dog toys. It’s payment for writing this poster for Chelsy’s pit bull tested toys. As cash becomes harder to come by, I’m thinking we’ll all be considering barter soon. I wonder what you could get for $24 worth of beads these days. Maybe not all of Manhattan, but I’m pretty sure it would buy you Wall Street.
***
New game! Laffs! Win! During the next debate, half of you chug a beer whenever Wall Street is mentioned, the other half on Main Street. Might as well have a little fun while we watch the flushing of the national toilet.
***
OFFICIALDOM:
One. My writer group needs a new member.
Two. From its policy statement, “in keeping with its role as a public agency dedicated to making information widely available, the North Olympic Library System maintains public bulletin boards and spaces for the distribution of information in as many facilities as possible.”
Three: I strong arm friend Steve into designing this dandy poster for me so it will be more eye catching than all the other writer groups because, as we all know, writers can’t design worth a tinker’s dam.
Four: I happily take it to my local library. But, alas, it needs to be OK’d by Sandy who is not in today.
Five: A week later I stomp in to have words with Sandy. It seems my poster is OBJECTIONABLE copy. “What?” I say, “You don’t like the humor? The nice art???” No. It must have my name and phone number on it. An email address won’t suffice.
Six: Now I’ll never know if calls are coming from potential writers or from my other poster in the men’s room at Reggie’s Tavern. OFFICIALDUMB!! Note: The preceding snit is not aimed at Mrs. Who, a librarian whom we all love very much.
