American Fez

Nasal Media

Social media is surely the Internet equivalent of picking your nose, and actually interacting with social media is surely the Intenet equivalent of eating it too. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that social media has replaced picking your nose as the world's number one brainless activity. Even being asleep requires more intelligence and discrimination than "liking" a Facebook post.

Once upon a time, dragged daily through the underground vaults of the city by a rattling tram, I often witnessed google-eyed commuters burrowing into their nostrils with wormlike fingers while staring into space. These days, however, those same overworked digits idly massage the screens of Smartphones instead, their owners sniffing and snorting as they briefly acknowledge each Facebook update with a dismissive swipe.

Alas, operating a smartphone at the moment obviously requires both hands: one to securely grip the expensive device and the other to knead, slap and poke its surface. Consequently so much nasal waste remains uncollected now, like bags of slimy garbage abandoned by the train tracks, since former nostril-rummaging fingers are currently otherwise engaged. 

The development of hands-free tech will no doubt provide a solution, enabling Facebookers of the future to merely blink to like their friends' latest Instagrams, leaving all their fingers free to excavate each nostril as they blink again to scroll through even more insipid images.

Such will the walls of the World of Tomorrow be smeared with squillions of both real and 'e' boogers, fresh picked from squillions of real and virtual noses.

Thanksgiving Tips

Before dinner last Thanksgiving, hands clasped and eyes closed, I acknowledged life's great bounty with a solemn prayer of appreciation.

But when I raised my humble head to survey the table, however, I observed all the food had already been devoured by my greedier, less reverent family. The only remains were a small, watery blob of cranberry sauce and the ruins of a turkey, slivers of slimy dark-grey meat clinging to its ravaged bones. There might have been the brown blister of an over-roasted Brussels sprout, also, but most of the spread had been reduced to a depressing landscape of drained tureens and serving platters scraped clean.

Yeah, thanks a lot. 

My uncle Silas slapped his stomach then belched in my face. That's some good eatin', he said to nobody in particular while loosening the adjustable waistband on his comfort-fit chinos. The others, equally bloated and barely conscious, slumped goggle-eyed in their chairs, threatening to topple face forward into pools of congealing gravy.

I don't suppose there's any wine left? I asked an empty bottle of Sauvignon Blanc rolling across the table cloth. Nope. Thought not.

This year, therefore, I'm not giving thanks until after dinner. And I shall be mostly expressing gratitude for my aggressive elbows and that I'm slightly stronger and spritelier than most of my relations. If I'm still awake by then, of course.

A Drinker's Week

The woman at my local liquor store is a cocktail shaker shaped siren on an island of amber colored bottles, but these days I wisely ignore her glug-glug song. 

I used to imbibe a variety of booze most nights of the week: a mellowing glass of Montenegro on Sunday evenings as I contemplated the week ahead; a glass of wine or two on Tuesday to keep my wheels oiled and my mind on track; a few commiserative ales after work on hump day with my colleagues while we criticized and disparaged our clients; followed by black spiced rum at end of day on Friday as I hoisted the Jolly Roger in preparation for the weekend. Saturday night, of course, belonged to mixed drinks in mixed company; then a mellowing glass of Montenegro on Sunday evenings as I contemplated the week ahead, and so on ...

Older now, more susceptible to hangovers and other post-drink impairments, I confine myself to mere edge-removing quantities of red wine or beer.

The problem is: as I age, the daily grind accumulates more and sharper edges: as one edge is obliterated with drink another immediately appears. Consequently, taking the edge off with a glass of cabernet franc becomes a kind of whack-a-mole played with countless refills and top offs. 

Perhaps I should upgrade my per diem intake to a tankard of mead? 

Pshaw In The City

He was called Shaw, although he spelled it Pshaw, like the exclamation of disbelief, but without the exclamation mark, obviously. 

Pshaw claimed the s was silent, naturally, so pronounced his name as "Paw," which could be awkward when he introduced himself to others. "I am poor," he would say, and charitable people would often give him a quarter. 

"I ask no quarter," he would respond to such largesse, which could also be awkward. Fortunately, we do not live in medieval times, or else he might be run through by his interlocutor's sword. 

I do not pretend to be the equal of P. G Wodehouse (pronounced Woodhouse). Indeed, dear old Pelham Grenville forgot more funny names than I will ever know. But I do think Pshaw possesses more comic possibility than Psmith.

To which purists no doubt respond "Pshaw!"

The Devil and All His Cliches

The Devil finds work for idle hands?

I very much doubt it.

I'm no student of the Bible, I'm not even a casual consumer of medieval demonology nor a member of the Satanic book-of-the-month club, but it does seem fairly obvious to me that any Devil worth his pitchfork and cloven hooves would never entrust his important diabolical work to just any old lazybones.  

Those hands are idle, after all. A leopard does not change his spots, especially a lethargic leopard. Even if the Devil does find work for the idle hands, it's highly unlikely the work is actually going to get done.

Why do the Devil's work today when you can put it off until tomorrow, I can hear an owner of idle hands saying. And I should know: it takes one to know one, as they say.

So if the Devil is handing out tasks willy-nilly, I'd bet my immortal soul he's giving them to impatient hands instead.  

Impatient handed people aren't going to merely lounge around daydreaming about accomplishments, or sit cross-legged on the floor meditating on the pros and cons of taking action. No, they simply rush headlong into whatever work there is without thinking of the consequences. Such bundles of misdirected energy are exactly the sort of mindless Type-A personalities the Devil is looking for when he wants his evildoing done.

The Devil will find work for idle hands?

No chance. He doesn't even call them back for a second interview. 

Horizontal Disintegration

Once upon a time, before the digital flood, I was pretty good at doing my job. At least that's what I gathered from the positive performance reviews I received each year. From time to time I'd even get, you know, a pay raise or even a Christmas bonus.

These days, however, grappling with the old-fashioned nitty-gritty of my job is the last thing required of me at the office. Providing solutions is the name of the game now. I need to be part of a problem solving team first and foremost. Although the only real problem we encounter is that our company doesn't make enough money anymore. And we haven't been able to solve that one yet.

So I don't have performance reviews anymore. There's nothing to review. I am just one of three computer monkeys picking data fleas off each other, and nobody can tell whether we're doing it efficiently or not, including ourselves. Hear no productivity, see no productivity, speak no productivity.... Well, that's not exactly true. We actually talk about productivity quite a lot; then we return to our cubicles and completely forget what was discussed.

No review, of course, means no pay raise. Not that there's money to give raises anyway, and not giving reviews is a good way to avoid the awkward subject altogether. Sometimes naive employees do ask about raises, but we tell them to wait until their annual reviews that we know will never happen. Besides, I fully expect us to go bankrupt before the cost of living goes up again.