Thursday Ramblings.

YOU KNOW WHAT YOU SHOULD TRY?

Hamburgers.

I know, I know: you bastards have hamburgers all the time. But my wife and I discovered them this week. We bought a pound of ground turkey and had a family meeting to determine how best to use it. I voted for Manwiches, because a sandwich is a sandwich, but a Manwich is a fuckin’ meal, unless I’ve been lied to all these years. Our cats voted for “raw,” but were outvoted since our household has a rule similar to the Constitution's “2/3 provision” wherein cats only count as one-fourth of a person. My wife said “Let’s make hamburgers,” so we had hamburgers, because our household has another provision making her the instant winner of any debate.

Hamburgers rule. I’m having another one as I type this. However, we don’t use the community grill, because I’ve seen the people who use that thing. I have no reason to believe a soul who uses it washes their hands after pooping.

A HISTORIC DAY AT SMYTHE CENTRAL

Today I received a paycheck for my first-official writing gig.

Now, don’t get too excited.

Here’s what happened: I have a friend, Todd, who is a freelance writer by trade. He’s my idol and I’ve told him as much. He’s around my age—seventy-five—no, wait: forty. He spent several years in journalism, beginning as a cub reporter and eventually graduating to editor of a suburban daily.

Eventually he grew weary of the meager wages associated with the industry, and he became a marketing coordinator at an architectural firm. That’s where I met him. I worked at the same place for a grand total of four months, a short-lived tenure that ended with me spending a night in the nuthouse.

Oh, how I wish I were kidding about that. But that’s a topic for another post.

We kept in touch after I left there. After my departure, he moved into the position I held—Sr. Marketing Coordinator—and lasted a year or so before the company surprised him by firing him and moving the receptionist into his position as a cost-saving measure. My friend got the last laugh when the receptionist-turned-marketing-professional killed herself, leaving the company in a lurch.

Oh, how I wish I were kidding about that. But that’s a topic for—oh, fuck it. I need to tell you about this place.

The namesake of the firm was an 80-ish, eccentric, egotistical architect, which is extra-redundant. He’d recently sold the firm to an umbrella corporation, but then surprised (and infuriated) them by refusing to change the name on the door, the letterhead, and the ad in the Yellow Pages. "Fuck 'em," he said, licking his thumb and counting his money again. "Let 'em come get me."

I took the job just as my first major back injury was becoming an issue. I no sooner accepted the position than my disk herniated completely, and midway through my first day on the job I asked my supervisor “I realize this defies convention, but do you mind if I go to the hospital?”

Thus began the worst month of my life for many reasons.

I underwent physical therapy and went to work when I could, which was rarely. It was only possible for me to function with my right arm fully extended and behind my head, and I can tell you it’s nearly impossible to type that way and it’s downright embarrassing being a non-traditional college student in such a state, because professors automatically assume you A) always want to ask a question, or B) always have the answer.

The old architect, thankfully, was empathetic. I recall one particularly misty-eyed encounter, when in front of a conference room full of people he barked “When the hell do you think we might get some work out of you?”

Just as soon as I can walk, sir, thanks for your concern.

After surgery I was raring to go, and I quickly discovered that this architectural firm viewed deadlines exactly like Douglas Adams did: they loved them, particularly the whooshing sound they made as they zipped by. I lost count of the weekend meetings to discuss proposals that should have been completed and out the door weeks before. We’d literally spend hours discussing point size in the headers, and I was considered an infidel for suggesting that perhaps the architects’ time would be better spent writing the fucking content while the marketing coordinators worried about the fucking templates.

Lest you think I’m exercising artistic license, rest assured it didn’t take long for my true colors to show. Once, while a particularly spastic architect foamed and fumed at my cohort for some inconsequential issue, I located the Benny Hill theme song on the Internet, began playing it through my computer speakers, and left the room. My friend looked on incredulously; I merely shot him a look communicating “Who gives a fuck?” and went for a walk around the block.

It was clear that my time there would be short. The only question was whose decision it would be. I vowed that before I stormed out or was dragged out, I would capture my elusive white whale: come hell or high water, I would submit a proposal without the customary last-minute insanity that, like a lecherous uncle’s stealth, middle-of-the-night visits, was never unexpected but always unwelcome. I told my friend about my plan and his response was similar to that likely exhibited by Igor, Dr. Frankenstein’s trusty servant, when his master finally opened up after a couple half-price martinis during Happy Hour and spilled the beans about his master plan: "You're insane, but what the fuck." Todd was on board, and the race was on.

One could almost hear the whip cracks in the marketing department. “Mush, you architects!” CRACK! “Hi-yaaaaah, give me that write-up of the library project!” CRACK! “Pick a goddamned photo and be done with it; you have five hundred of them and they’re all exactly fucking alike!” CRACK!

And—drum roll please—we pulled it off.

I’m thinking of the scene in “The Blue Lagoon” where Brooke Shields and the guy who fucked her look adoringly upon the baby they created and delivered, just the two of them. I’m also thinking I should have watched that movie to ensure the analogy is correct. Regardless, I remember how my friend and I gazed at that proposal as if it were the most precious, unique thing on the face of the Earth. We looked like a gay couple peering into the Maternity Ward, admiring the baby our lesbian friend carried and delivered for us, and since we’re both disturbingly effeminate the analogy is particularly apt. We prepared the UPS label, high-fived awkwardly, and called it a day. That was probably the first time in the firm’s history that a package would be placed leisurely into the UPS drop box at 6 p.m. rather than rushed to the airport at midnight where a pilot clad in brown stood by an idling cargo jet, tapping his foot impatiently and pointing at his watch.

The next morning I arrived at work feeling more optimistic than I ever had before. If we can pull this off once, I thought, why not again? And again? Why not every…fucking…time? If we can pull this off, perhaps I can cancel that informational interview at Arby’s. I felt a little like the Peanuts gang gazing at Charlie Brown’s anemic Christmas tree: I never really thought it was such a bad little architectural firm. It just needed a little love, albeit tough love.

That’s when I noticed the proposal still sitting on the counter.

Fuck. Shit. Oh fucking shit fucking NO!

My friend arrived soon thereafter, and the flaw in our plan was quickly laid bare: we had meticulously delegated every activity associated with the proposal to ensure its timely completion and delivery. Every activity—except putting it in the UPS drop box.

Oh, fuck. Shit.

Our manager arrived—mercifully an easygoing gal, a little crazy, hence perfect for the place—and we explained the situation. The package should have been shipped last night, we explained. It’s due by the end of business day, we added. We’re fucked, we assumed.

And she looked at us and proffered a solution that was insane in its seeming simplicity: “Well,” she said placidly, “one of you will need to fly there.”

In the end, my partner in crime drew the short straw; we figured it made more sense for the Senior Marketing Coordinator—and I’d done so much to merit the title—to remain at the helm, projecting an air of confidence and competence while my cohort traveled Frodo-style to certain death. "Where's Todd?" people would inquire. "Uuuuuh," I replied, "I told him to take the day off in celebration of getting the proposal out."

He called several times from the road; I don’t recall for certain how many layovers he had, but I do recall snatching up the receiver each time an out-of-state number appeared on the LCD display, and asking—nay, demanding—“Did you make it?” And each time the answer was “Not yet.”

In the end, our manager—who, though certifiably insane, nonetheless had cobra-like hypnotizing powers, and thankfully they worked from thousands of miles away—called the client, and in a manner which would make Obi Wan Kenobi proud, suggested that “You don’t need the proposal on time. It’s perfectly acceptable for my employee to leave it on your doorstep. You will retroactively time stamp the proposal with a day and time well within the deadline.” And the person on the other end of the line—a relatively high-ranking official in the Justice Department—affirmed all her suggestions in the first person. "I don't need the proposal on time," he droned. "Just leave it on the doorstep. Are you as hot as you sound?"

More amazing still, our manager ate the cost of my friend’s plane tickets. She was—still is—the daughter of a Minnesota VIP. She didn’t take the position for money, but for prestige. If my life coach says a stint at this firm will look good on my resume, she reasoned, then working at this firm is what I’ll do. My friend was to provide her with his receipts, and she’d quietly slip him a check. No one need know what occurred; it will be our little (fucking huge) secret. When I arrived at work the next day, a pen lay on my keyboard: Greetings from North Carolina, it read. Todd had gotten back in the middle of the night and made a detour to work in order to leave this little token.

I’ve known this guy for over six years now, and though I’ve learned volumes about him during that time, there’s nothing more illustrative of his personality than the presence of that pen on my keyboard. With his world crashing down around him—his job in jeopardy, a potentially enormous contract contingent upon his resourcefulness (or lack thereof), a huge black mark looming over his career—he nonetheless retained the presence of mind (and sense of humor) to stop at the airport gift shop and buy me a souvenir pen.

I have a lot of regrets in life. A failed marriage under my belt. So many bad career moves I can no longer remember, let alone count, them all. Missed opportunities, dreams unfulfilled. But I think the thing I regret most of all is not keeping that pen, because if anything in this world would serve as a concrete reminder of the ridiculousness of life, it was that. A tangible little totem to keep at my desk, so when things get nuts—when gangsta' wannabes overrun my bus, when someone admonishes me "Bad admin!" or when I glance up at the moon and realize “Shit, we’re in space"—then I could look to the pen as a concrete example of the absurdity of it all: You live in a world where one moment you’re expecting an unremarkable day at work, the next moment you’re rushing through the Charlotte, North Carolina airport trying to make your connection to D.C.

Anything…is…possible.

P.S.
No, we didn't get the contract.

P.P.S.
Yes, I realize I didn't discuss how I stumbled upon my first-ever paid writing gig, but that's the way it goes when you blog drunk.

The next President of the United States.

A few weeks ago I was walking through downtown St. Paul after my evening bus ride and noticed a commotion.

Bear in mind St. Paul is usually the Webster definition of a dead city. Five p.m. rolls around and they release the tumbleweeds. Once, while living downtown, I observed a driver go the wrong way down a one-way street for an entire city block. His error caused zero turmoil; he very calmly turned onto another street and disrupted not a single soul. St. Paul is the only major city where this could happen.

So you can imagine my surprise walking through downtown and finding it bustling at 5:30 p.m. Throngs of people walked down the streets and sidewalks. Cars were bumper to bumper and not a parking space was to be seen. News vans were everywhere and overhead a helicopter hovered.

Barack Obama was in town, of course.

I called my wife while walking through Rice Park and told her “Barack Obama is the next President of the United States.” I realized at that moment that I—a hold-my-nose Republican since casting my first vote nearly a quarter century ago—wouldn’t go see John McCain if he were appearing in the community room of my apartment complex and offering free punch.

Today I had drinks with a friend after work in downtown St. Paul. Working stiffs made their way to their parking ramps; traffic was heavy but not unmanageable. We found a street spot half a block from the bar and noticed that the Landmark Center, a beautifully-restored historic building, was cordoned off with police tape. A satellite truck and a news van were parked nearby. A few police cars and officers patrolled the street. I wondered if a murder had occurred.

My friend viewed the scene with similar curiosity until a light bulb came on: “Oh, yeah,” she said. “John McCain is speaking there this evening.”

I figured that with such an event occurring, there was no way we’d score a patio table at Pazzaluna, a popular Italian restaurant directly across from Landmark Center. Upon arrival, we discovered that the patio—indeed, most of the restaurant—was empty. Throughout our 2 ½ hours there people came and went, but no one had to wait for a table. Buses cruised by at the posted speed limit. A pedestrian or two ambled by.

This with the Republican candidate for President of the United States right across the street.

While my companion used the restroom, a dozen or so police officers, riding bicycles, pedaled by. “Barack Obama merits a helicopter,” I thought. “John McCain gets bicycle cops.”

As we walked back to my friend’s car, we looked toward the Landmark Center, and I said, with mock awe and sincerity, “The next President of the United States is in there.”

A woman breezed past us and without even looking in our direction said, very matter-of-factly, “No, he’s not.”

And she was right, of course.