Perhaps it's the lack of rich food eaten before retiring to bed, but I no longer appear in my own dreams. Apparently I have been left on sleep's cutting-room floor, so to speak. Consequently there are no sudden materializations of my dream self at high school in the middle of a trigonometry exam that I know nothing about; no nudist wanderings in and out of the office cubicles of contemporary colleagues; no recurring sensations of endlessly falling into a bottomless black void; not even the next morning's vague recollections of my teeth dropping out one by one while misspelling the word "Kafkaesque" at a subterranean, Grand Guignol spelling bee.
Alas, my dreams are mostly confined to weary appraisals of curious images by a sort of disassociated, long-suffering universal eye. It's certainly not my eye. It doesn't get distracted enough to be my eye. Subjects under scrutiny can include anything from an overstuffed armchair to an erupting volcano, and are usually influenced by minutiae encountered during the day. One wonders why my mind requires subconscious REM processing of such dull vignettes? Obviously it views me as an observer of inessential details rather than the romantic protagonist of an action-packed nightmare. Which is fine by me since I have no desire to wake up in a cold sweat each morning, gripping the sides of the mattress and fighting my bedsheets with my feet.
In fact, I fail to see how any sane person can be interested in these disjointed, nonsensical narratives dredged up from the deepest recesses of dormant minds. The ridiculous "work" of Sigmund Freud and his rabid acolytes proves my point beyond dispute. Freud believed that dreams are a form of wish fulfillment. This theory is clearly absurd, since I never dream that all his tedious books are mercifully transformed back into the trees from which their pages were wrought; a transformation I devoutly wish to be fulfilled. So, auf wiedersehen Sigmund. Don't let the symbolic door hit your Id, Ego and Super-ego on the way out.
According to the dream dictionary I consulted, to dream of saltpeter indicates sorrow and heartache. But how many meaning-seeking dreamers can distinguish saltpeter from regular salt? It's an important distinction because, according to the same book, to dream of regular salt suggests abundance and excitability, which is a rather different takeaway in the morning if you'd been actively amorous before falling asleep.
If you ask me, dreams mean nothing beyond the crude interpretations that curious and often prurient imaginations can associate with whatever objects feature prominently in them. So it seems fair to say that, in common with all forms of critique, dreams reveal more about the interpreter than the actual dreamer. I dream about static images of overstuffed armchairs and erupting volcanoes ... the ball is in your court.
The Unacceptable Face of Summer
Despite erring, hopefully, on the side of quality fabrics and a decent fit, I'm not particularly partial to either trendy or traditional clothes. Both schools of tailoring are capable of producing stylish and functional results, if you ask me. Except, that is, when it comes to men's swimming trunks and other seaside fashions designed for turning lethargy into an extreme sport. In other words: resort wear. the unacceptable face of summer.
"I am a human; nothing human is alien to me" wrote the affable Roman playwright Terence, who obviously never set foot in a store selling resort wear. Such an experience would surely shake his faith in benign homogeneity. Voluminous board shorts, plastic flip flops, marijuana themed t-shirts, over-sized sunglasses, neon thongs, colored beads, novelty Rasta wigs and unidentifiable objects woven from hemp. Need I go on? These are clothes for bovine oafs who consider being hungover, high and comatose to be a reasonable way of life. I'm not saying vacationers should sunbathe on the beach in evening gowns, or wade in the breakers wearing tuxedos with the pant legs rolled-up, but surely there is a certain level of decorum to expected. Whatever happened to the good old days of light-colored linen jackets, Panama hats, rope-soled shoes and elegant Bermuda shorts? You can call me uptight, an old fuddy-duddy, even possibly embarrassed about revealing my surgical scars to the arch eyes of all and sundry on the sands of Bournemouth, San Tropez and the New Jersey shore, but I think I have the cultural prestige of classical antiquity on my side.
Terence most likely dressed in a uniform of simple leather sandals and a pale tunic tied at the waist. Highly appropriate for a Roman summer spent wandering around the Forum. There were no Keith Haring flamingos decorating the material he wore; no stoner slogans printed across the chest. Nor were the soles of his sandals bolstered by three inches of lizard green, inflatable rubber tread. Finding himself in a modern resort-wear store, he'd probably assume he'd stumbled into the lair of interplanetary surfer bums; or, considering the XXXL sizes on display, he might even think he'd happened upon an ogre's monstrous wardrobe. Either way, he would certainly never associate the merchandise with anything of civilized origin. "Cheap barbarian garbage" is undoubtedly the phrase that sprung to our playwright's mind when confronted with these vulgar and outlandish goods.
Yet any alternative beach attire is almost impossible find these days. If you're not comfortable with baggy, waterproof knickerbockers hanging halfway off your backside then you might as well just not bother heading to the boardwalk at all. Consequently I have to wear my wet-suit, snorkel and flippers whenever I go to the beach. People often look twice at my harpoon but I've grown used to their stares by now. Sometimes my wet-suit isn't dry after the previous days swim, so I'm forced to climb into my deep sea diving outfit with the lead boots and brass helmet. I don't mind telling you that it can get a little hot in there, even under the shade of a beach umbrella. But still, at least I don't look like a lazy slob in ill-fitting and idiotic resort wear.
"I am a human; nothing human is alien to me" wrote the affable Roman playwright Terence, who obviously never set foot in a store selling resort wear. Such an experience would surely shake his faith in benign homogeneity. Voluminous board shorts, plastic flip flops, marijuana themed t-shirts, over-sized sunglasses, neon thongs, colored beads, novelty Rasta wigs and unidentifiable objects woven from hemp. Need I go on? These are clothes for bovine oafs who consider being hungover, high and comatose to be a reasonable way of life. I'm not saying vacationers should sunbathe on the beach in evening gowns, or wade in the breakers wearing tuxedos with the pant legs rolled-up, but surely there is a certain level of decorum to expected. Whatever happened to the good old days of light-colored linen jackets, Panama hats, rope-soled shoes and elegant Bermuda shorts? You can call me uptight, an old fuddy-duddy, even possibly embarrassed about revealing my surgical scars to the arch eyes of all and sundry on the sands of Bournemouth, San Tropez and the New Jersey shore, but I think I have the cultural prestige of classical antiquity on my side.
Terence most likely dressed in a uniform of simple leather sandals and a pale tunic tied at the waist. Highly appropriate for a Roman summer spent wandering around the Forum. There were no Keith Haring flamingos decorating the material he wore; no stoner slogans printed across the chest. Nor were the soles of his sandals bolstered by three inches of lizard green, inflatable rubber tread. Finding himself in a modern resort-wear store, he'd probably assume he'd stumbled into the lair of interplanetary surfer bums; or, considering the XXXL sizes on display, he might even think he'd happened upon an ogre's monstrous wardrobe. Either way, he would certainly never associate the merchandise with anything of civilized origin. "Cheap barbarian garbage" is undoubtedly the phrase that sprung to our playwright's mind when confronted with these vulgar and outlandish goods.
Yet any alternative beach attire is almost impossible find these days. If you're not comfortable with baggy, waterproof knickerbockers hanging halfway off your backside then you might as well just not bother heading to the boardwalk at all. Consequently I have to wear my wet-suit, snorkel and flippers whenever I go to the beach. People often look twice at my harpoon but I've grown used to their stares by now. Sometimes my wet-suit isn't dry after the previous days swim, so I'm forced to climb into my deep sea diving outfit with the lead boots and brass helmet. I don't mind telling you that it can get a little hot in there, even under the shade of a beach umbrella. But still, at least I don't look like a lazy slob in ill-fitting and idiotic resort wear.
The Dining Experience
Hello and welcome to Steak Schtick where meat is fun. My name is Atahualpa and I'll be your server this evening. Have either of you been to a Steak Schtick before? Obviously not because today is our Grand Opening isn't it, ha ha, and so I hope you brought your ninety-percent off coupon with you. I will be getting you started with a drink order in just a few moments but first let me tell you a little about our menu. The menu is divided into three sections: the Tonto section, the Lone Ranger section, and the Heigh-Ho Silver section. I think you'll agree that it's so much more fun than just calling the sections Appetizer, Entree and Dessert like other boring restaurants do. And we want your meal at at Steak Schtick to be fun from beginning to end, and there's no more fun way to begin a meal than with a refreshing cocktail.
But before you decide on drinks let me just tell you about those mouthwatering individual menu sections in case that impacts your drink order. But before I do that I just want to thank you on behalf of everyone at Steak Schtick for coming in tonight by giving you another ninety-percent off coupon, good for dinner at any Steak Schtick or participating Chicken Chuckle.
Now let's hear about those menu sections which will only take a few seconds and then I'll get your cocktail order.
The Tonto section contains all of our small steak plate offerings, ideal for sharing as long as you order a lot of them. Unfortunately we are already out of the steak tips, the steak ends and the steak middles, but please feel free to order from the remaining Tonto dishes such as the steak flanks. I love the left flank of the steak and the right flank is also a favorite of mine. We recommend a minimum of two steak flanks per person if you're going to be ordering them.
Now the Lone Ranger section. These are our biggest, juiciest steaks and you won't want to share with anyone. I do have to tell you that we are out of the ribeye, the sirloin, the filet mignon, the strip, the porterhouse and the tenderloin. But we do have the Chinese Kobe beef burger and our delicious rump cut of finest steak ass. You will need to order the Chinese Kobe beef burger ASAP if you want that.
And finally the Heigh-Ho Silver section. Here you will find a selection of gourmet desserts for when you're preparing to ride off into the sunset. I definitely recommend the lemon custard pie since it's the only thing we've got left.
As always we have no specials at Steak Schtick because everything we make is special every day. Do you need a minute to decide? Probably not since you can only have the flank and the rump steak and the custard pie. Now I don't want to rush you but as I mentioned earlier this is our Grand Opening and we do have people already waiting for your table. Oh, did you want a drink? You should have said. Unfortunately we don't have a liquor license just yet but someone will be over with complimentary tap water very shortly.
But before you decide on drinks let me just tell you about those mouthwatering individual menu sections in case that impacts your drink order. But before I do that I just want to thank you on behalf of everyone at Steak Schtick for coming in tonight by giving you another ninety-percent off coupon, good for dinner at any Steak Schtick or participating Chicken Chuckle.
Now let's hear about those menu sections which will only take a few seconds and then I'll get your cocktail order.
The Tonto section contains all of our small steak plate offerings, ideal for sharing as long as you order a lot of them. Unfortunately we are already out of the steak tips, the steak ends and the steak middles, but please feel free to order from the remaining Tonto dishes such as the steak flanks. I love the left flank of the steak and the right flank is also a favorite of mine. We recommend a minimum of two steak flanks per person if you're going to be ordering them.
Now the Lone Ranger section. These are our biggest, juiciest steaks and you won't want to share with anyone. I do have to tell you that we are out of the ribeye, the sirloin, the filet mignon, the strip, the porterhouse and the tenderloin. But we do have the Chinese Kobe beef burger and our delicious rump cut of finest steak ass. You will need to order the Chinese Kobe beef burger ASAP if you want that.
And finally the Heigh-Ho Silver section. Here you will find a selection of gourmet desserts for when you're preparing to ride off into the sunset. I definitely recommend the lemon custard pie since it's the only thing we've got left.
As always we have no specials at Steak Schtick because everything we make is special every day. Do you need a minute to decide? Probably not since you can only have the flank and the rump steak and the custard pie. Now I don't want to rush you but as I mentioned earlier this is our Grand Opening and we do have people already waiting for your table. Oh, did you want a drink? You should have said. Unfortunately we don't have a liquor license just yet but someone will be over with complimentary tap water very shortly.
Per Ardua Ad Astra
Per ardua ad astra - "through adversity to the stars" - is the motto of the Royal Air Force; and since many of us struggle with ever skyrocketing medical costs, it is undoubtedly within such heavenly spheres that the resolution to our healthcare conflicts can also be found. I'm talking about the advanced biological research of scientists from other planets. In other words: little green doctors with antennae sticking out of their heads.
Almost all alien abduction stories contain an description, however hazily recalled, of some sort of mysterious medical examination being conducted on the human captive. Such extraterrestrial operations usually occur without the victim's consent: the humanoid is abruptly beamed aboard ship and poked and prodded like a prize-winning pig, just for the entertainment of snooty Martian medicos. Abductee accounts make the experience sound like a Grey's Anatomy and Battlestar Galactica TV crossover event. But perhaps it doesn't have to be that way. Perhaps it could be an entirely new show called Spock MD.
It seems to me that developing a meaningful dialogue with these scalpel-toting E.T.s might very well supply a workable solution to our healthcare problems. A mutually beneficial bargain could be struck that caters to both the alien's interests and our desperate needs. Uninsured Earthling patients would volunteer to enter an alien ship to have their genitals evaluated for twenty minutes, possibly even get an alien implant or two inserted into their rectums, and in return the alien surgeons would perform a free gastric bypass or any other procedure the patient required. More critical patients could perhaps be transported by saucer-shaped space ambulance to the alien's home planets for advanced treatment, provided that they submit to even more invasive alien probing, naturally. I'm sure it would be relatively easy to get the Hippocratic Oath translated into Grokkian or Chthulu or whatever bizarre telepathic language the alien's speak, so it's a win-win situation all around as far as I can see.
Clearly this approach to our country's healthcare's problems is far superior to Obama's everyone must kiss-it-better plan, or whatever hopeless plan the Republicans are thinking of reanimating with huge shots of privately donated cortizone. Obviously it's completely dependent on the existence of UFOs, but I believe that this is a minor detail in an otherwise extremely practical and affordable solution; a solution that neither of our major political parties has the courage or imagination to embrace.
Almost all alien abduction stories contain an description, however hazily recalled, of some sort of mysterious medical examination being conducted on the human captive. Such extraterrestrial operations usually occur without the victim's consent: the humanoid is abruptly beamed aboard ship and poked and prodded like a prize-winning pig, just for the entertainment of snooty Martian medicos. Abductee accounts make the experience sound like a Grey's Anatomy and Battlestar Galactica TV crossover event. But perhaps it doesn't have to be that way. Perhaps it could be an entirely new show called Spock MD.
It seems to me that developing a meaningful dialogue with these scalpel-toting E.T.s might very well supply a workable solution to our healthcare problems. A mutually beneficial bargain could be struck that caters to both the alien's interests and our desperate needs. Uninsured Earthling patients would volunteer to enter an alien ship to have their genitals evaluated for twenty minutes, possibly even get an alien implant or two inserted into their rectums, and in return the alien surgeons would perform a free gastric bypass or any other procedure the patient required. More critical patients could perhaps be transported by saucer-shaped space ambulance to the alien's home planets for advanced treatment, provided that they submit to even more invasive alien probing, naturally. I'm sure it would be relatively easy to get the Hippocratic Oath translated into Grokkian or Chthulu or whatever bizarre telepathic language the alien's speak, so it's a win-win situation all around as far as I can see.
Clearly this approach to our country's healthcare's problems is far superior to Obama's everyone must kiss-it-better plan, or whatever hopeless plan the Republicans are thinking of reanimating with huge shots of privately donated cortizone. Obviously it's completely dependent on the existence of UFOs, but I believe that this is a minor detail in an otherwise extremely practical and affordable solution; a solution that neither of our major political parties has the courage or imagination to embrace.
Dairy, Dairy Quite Contrary
My intention was to write a post detailing the numerous pros and cons of consuming unusual dairy products: obscure international cheeses; pints of udder stout; creamed streptococcus thermophilus; oxen nadger curd; and so on. But what can be said about oxen nadger curd that has not already be said?
A cynical attempt to attract more female readers was to be made by highlighting the keywords "lactose" and "intolerance," although, tantalizingly, never in the same sentence.
For amateur scientists, a graphic and disturbing account of the time I unwisely examined a milk droplet under a microscope was to be included (my dreams were filled with images of churning, buttery, black worms for weeks afterwards).
I also planned to debate the controversial issues of full-fat versus non-fat yogurt; plain versus flavored; fruit on the bottom versus fruit already mixed in; and Greek yogurt versus yogurt from economically stable countries.
Then there was the whole flan equation that I wanted to discuss. A freshly served flan, as the physicists Gustavo Taht and Ernst Karamull both noted, vibrates at a rate of eighty million kilopuddings per microsecond. An eminently disputable statistic such as this obviously raises many questions, even if none of them are actually worth answering.
So why is no post about dairy products appearing this week? Well, much like Salem witches cast evil spells to make their neighbors milk go sour, an evil hex as fallen upon my dairy ruminations: the ancient and powerful curse of boredom. In short, I am sick and weary of the subject before I've even considered writing the first word of the first sentence. This is a great shame since I have already expended a great deal of mental effort thinking about the subject, as you can see from the brief paragraph outlines above.
If only it were possible to take all those uncoordinated, unorganized thoughts and magically transform them into publishable blog form without actually sitting down at my computer and completing all that tedious typing. If only I had a secretary to act as a 200WPM milkmaid for the rich cream of my creativity, then I could pace around and pontificate to my heart's content while she tapped away.
Alas, I am but a humble scribe with no means to support such luxuries. The only office aides I have at my disposal are grim determination and black coffee.
A cynical attempt to attract more female readers was to be made by highlighting the keywords "lactose" and "intolerance," although, tantalizingly, never in the same sentence.
For amateur scientists, a graphic and disturbing account of the time I unwisely examined a milk droplet under a microscope was to be included (my dreams were filled with images of churning, buttery, black worms for weeks afterwards).
I also planned to debate the controversial issues of full-fat versus non-fat yogurt; plain versus flavored; fruit on the bottom versus fruit already mixed in; and Greek yogurt versus yogurt from economically stable countries.
Then there was the whole flan equation that I wanted to discuss. A freshly served flan, as the physicists Gustavo Taht and Ernst Karamull both noted, vibrates at a rate of eighty million kilopuddings per microsecond. An eminently disputable statistic such as this obviously raises many questions, even if none of them are actually worth answering.
So why is no post about dairy products appearing this week? Well, much like Salem witches cast evil spells to make their neighbors milk go sour, an evil hex as fallen upon my dairy ruminations: the ancient and powerful curse of boredom. In short, I am sick and weary of the subject before I've even considered writing the first word of the first sentence. This is a great shame since I have already expended a great deal of mental effort thinking about the subject, as you can see from the brief paragraph outlines above.
If only it were possible to take all those uncoordinated, unorganized thoughts and magically transform them into publishable blog form without actually sitting down at my computer and completing all that tedious typing. If only I had a secretary to act as a 200WPM milkmaid for the rich cream of my creativity, then I could pace around and pontificate to my heart's content while she tapped away.
Alas, I am but a humble scribe with no means to support such luxuries. The only office aides I have at my disposal are grim determination and black coffee.
A Tale of Social Marketing
The CEO of Yellowcakes, a provider of artificial coloring solutions for the gelatin-based desserts industry, recently attended a strategies, growth and innovation conference in Las Vegas. Profits were plummeting and he was anxious about the long-term stability of jelly. He needed food for thought; even if most of it would be an indigestible melange of trans-fats, sugar-coating and MSG.
Predictably, ninety-percent of the conference seminars were ebullient round-tables about harnessing the power of social media to increase business; each speaker more manically fervent than the last. The other ten percent, run by bi-polar project managers, broached the idea of staging next year's conference - if there was still a gelatin-based food industry to confer about by then - as an interactive webinar. Everyone was captivated by the notion that the Internet could not only make them money, but it could also save them money. All you needed was a Twitter feed and a Facebook page to be Liked and somehow the money would start flowing in. It was like listening to a cloudy-eyed herbalist extolling the virtues of honeysuckle marshmallow as a cure for terminal cancer.
So, lacking any truly innovative, imaginative or even pragmatic inspiration to help his failing business, the CEO of Yellowcakes returned to his office, determined to ponder whom he should Friend and Follow. He started with his own loyal and prospective customers, then expanded his social networking net further afield to companies similar to Yellowcakes and even some fictional commercial characters such as Mr Peanut and the Rice Krispies' elves. It wasn't long before he found himself re-tweeting the profound philosophy of the Pillsbury Doughboy and linking to YouTube videos of chocolate egg eating contests. By the end of the first quarter, over two thousand hipsters had "liked" Yellowcake Artificial Food Colorings on Facebook, mostly for ironic purposes, but the CEO didn't know that. He decided to print a run of vintage Yellowcakes' logo t-shirts to be sold on Cafe Press.
He also contacted Zac Dweebe of Content-Puke about writing the Yellowcakes' daily Twitter feed and maintaining the various gelatin blog forums that he sponsored. Updating the company's various online profiles was consuming too much of the CEO's valuable time, as you might expect. Zac explained that he was both slow and expensive, but this didn't seem to bother the CEO. Who isn't? the CEO replied with a shrug. They discussed the ratio of actual product marketing to banal links and pop culture babble; if it was a good idea to follow Martha Stewart or not; and whether it was worth having a booth at Comic-Con called Gelatination.
And so, in the guise of his gelatinous avatar, Monsieur Aspic, Zac tweeted daily about which celebrities prefer gummy worms to jelly babies; about his fantasy Jell-O wrestling matches with the real housewives of various cities; about how regular gelatin consumption promotes bone health; and occasionally something very brief about bovine spongiform encephalopathy risk or the new FDA guidelines for infusing animal by-products with chemical color dye. Yet for some inexplicable reason Yellowcakes' sales still keep falling.
At a loss and feeling sorry for the CEO, Zac advised him to hire a conventional traveling salesman to visit customers in the flesh, since internet social networking services didn't seem to be connecting with his traditional client base. The CEO replied that such a drastic solution was too old-fashioned for a forward-thinking company like Yellowcakes. It's not old-fashioned, Zac told him, it's just "old skool." The CEO brightened at this notion, mostly because he liked the spelling. What if we post some click-through banner ads on Foursquare, the CEO suggested, advertising Yellowcakes Old Skool Gelatin Food Coloring? There was such a faraway look in his eye that he didn't notice Zac's raised eyebrow.
Financial circumstances forced the CEO to lay off six staff members this morning. Zac hasn't tweeted about that yet, but the ex-employees have already de-friended him on Facebook.
Predictably, ninety-percent of the conference seminars were ebullient round-tables about harnessing the power of social media to increase business; each speaker more manically fervent than the last. The other ten percent, run by bi-polar project managers, broached the idea of staging next year's conference - if there was still a gelatin-based food industry to confer about by then - as an interactive webinar. Everyone was captivated by the notion that the Internet could not only make them money, but it could also save them money. All you needed was a Twitter feed and a Facebook page to be Liked and somehow the money would start flowing in. It was like listening to a cloudy-eyed herbalist extolling the virtues of honeysuckle marshmallow as a cure for terminal cancer.
So, lacking any truly innovative, imaginative or even pragmatic inspiration to help his failing business, the CEO of Yellowcakes returned to his office, determined to ponder whom he should Friend and Follow. He started with his own loyal and prospective customers, then expanded his social networking net further afield to companies similar to Yellowcakes and even some fictional commercial characters such as Mr Peanut and the Rice Krispies' elves. It wasn't long before he found himself re-tweeting the profound philosophy of the Pillsbury Doughboy and linking to YouTube videos of chocolate egg eating contests. By the end of the first quarter, over two thousand hipsters had "liked" Yellowcake Artificial Food Colorings on Facebook, mostly for ironic purposes, but the CEO didn't know that. He decided to print a run of vintage Yellowcakes' logo t-shirts to be sold on Cafe Press.
He also contacted Zac Dweebe of Content-Puke about writing the Yellowcakes' daily Twitter feed and maintaining the various gelatin blog forums that he sponsored. Updating the company's various online profiles was consuming too much of the CEO's valuable time, as you might expect. Zac explained that he was both slow and expensive, but this didn't seem to bother the CEO. Who isn't? the CEO replied with a shrug. They discussed the ratio of actual product marketing to banal links and pop culture babble; if it was a good idea to follow Martha Stewart or not; and whether it was worth having a booth at Comic-Con called Gelatination.
And so, in the guise of his gelatinous avatar, Monsieur Aspic, Zac tweeted daily about which celebrities prefer gummy worms to jelly babies; about his fantasy Jell-O wrestling matches with the real housewives of various cities; about how regular gelatin consumption promotes bone health; and occasionally something very brief about bovine spongiform encephalopathy risk or the new FDA guidelines for infusing animal by-products with chemical color dye. Yet for some inexplicable reason Yellowcakes' sales still keep falling.
At a loss and feeling sorry for the CEO, Zac advised him to hire a conventional traveling salesman to visit customers in the flesh, since internet social networking services didn't seem to be connecting with his traditional client base. The CEO replied that such a drastic solution was too old-fashioned for a forward-thinking company like Yellowcakes. It's not old-fashioned, Zac told him, it's just "old skool." The CEO brightened at this notion, mostly because he liked the spelling. What if we post some click-through banner ads on Foursquare, the CEO suggested, advertising Yellowcakes Old Skool Gelatin Food Coloring? There was such a faraway look in his eye that he didn't notice Zac's raised eyebrow.
Financial circumstances forced the CEO to lay off six staff members this morning. Zac hasn't tweeted about that yet, but the ex-employees have already de-friended him on Facebook.
Polyphemus in Polyester
You will pleased to hear that the spirit of adventure is alive and well within my hardy, optimistic soul. At least it is now that warmer temperatures have finally arrived and the Calypso of Spring is singing her alluring song. Last weekend, for instance, armed only with a GPS equipped smartphone, protein bars and refillable water bottle, I cycled down an unfamiliar path towards an unknown destination. Who knew to what obscure Jurassic wildernesses such previously unexplored trails may lead? I could have pitched up, Lord preserve me, marooned at some godforsaken Java Shack table, rather than discovering the promised land of that independently-owned, fair trade cafe I had heard so much about. Nevertheless, I embarked upon my expedition with all the optimism of an Argonaut of old, assuming they also rolled up their pant legs to prevent oil stains from getting on them.
As I rode pluckily along the dusty, unmapped road, flanked by alien chain-link fences, unkempt hedges, padlocked warehouses and all sorts of strange urban detritus, I was inspired to recall the epic quest of Odysseus in Homer's poem, eventually concluding that there were absolutely no similarities between his heroic seafaring exploits and my leisurely afternoon jaunt. Except that I also found my progress blocked by a man-eating cyclops. Alas, nice weather apparently brings out these classical horrors from their wintry lairs as well.
This cyclops was really just a novice rollerblader, dangerously flailing around in a ludicrous outfit of over-sized protective pads and lurid spandex. I'm only assuming he was also the one-eyed monster of myth because his peripheral vision was obviously severely limited. In fact, the ungainly beast seemed completely ignorant of any other objects in his immediate vicinity, be they animal, vegetable or plastic bag full of illegally dumped household trash.
I was filled with dread and apprehension as I approached, lest I be knocked down by a savage whack from his windmilling arms or one of his wildly dangling, wheeled feet. Fortunately, right before I entered striking distance, his knees buckled, his legs locked, the rollerblades skidded and screeched, and the cyclops uttered a blood-curdling yelp before veering off into a ditch at terminal velocity. Thus are the imitation terrors of antiquity hoist by their own petard.
Since this particular nemesis destroyed himself, I can't claim any great feats of strength during the course of my adventure. I'm more Argonought than Argonaut. It is unlikely that tribes would huddle spellbound around their campfires to hear sonorous bards sing tales of my uninteresting deeds; nor would any lyric poets be moved to compose lengthy verses about my relatively uneventful journey, except maybe Philip Larkin. So perhaps it wasn't worth writing a blog about my travels, either? Oh well. Too late now.
As I rode pluckily along the dusty, unmapped road, flanked by alien chain-link fences, unkempt hedges, padlocked warehouses and all sorts of strange urban detritus, I was inspired to recall the epic quest of Odysseus in Homer's poem, eventually concluding that there were absolutely no similarities between his heroic seafaring exploits and my leisurely afternoon jaunt. Except that I also found my progress blocked by a man-eating cyclops. Alas, nice weather apparently brings out these classical horrors from their wintry lairs as well.
This cyclops was really just a novice rollerblader, dangerously flailing around in a ludicrous outfit of over-sized protective pads and lurid spandex. I'm only assuming he was also the one-eyed monster of myth because his peripheral vision was obviously severely limited. In fact, the ungainly beast seemed completely ignorant of any other objects in his immediate vicinity, be they animal, vegetable or plastic bag full of illegally dumped household trash.
I was filled with dread and apprehension as I approached, lest I be knocked down by a savage whack from his windmilling arms or one of his wildly dangling, wheeled feet. Fortunately, right before I entered striking distance, his knees buckled, his legs locked, the rollerblades skidded and screeched, and the cyclops uttered a blood-curdling yelp before veering off into a ditch at terminal velocity. Thus are the imitation terrors of antiquity hoist by their own petard.
Since this particular nemesis destroyed himself, I can't claim any great feats of strength during the course of my adventure. I'm more Argonought than Argonaut. It is unlikely that tribes would huddle spellbound around their campfires to hear sonorous bards sing tales of my uninteresting deeds; nor would any lyric poets be moved to compose lengthy verses about my relatively uneventful journey, except maybe Philip Larkin. So perhaps it wasn't worth writing a blog about my travels, either? Oh well. Too late now.
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