Dear Friends,
Every once in awhile an event occurs that reinforces the ironic duality of human existence, and fills me with the glee of knowing I once again have an appropriate situation in which to use the phrase, “ironic duality of human exexistence".
The latest event involves our very own Anne Marie, and several unsolicited calls from a stranger named Steve. Now, being that Anne Marie is DJ AM, the legendary clearinghouse for all local party information, and very often, the source of those parties, the fact that she is getting calls from strangers is no surprise; the surprise in this matter is that Steve is a resident of a Dane County Correctional Facility.
DJ AM and I were hanging out on Saturday night, and she had just explained this series of bizarre calls to me, when suddenly she received another! You pick up the phone, a recording kicks in saying that it's a no charge call from a Dane County Correctional Facility, and then Steve announcing himself. Unfortunately, Steve didn’t stay on the line when I answered, “Hello, this is Anne Marie”. In light of these continued calls, I feel the need to address Steve directly. No, I don’t have his e-mail address, but we’ll just assume that Steve has moved on to monitoring the e-mail of all of Anne Marie’s friends, and will, therefore, read it while he’s perusing one of our accounts.
Dear Steve,
The phone calls have to stop, man. Now, you may not think my words have any cred here, but believe me, I know what you’re going through. I’ve seen the world from the inside of prison walls, and it’s not pretty. Okay, so, I saw the world from the inside of Oak Hill, a minimum security facility that didn’t have walls, but that’s beside the point. What I’m trying to say here, is that I know how you feel, and believe me, Steve, I am the last one to doubt the true connection you can have with somebody when you’re flipping through the phone book and suddenly find that your finger has alighted on the eight point, times new roman font of that special someone’s name. I mean, who am I to doubt that love, one of the most powerful forces in this world, would be unable to connect two people in spite of the miles, sealed entrances, reinforced steel quadrant dividers, county jailers, and prison bars that separate them. Having said this Steve, I’ve got to tell you, Anne Marie just isn’t into you.
Now, as I see it, there a few possibilites as to why you feel the need to continue calling our good friend:
1. The Correctional System Has Failed You:
Yes, perhaps the correctional system has failed to correct you, and you've hit rock bottom so many times that you think the only thing that can save you anymore is the love of a good woman.
2: You're Having An Existential Crisis:
That's right Steve, maybe you've become a Taosit and started doubting the reality of your own existence. After picking up a copy of the "Tao Te Ching" from from the prison library, you're convinced that that the only way to concretely prove your existence to yourself is to find your polar opposite... the wonderfully virtuous Anne Marie.
3. You've Heard Stories About "The Virgin Vault"
Yes, Steve, it's true that Anne Marie did live in the all female Regina dorm at Edgewood, ironically titled "The Virgin Vault", and there have probably been stories about this mythical place circulating around prisons for the past decade. Sorry to dissapoint you, but despite the fact that Anne Marie was a Regina girl, she's wasn't that sort of Regina girl. No matter what you may have heard about the place, only about sixty percent of the girls who live, or have lived there, are into convincts.
Anyway, Steve, what I'm trying to say is, no matter how many "STV&AM" license plates you manufacture as gifts for her in the prison shop, she's not going to be into you, so you might as well stop calling.
Sincerely,
Peter
Friday, February 1, 2008
Dear Black Eyed Peas
Dear Black Eyed Peas,
When we first met, I knew we were different, but wasn't it those very differences that spiced up our relationship? I was more than willing to find a way that we could both be happy with each other and still have our own lives, and you seemed just as determined in the beginning.
Whatever happened? I tried to call you, but only got the answering machine, no doubt because you're out again, as you are every night, trying to cause the earth to spin off its axis due to massive booty gyration. Did you ever think about what this obsession with swaying posteriors may be doing to our relationship? For a year I put up with you asking me where the love was twenty times a day, even when the love was sitting right in front of you waiting for you to grab it. And now this? What I'm trying to say is, Black Eyed Peas, it's over.
We're just too different, and have lifestyles that can never be reconciled. Now, I like to party just as much as anybody else, but frankly, sometimes I'm not in the mood, and I can't stand the thought of arriving home after an exhausting day at work, having you incessantly chanting "LET'S GET IT STARTED" in my ear. Maybe I don't want to get it started; have you ever thought about that? Maybe instead of getting it started, I want to shut it down. Is that so wrong? Can't we do that a couple of nights a week? I mean, nobody's on twenty four hours a day, are they? What if I just want to stay home and rent a video? Why can't we do that anymore? Are you going to let this juvenile obsession with getting it started ruin our relationship?
Where does this obsession with getting it started come from? And what is it that you're so gung ho about getting started, anyway? You never seem to be able to articulate that! Have you ever thought that maybe whatever it is you're trying get started is already started, and you're missing it because you're still busy trying to start something up that's already in motion?
Well, you'll have plenty of time to get it started now, because we're over.
Peter
When we first met, I knew we were different, but wasn't it those very differences that spiced up our relationship? I was more than willing to find a way that we could both be happy with each other and still have our own lives, and you seemed just as determined in the beginning.
Whatever happened? I tried to call you, but only got the answering machine, no doubt because you're out again, as you are every night, trying to cause the earth to spin off its axis due to massive booty gyration. Did you ever think about what this obsession with swaying posteriors may be doing to our relationship? For a year I put up with you asking me where the love was twenty times a day, even when the love was sitting right in front of you waiting for you to grab it. And now this? What I'm trying to say is, Black Eyed Peas, it's over.
We're just too different, and have lifestyles that can never be reconciled. Now, I like to party just as much as anybody else, but frankly, sometimes I'm not in the mood, and I can't stand the thought of arriving home after an exhausting day at work, having you incessantly chanting "LET'S GET IT STARTED" in my ear. Maybe I don't want to get it started; have you ever thought about that? Maybe instead of getting it started, I want to shut it down. Is that so wrong? Can't we do that a couple of nights a week? I mean, nobody's on twenty four hours a day, are they? What if I just want to stay home and rent a video? Why can't we do that anymore? Are you going to let this juvenile obsession with getting it started ruin our relationship?
Where does this obsession with getting it started come from? And what is it that you're so gung ho about getting started, anyway? You never seem to be able to articulate that! Have you ever thought that maybe whatever it is you're trying get started is already started, and you're missing it because you're still busy trying to start something up that's already in motion?
Well, you'll have plenty of time to get it started now, because we're over.
Peter
Gentlman Prefer Being Blond
Dear friends,
I categorically deny ever bleaching my hair. I categorically deny ever sticking any foreign substance in my hair besides shampoo, conditioner, and the occasional wad of gum when I was five.
In light of this, what on God's green earth is going on with my hair? Suddenly, I've started fielding questions about the red highlights, and all-together auburn coloring of my hair! At first I laughed it off, and then looked in the mirror to discover that I've gone platinum blond! Okay, maybe not platinum blond, but my hair is usually black; maybe not as not as black as Edgar Allen Poe's soul, but still pretty black. It's been that way for years, so imagine my shock when I looked in the mirror and saw my hair turning chestnut brown. Woah.
Of course, I searched my mind, my soul, and my shampoo for answers as to what may be causing this strange anomaly, and in the end, I found my answer; my hair has been bleached by the massive amount of rays I've been catching the past month. Yes, that's right, folks, as we all know, it's been incredibly warm and sunny here the last month, and I must have soaked up more of those rays than I realized. It's a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Okay, so I guess since we haven't seen the sun in two months, it's not that. Another possibility is that the high tension wires I live by are gradually causing my DNA to mutate; changes that will culminate in me being cast out from normal society, and force me to take refuge with other mutants who have suffered the same fate... and had their hair change color too.
Of course, my mind was occupied by this plethora of possibilities for several days, until I recently discovered that a bottle of hydrogen peroxide was missing from the bathroom... a bottle that looks just like the spray bottle I occasionally use on my hair. Ummmmmm, yeah. Dang.
In unrelated news, we are all celebrating the release of the film "Hostel", which will probably have the positive effect of increasing the paranoia that many Americans already feel towards foreign travel. I haven't seen the film, but apparently it involves American backpackers traveling to Slovakia in search of amorous adventures, only to find themselves being locked up and tortured.
Let me set things straight, friends, I was in Slovakia for a whole five days last summer, and I was only tortured once. I forgot to pay the twenty-five cent usage fee for the shower. Anyway, by all means, travel to Slovakia, and encourage your friends to do the same! It's cool! And not all of us go there looking for love; I was looking for surplus Soviet plutonium.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go shopping for hats,
Peter
I categorically deny ever bleaching my hair. I categorically deny ever sticking any foreign substance in my hair besides shampoo, conditioner, and the occasional wad of gum when I was five.
In light of this, what on God's green earth is going on with my hair? Suddenly, I've started fielding questions about the red highlights, and all-together auburn coloring of my hair! At first I laughed it off, and then looked in the mirror to discover that I've gone platinum blond! Okay, maybe not platinum blond, but my hair is usually black; maybe not as not as black as Edgar Allen Poe's soul, but still pretty black. It's been that way for years, so imagine my shock when I looked in the mirror and saw my hair turning chestnut brown. Woah.
Of course, I searched my mind, my soul, and my shampoo for answers as to what may be causing this strange anomaly, and in the end, I found my answer; my hair has been bleached by the massive amount of rays I've been catching the past month. Yes, that's right, folks, as we all know, it's been incredibly warm and sunny here the last month, and I must have soaked up more of those rays than I realized. It's a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Okay, so I guess since we haven't seen the sun in two months, it's not that. Another possibility is that the high tension wires I live by are gradually causing my DNA to mutate; changes that will culminate in me being cast out from normal society, and force me to take refuge with other mutants who have suffered the same fate... and had their hair change color too.
Of course, my mind was occupied by this plethora of possibilities for several days, until I recently discovered that a bottle of hydrogen peroxide was missing from the bathroom... a bottle that looks just like the spray bottle I occasionally use on my hair. Ummmmmm, yeah. Dang.
In unrelated news, we are all celebrating the release of the film "Hostel", which will probably have the positive effect of increasing the paranoia that many Americans already feel towards foreign travel. I haven't seen the film, but apparently it involves American backpackers traveling to Slovakia in search of amorous adventures, only to find themselves being locked up and tortured.
Let me set things straight, friends, I was in Slovakia for a whole five days last summer, and I was only tortured once. I forgot to pay the twenty-five cent usage fee for the shower. Anyway, by all means, travel to Slovakia, and encourage your friends to do the same! It's cool! And not all of us go there looking for love; I was looking for surplus Soviet plutonium.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go shopping for hats,
Peter
I Do It All For The Cookie
Dear friends,
We are rapidly approaching the changing of the year; a time filled with optimism and joy; that precious time of year when it becomes chic to make false promises to ourselves, rather than just other people. With the impending New Year staggering towards our door, I feel the time is right for forthcoming confession, so that I may enter the next year with a clean conscience.
I have often expounded on the many benefits of my job; flexible hours, a nice amount of vacation time, the great reward of seeing my students succeed, etc. These are all things that I enjoy about my job... but the fact is, friends, there is one benefit that overshadows them all. Truth be told, when the rubber meets the road.... I do it all for the cookie.
The greatest fringe benefit of my job is that, at this time of year, I find myself awash in a flood of cut-out cookies, chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter cookies, and many cookies of a variety that previously, I had never even heard of. Little did I know when I started this job, that there is a clause in every parent's contract that states, "If a person, or persons, assists with any instructional or recreational activities pertaining to your child, they shall be amply rewarded baked goods at Christmas".
Some people measure their wealth in 401k plans and stock options; I measure mine in cookies, toffee, and snicker doodles; and let me tell you, at this time of year, I'm a wealthy man.
In unrelated news, I did some shopping last night. What is my style of shopping, you ask? Very haphazard. I sort of go into a store with no idea of what I'm looking for, and then wander around blindly until I've found exactly what I wasn't looking for.
It was during this wandering that I came across the jeans section, and was a bit surprised when half of them that I saw were low rise models. This fervently begs the question; why in the heck do I need low rise jeans when I can't buy tops that show off my midriff anyway? I didn't see any one-size-too-small halter tops anywhere in the men's department, so what the heck?
This also leads to another question, Ladies; when, if ever, do you feel the need to see a big piece of "mandriff"? You can be completely honest with your answers, because they will not be disseminated among the public. I'm just curious, because in my personal experience, any glimpse of my "mandriff" that I happen to give out unintentionally (when yawning, for example), just seems to provoke giggles rather than admiration.
In related news, I am pleased to announce that I no longer take the longest inseam for jeans available at Kohl's. I spotted a swath of "38s last night, meaning that I no longer have to go in saying, "Show me the longest pants you've got." Hurrah!
Regards,
Peter
We are rapidly approaching the changing of the year; a time filled with optimism and joy; that precious time of year when it becomes chic to make false promises to ourselves, rather than just other people. With the impending New Year staggering towards our door, I feel the time is right for forthcoming confession, so that I may enter the next year with a clean conscience.
I have often expounded on the many benefits of my job; flexible hours, a nice amount of vacation time, the great reward of seeing my students succeed, etc. These are all things that I enjoy about my job... but the fact is, friends, there is one benefit that overshadows them all. Truth be told, when the rubber meets the road.... I do it all for the cookie.
The greatest fringe benefit of my job is that, at this time of year, I find myself awash in a flood of cut-out cookies, chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter cookies, and many cookies of a variety that previously, I had never even heard of. Little did I know when I started this job, that there is a clause in every parent's contract that states, "If a person, or persons, assists with any instructional or recreational activities pertaining to your child, they shall be amply rewarded baked goods at Christmas".
Some people measure their wealth in 401k plans and stock options; I measure mine in cookies, toffee, and snicker doodles; and let me tell you, at this time of year, I'm a wealthy man.
In unrelated news, I did some shopping last night. What is my style of shopping, you ask? Very haphazard. I sort of go into a store with no idea of what I'm looking for, and then wander around blindly until I've found exactly what I wasn't looking for.
It was during this wandering that I came across the jeans section, and was a bit surprised when half of them that I saw were low rise models. This fervently begs the question; why in the heck do I need low rise jeans when I can't buy tops that show off my midriff anyway? I didn't see any one-size-too-small halter tops anywhere in the men's department, so what the heck?
This also leads to another question, Ladies; when, if ever, do you feel the need to see a big piece of "mandriff"? You can be completely honest with your answers, because they will not be disseminated among the public. I'm just curious, because in my personal experience, any glimpse of my "mandriff" that I happen to give out unintentionally (when yawning, for example), just seems to provoke giggles rather than admiration.
In related news, I am pleased to announce that I no longer take the longest inseam for jeans available at Kohl's. I spotted a swath of "38s last night, meaning that I no longer have to go in saying, "Show me the longest pants you've got." Hurrah!
Regards,
Peter
I Do It All For The Cookie
Dear friends,
We are rapidly approaching the changing of the year; a time filled with optimism and joy; that precious time of year when it becomes chic to make false promises to ourselves, rather than just other people. With the impending New Year staggering towards our door, I feel the time is right for forthcoming confession, so that I may enter the next year with a clean conscience.
I have often expounded on the many benefits of my job; flexible hours, a nice amount of vacation time, the great reward of seeing my students succeed, etc. These are all things that I enjoy about my job... but the fact is, friends, there is one benefit that overshadows them all. Truth be told, when the rubber meets the road.... I do it all for the cookie.
The greatest fringe benefit of my job is that, at this time of year, I find myself awash in a flood of cut-out cookies, chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter cookies, and many cookies of a variety that previously, I had never even heard of. Little did I know when I started this job, that there is a clause in every parent's contract that states, "If a person, or persons, assists with any instructional or recreational activities pertaining to your child, they shall be amply rewarded baked goods at Christmas".
Some people measure their wealth in 401k plans and stock options; I measure mine in cookies, toffee, and snicker doodles; and let me tell you, at this time of year, I'm a wealthy man.
In unrelated news, I did some shopping last night. What is my style of shopping, you ask? Very haphazard. I sort of go into a store with no idea of what I'm looking for, and then wander around blindly until I've found exactly what I wasn't looking for.
It was during this wandering that I came across the jeans section, and was a bit surprised when half of them that I saw were low rise models. This fervently begs the question; why in the heck do I need low rise jeans when I can't buy tops that show off my midriff anyway? I didn't see any one-size-too-small halter tops anywhere in the men's department, so what the heck?
This also leads to another question, Ladies; when, if ever, do you feel the need to see a big piece of "mandriff"? You can be completely honest with your answers, because they will not be disseminated among the public. I'm just curious, because in my personal experience, any glimpse of my "mandriff" that I happen to give out unintentionally (when yawning, for example), just seems to provoke giggles rather than admiration.
In related news, I am pleased to announce that I no longer take the longest inseam for jeans available at Kohl's. I spotted a swath of "38s last night, meaning that I no longer have to go in saying, "Show me the longest pants you've got." Hurrah!
Regards,
Peter
We are rapidly approaching the changing of the year; a time filled with optimism and joy; that precious time of year when it becomes chic to make false promises to ourselves, rather than just other people. With the impending New Year staggering towards our door, I feel the time is right for forthcoming confession, so that I may enter the next year with a clean conscience.
I have often expounded on the many benefits of my job; flexible hours, a nice amount of vacation time, the great reward of seeing my students succeed, etc. These are all things that I enjoy about my job... but the fact is, friends, there is one benefit that overshadows them all. Truth be told, when the rubber meets the road.... I do it all for the cookie.
The greatest fringe benefit of my job is that, at this time of year, I find myself awash in a flood of cut-out cookies, chocolate chip cookies, peanut butter cookies, and many cookies of a variety that previously, I had never even heard of. Little did I know when I started this job, that there is a clause in every parent's contract that states, "If a person, or persons, assists with any instructional or recreational activities pertaining to your child, they shall be amply rewarded baked goods at Christmas".
Some people measure their wealth in 401k plans and stock options; I measure mine in cookies, toffee, and snicker doodles; and let me tell you, at this time of year, I'm a wealthy man.
In unrelated news, I did some shopping last night. What is my style of shopping, you ask? Very haphazard. I sort of go into a store with no idea of what I'm looking for, and then wander around blindly until I've found exactly what I wasn't looking for.
It was during this wandering that I came across the jeans section, and was a bit surprised when half of them that I saw were low rise models. This fervently begs the question; why in the heck do I need low rise jeans when I can't buy tops that show off my midriff anyway? I didn't see any one-size-too-small halter tops anywhere in the men's department, so what the heck?
This also leads to another question, Ladies; when, if ever, do you feel the need to see a big piece of "mandriff"? You can be completely honest with your answers, because they will not be disseminated among the public. I'm just curious, because in my personal experience, any glimpse of my "mandriff" that I happen to give out unintentionally (when yawning, for example), just seems to provoke giggles rather than admiration.
In related news, I am pleased to announce that I no longer take the longest inseam for jeans available at Kohl's. I spotted a swath of "38s last night, meaning that I no longer have to go in saying, "Show me the longest pants you've got." Hurrah!
Regards,
Peter
The Worksong Revival
Hmmm, this is fascinating stuff. Check it out.
Peter
Ben Miller
Associated Press
12/22/2005
CLEVELAND OHIO-
Located in a corporate park near Cleveland, SUPRATEC is a prime example of the rapid transition this country's economy has been making to the service sector industry.
In the corner of an enormous open hall filled with row upon row of cubicles, lies the desk of Bill Henderson, an employee of SUPRATEC since the late eighties, and manager of TEAM 4, which includes all of the employees who work in the first ten rows of this corporate megalopolis. Even Henderson, who says he likes his job, admits finding his workplace a bit monotonous from time to time. "You know, it's nothing big, I mean, it's a job, right? It's supposed to be a little monotonous, from time to time. But I kind of liked that regularity, you know? That's why I wasn't sure what was going on when this started," he says, gesturing to his sector of the floor, where throaty voices rise up in unison. "I thought it was somebody's birthday or something like that, at first, but the words sounded a little too melancholy for that."
As if on cue, a voice suddenly rises up to a thunderous throaty yell: "I'M GONNA TELL GOD ALL MY TROUBLES WHEN I GET HOME, I'M GONNA TELL HIM THE ROAD WAS ROCKY WHEN I GET HOME".
"I researched it to find out what was going on," Henderson continues, "and it turns out they're singing old, African American work songs, just like the slaves used to. The article I read said work songs were dead, but..." he leaves the rest of sentence unfinished, gesturing to the rows of cubicles where the song continues.
When asked where this new tradition was started, SUPRATEC employees refer to Skip Severson, and cubicle #267, where he plies his trade. Most of the songs, which are largely sung in call and response form, originate from this cubicle. Severson has been an employee at SUPRATEC for two years, and is quick to explain how he was inspired, "I was down at my local library, since I can't afford to buy books or CDs on my crappy paycheck, and I came across this album of old worksongs. I mean, sure, I'm a college educated Caucasian guy from Ohio, but they really spoke to me. One day I was just singing under my breath while I was working at the copy machine, and lo and behold, Jack, who works over there, picked up the verse and started singing it back. It was inspiring. It just snowballed from there. Soon, our whole section was singing."
Asked about how these songs, many of which were written in the 19th century, ring true with young, college educated workers in the 21st century, Skip says, "It's not surprising at all, really. I mean, the slaves that sang these songs had been torn away from to the lush beauty of Africa to be brought to America and worked to death under the hot sun on plantations. I'm from Lancaster County, and was ripped away from my home by the promise of a great job in the city, only to find myself stamping reports all day under the ungodly glow of these fluorescent lights. What the hell was I thinking? We're the same, those slaves and me. They sang these songs with the hope of liberation and... excuse me... DON'T KNOW WHAT MY MOTHER WANTS TO STAY HERE FUH, DIS OLD WORLD AIN'T NO FRIEND TO HUH," Skip sings, passing on the next verse to the rest of the office, where it's loudly repeated. "Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, yeah... they sang these songs with hope for liberation and freedom, just like us.
Though clearly feeling oppressed and vexed, Skip expresses hope for the future, citing a book that was recently written entitled "Uncle Tom's Cubicle", that has raised awareness across American concerning the plight of corporate workers. Until liberation comes, Skip intends on continuing the work song revival, "As long as there is tyranny and slavery, there will be worksongs. All that we can hope is that our own great emancipator is being raised up as we speak," he says, pointing to a portrait of Abraham Lincoln hanging on his cubicle wall.
"OUR FATHER, WHO IS IN HEAVEN, WHITE MAN OWE ME ELEVEN PAY ME SEVEN, THY KINGDOM COME, THY WILL BE DONE, IF I HADN'T TOOK THAT, I WOULDN'T HAD NONE".
Ben Miller reporting
Peter
Ben Miller
Associated Press
12/22/2005
CLEVELAND OHIO-
Located in a corporate park near Cleveland, SUPRATEC is a prime example of the rapid transition this country's economy has been making to the service sector industry.
In the corner of an enormous open hall filled with row upon row of cubicles, lies the desk of Bill Henderson, an employee of SUPRATEC since the late eighties, and manager of TEAM 4, which includes all of the employees who work in the first ten rows of this corporate megalopolis. Even Henderson, who says he likes his job, admits finding his workplace a bit monotonous from time to time. "You know, it's nothing big, I mean, it's a job, right? It's supposed to be a little monotonous, from time to time. But I kind of liked that regularity, you know? That's why I wasn't sure what was going on when this started," he says, gesturing to his sector of the floor, where throaty voices rise up in unison. "I thought it was somebody's birthday or something like that, at first, but the words sounded a little too melancholy for that."
As if on cue, a voice suddenly rises up to a thunderous throaty yell: "I'M GONNA TELL GOD ALL MY TROUBLES WHEN I GET HOME, I'M GONNA TELL HIM THE ROAD WAS ROCKY WHEN I GET HOME".
"I researched it to find out what was going on," Henderson continues, "and it turns out they're singing old, African American work songs, just like the slaves used to. The article I read said work songs were dead, but..." he leaves the rest of sentence unfinished, gesturing to the rows of cubicles where the song continues.
When asked where this new tradition was started, SUPRATEC employees refer to Skip Severson, and cubicle #267, where he plies his trade. Most of the songs, which are largely sung in call and response form, originate from this cubicle. Severson has been an employee at SUPRATEC for two years, and is quick to explain how he was inspired, "I was down at my local library, since I can't afford to buy books or CDs on my crappy paycheck, and I came across this album of old worksongs. I mean, sure, I'm a college educated Caucasian guy from Ohio, but they really spoke to me. One day I was just singing under my breath while I was working at the copy machine, and lo and behold, Jack, who works over there, picked up the verse and started singing it back. It was inspiring. It just snowballed from there. Soon, our whole section was singing."
Asked about how these songs, many of which were written in the 19th century, ring true with young, college educated workers in the 21st century, Skip says, "It's not surprising at all, really. I mean, the slaves that sang these songs had been torn away from to the lush beauty of Africa to be brought to America and worked to death under the hot sun on plantations. I'm from Lancaster County, and was ripped away from my home by the promise of a great job in the city, only to find myself stamping reports all day under the ungodly glow of these fluorescent lights. What the hell was I thinking? We're the same, those slaves and me. They sang these songs with the hope of liberation and... excuse me... DON'T KNOW WHAT MY MOTHER WANTS TO STAY HERE FUH, DIS OLD WORLD AIN'T NO FRIEND TO HUH," Skip sings, passing on the next verse to the rest of the office, where it's loudly repeated. "Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, yeah... they sang these songs with hope for liberation and freedom, just like us.
Though clearly feeling oppressed and vexed, Skip expresses hope for the future, citing a book that was recently written entitled "Uncle Tom's Cubicle", that has raised awareness across American concerning the plight of corporate workers. Until liberation comes, Skip intends on continuing the work song revival, "As long as there is tyranny and slavery, there will be worksongs. All that we can hope is that our own great emancipator is being raised up as we speak," he says, pointing to a portrait of Abraham Lincoln hanging on his cubicle wall.
"OUR FATHER, WHO IS IN HEAVEN, WHITE MAN OWE ME ELEVEN PAY ME SEVEN, THY KINGDOM COME, THY WILL BE DONE, IF I HADN'T TOOK THAT, I WOULDN'T HAD NONE".
Ben Miller reporting
Au Contraire, My Dear Fellow
Dear friends,
Living as I do, in a small town, I am often privy to the types of small town charms that cause people to reminisce about yesteryears, and often, realize why they moved out of their small towns and into the city.
I was recently in the local drug store, and was witness to this exchange between a fairly cantankerous older gentleman, and one of the pharmacists; it went something like this:
Gentleman: "What's taking so long?"
Pharmacist: "You just have to be patient, sir."
Gentleman: "Why can't he hurry up?"
Pharmacist: "Sir, you'll have your order shortly.
Gentleman: "I can't believe this service!"
Pharmacist: "Just settle down please, sir".
Gentleman: "I can't believe this! Maybe he could go a little faster if he cut his hair!"
The man then went on to tell the pharmacist that, by golly, they were going to be run out of business once the Walgreen's is completed. Overall, a rather charming exchange. Oh, and it's also important to note that the guy who found himself on the receiving end of this abuse had really long hair.... about an inch longer than mine.
After witnessing this unprovoked attack on the speed of long haired people everywhere, I feel the need to respond and reveal that, au contraire, my dear fellow, ample historical evidence contradicts your assertion. History is full of speedy, long haired people.
1. Samson: This Old Testament bone crusher used the power and speed he gained from his extensive locks to kill a thousand Philistines... in one battle... with a random jawbone he found lying on the ground. Yikes.
2. Mercury: This speedy dude was the messenger for the gods until he went into retirement and started making brawny American cars instead. Knowing Zeus's temper, and his affection for hurling lightening bolts when he didn't get his way, it is safe to assume that Mercury was very, very fast.
3. Florence Griffith Joyner: Flo Jo toasted competition on the track with long hair flying in the breeze, even managing to keep her six inch, glittery fingernails intact. 'Nuff said.
4. Yngwie Malmsteen: Molten shards of triplet-laced guitar riffs fly from this man's guitar. If you actually know who this guy is, than you may have, at some time, been subjected to one of Peter's soliloquies on guitar shredders. Many apologies.
5. Jesus Christ: Jesus managed to emerge from the tomb a mere three days after his death, and that was including a stop-over in Hades. A lot of people try to come back from the dead and never work it out; Jesus did it in three days. That's fast.
Speaking of drug stores, what's up with greeting card selection these days? Hallmark is aspiring to give every card such a personal touch that they are starting to squeeze one particular genre of card right out of the market; the ambivalence filled have-to-send-it card. I mean, What card do we buy for that person who we're not particularly fond of, but are contractually required to buy a Christmas card for due to outdated social imperatives? They don't fall under the category of being a friend, relative, wife, husband, or object of torrid obsession, so what are we supposed to do? Do we really want to send them a card bursting with more saccharine than my sugar free Bubble Yum? I don't think so. A letter writing campaign will follow briefly.
Well, the results concerning how many times to say thank you to somebody when they open two consecutive doors for you have come in, and there are several suggestions I received to choose from.
1. Give a robust "Thank You!" the first time, and then a mumbled "Thank you" the second time. This is probably how I do it most of the time.
2. Give a robust "Thank You!" in English after the first door, and another robust "Thank You!" in a foreign language after the second door. You choose the language, but be warned, simply switching accents does not count.
3. Give a robust "Thank You!" after the first door, kick the person, and then run off laughing. Um, yeah, you might not want to make a habit of this one.
Warm regards,
Peter
Living as I do, in a small town, I am often privy to the types of small town charms that cause people to reminisce about yesteryears, and often, realize why they moved out of their small towns and into the city.
I was recently in the local drug store, and was witness to this exchange between a fairly cantankerous older gentleman, and one of the pharmacists; it went something like this:
Gentleman: "What's taking so long?"
Pharmacist: "You just have to be patient, sir."
Gentleman: "Why can't he hurry up?"
Pharmacist: "Sir, you'll have your order shortly.
Gentleman: "I can't believe this service!"
Pharmacist: "Just settle down please, sir".
Gentleman: "I can't believe this! Maybe he could go a little faster if he cut his hair!"
The man then went on to tell the pharmacist that, by golly, they were going to be run out of business once the Walgreen's is completed. Overall, a rather charming exchange. Oh, and it's also important to note that the guy who found himself on the receiving end of this abuse had really long hair.... about an inch longer than mine.
After witnessing this unprovoked attack on the speed of long haired people everywhere, I feel the need to respond and reveal that, au contraire, my dear fellow, ample historical evidence contradicts your assertion. History is full of speedy, long haired people.
1. Samson: This Old Testament bone crusher used the power and speed he gained from his extensive locks to kill a thousand Philistines... in one battle... with a random jawbone he found lying on the ground. Yikes.
2. Mercury: This speedy dude was the messenger for the gods until he went into retirement and started making brawny American cars instead. Knowing Zeus's temper, and his affection for hurling lightening bolts when he didn't get his way, it is safe to assume that Mercury was very, very fast.
3. Florence Griffith Joyner: Flo Jo toasted competition on the track with long hair flying in the breeze, even managing to keep her six inch, glittery fingernails intact. 'Nuff said.
4. Yngwie Malmsteen: Molten shards of triplet-laced guitar riffs fly from this man's guitar. If you actually know who this guy is, than you may have, at some time, been subjected to one of Peter's soliloquies on guitar shredders. Many apologies.
5. Jesus Christ: Jesus managed to emerge from the tomb a mere three days after his death, and that was including a stop-over in Hades. A lot of people try to come back from the dead and never work it out; Jesus did it in three days. That's fast.
Speaking of drug stores, what's up with greeting card selection these days? Hallmark is aspiring to give every card such a personal touch that they are starting to squeeze one particular genre of card right out of the market; the ambivalence filled have-to-send-it card. I mean, What card do we buy for that person who we're not particularly fond of, but are contractually required to buy a Christmas card for due to outdated social imperatives? They don't fall under the category of being a friend, relative, wife, husband, or object of torrid obsession, so what are we supposed to do? Do we really want to send them a card bursting with more saccharine than my sugar free Bubble Yum? I don't think so. A letter writing campaign will follow briefly.
Well, the results concerning how many times to say thank you to somebody when they open two consecutive doors for you have come in, and there are several suggestions I received to choose from.
1. Give a robust "Thank You!" the first time, and then a mumbled "Thank you" the second time. This is probably how I do it most of the time.
2. Give a robust "Thank You!" in English after the first door, and another robust "Thank You!" in a foreign language after the second door. You choose the language, but be warned, simply switching accents does not count.
3. Give a robust "Thank You!" after the first door, kick the person, and then run off laughing. Um, yeah, you might not want to make a habit of this one.
Warm regards,
Peter
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