The Week I Wish Had Not Been (But Was Anyway)

28 04 2017

Your Blogmeister’s Desk

I was thrice falsely accused of things this week:

(1) I was accused of being the secret identity behind a marginal YouTube personality; The accuser’s evidence was that our voices sound so much alike. In reality, this YouTuber’s voice is better than mine.

(2) I was accused of hoisting coffee from the company stockpile. It took a few days, but the colleague of mine who was actually doing it was caught red handed. I suppose the reason I was suspected is because I’m a bean head, and the stolen coffee is expensive and exotic.

(3) My landlord accused me of busting a lock to an apartment I don’t live in and at a time when I was on the road.

In better news, on the drive home from Kansas City, I stopped by the public library in Warrenton, because the public library district that serves Warren and Franklin Counties jointly is having a yuge bigly kick ass sale on books and what not, a buck for hardcovers and two for a buck for softs. I found some pretty good finds.

But, then? Tomorrow, the sky is going to open up, so no golf for Blogmeister tomorrow. If it’s going to rain as much as they say it will, then it might be a good idea for me to stay off the beaten paths, as many of them will become rivers. If it’s that bad, I just might have to figure out how long a cubit is.

If you have anything you want to accuse me of falsely, now is the time.

Pile On While the Piling’s Good

24 04 2017

Your Blogmeister’s Desk

Within a 75 minute time span this afternoon, two different people lodged two different complaints against my writing style.

One said that I’m not boring enough, that I’d have a bigger audience if I was not given to colorful metaphor.  (Not quite in those words, but that’s the gist of it.)  The other one said that I must be on staff at Oxford University because he was confused about my rhetorical conveyance.  (Again, not exact words.)  I had to respond to this one by noting that while Oxford’s American English volume is my go-to dictionary for both printed and online (*), that’s the extent of my relationship with the school.

If you’ve ever wanted to bitch about my writing style, be my guest in the comment thread.  You might as well get it done and over with, after all, today seems to be the day ordained in the stars for people to do that.  While I have relatively thick skin, the other side of the coin is that I suffer from having a good memory.  “Suffer,” because it means I remember things I really need to forget, and eternally sulk over them.  I am for the rest of this day arresting my ability to be offended at anything, being sure to read me my own Miranda rights — Otherwise, this star-crossed day is going to get the better of your ever-lovin’ blogmeister.

(*) – While Merriam-Webster has moral cache for Americans because it is on the business lineage of the life and work of Noah Webster himself, its definitions have been getting too political for my tastes lately.

“Age Has Its Privileges”

1 04 2017

Your Blogmeister’s Desk

My quadragenarian blues were very short-lived.

Among many good and memorable things that happened to and for me yesterday, the big big big boss of the operation ringed my sail foam in the late morning.  I have my phone set to where my screen flashes red and makes an alarm noise when he tries to call me.  Meaning that if I’m in a coma and he tries to call me, I come out of the coma to answer it.  So I figured something was up.  It went like this:  “(My name), I heard from (my immediate supervisor’s name) that you had the day off because you turn forty today.  But there’s something I want you to take a look at really quick.  It’s right there on your desk.  It won’t take you more than a half hour, if that.  I’m sorry for getting you in here on a day you were supposed to have off.”  So of course I schlepped my way over to the salt mines.

Turns out it was a pretext — When I got to my desk, I found what felt like a file folder packet wrapped up in gift wrapping paper and a bow, and a post-it note peeled onto it had these handwritten words:

“Age has its privileges.”

Then I opened it.

Three PGA tour majors.  Two Senior PGA tour majors.  A Ryder Cup.  Nicklaus-designed.

And I’m going to get to play it.  Two rounds, any time in the proceeding year, along with a partner of my choice.  (Don’t ask, I already know who it’s going to be — I’ll put it to you this way — I’ll be mending an old fence, and this will definitely do the trick.)  Which means I’ll most likely do the Saturday-Sunday thing on a weekend when the weather forecast for the course’s metro area looks chipper and I can convert this gift package into a good tee time, and, considering where and what this is, that will be easier said than done.

I am of course talking about Valhalla in Louisville.

I also have an idea who pulled the necessary strings to make this happen, but that’s all it’ll be, just an idea.  The better plan is to enjoy the weekend.  I know it will be by far the most difficult course I’ve ever played.  I know this course is going to chew my ass up and spit it out.  But, who cares?  The best golfers of our generation have played competitively there, and the best golfer of all time (*) designed it.

You know?  If I would have gotten this present on my 30th birthday, I would have shown the requisite appreciation to whoever gave it to me, but I would have had no use for it.  Another way to think about this gift is this:  It’s not so much what it is (though, you have to believe me, it’s special on its face), but what it represents.  What it represents is that I must be making a good impression on some really important people.  Aside from the fact that I wouldn’t have been able to appreciate this gift had I got it ten years ago, it wouldn’t have mattered because I would have never received it ten years ago.  What this gift means is that I’ve sorta arrived, sorta made it.  No, I won’t be going on Mount Rushmore if I kick off tomorrow.  But what it means is that the world is communicating to me that it knows I’m putting way more into it than taking from it in somewhat crucial ways, and that all of my BS&T over all this time is starting to pay off.  It sorta speaks to the old saw that “they don’t let you make any real money until you’re 40.” It’s not as true as it used to be, but it’s still sort of a thing.  What it also means is that I now realize that even as the calendar belies any such desires I might have in this stead, I no longer want to be young.  It took me living this long, and all this time, and all this work, and all these setbacks and false starts, to get to where I am and to get what I have.

If that was all that happened yesterday, then I would have had the best milestone birthday of my life.

To add icing to the cake, as I was on my way to my desk to do what I thought was going to be a quick piece of work but turned out to be finding a present, some dusty blonde who works in the same building but for a different firm basically clubbed me over the head and took me back to her cave.  Naw, she literally didn’t do that.  But she did make a serious pass at me.  Turns out she has been working in the building for a few months, and while she may have crossed my vision, I never noticed her.  But she has been noticing me, and the lack of a ring on my hands.  For some reason that may be either cosmically significant, or just a coincidence, she worked up the courage on of all days my 40th birthday to throw herself at me.  Just for the fact of who she threw herself at (this may come as something of a shock to all of you, but I can be something of a jerk towards women), and the particular date she chose to do it, that deserves at least one nice supper.  She might be the one, or she might be just one of those things, and knowing me, it’s probably going to be the latter.  But, we’ll see, starting tonight.

Another one of yesterday’s highlights is that I got bamboozled into spinning at my own birthday party.  Only yours truly…

I think this is the start of a beautiful decade.


(*) Jack > Tiger.  I so believe that if that I was made to bet my life on either match or score play between Jack in his prime and Tiger in his prime, eight days out of seven every week I’d go with Jack.  If for no other reason alone, Tiger has proven that he’s mentally weak and it’s easy to live rent-free in his head.  Jack, OTOH, won eight of his eighteen majors on come-from-behind Sundays, while Tiger not only never won a major if he wasn’t already leading after Saturday, but he also coughed up at least two majors on Sunday after being in the lead to start the day.  What it means is that Jack is at least somewhat mentally sturdy; I don’t know how he ranks compared to people in general, but I know he’s stronger than Tiger, and since I’m speaking of Jack versus Tiger, that’s all that needs to be stated.  Most people only look at the wins in majors, Jack’s 18 to Tiger’s 16.  What most people overlook is that Jack has 19 second-place finishes in majors.  By comparison, Tiger has six.  Meaning that if you count wins and places together, Jack has 37 to Tiger’s 22.  If you count win-place-show, it’s Jack 48 to Tiger 24.

One of Tiger’s 16 majors was at Valhalla, namely the 2000 PGA.

In case you want to know, my favorite golfer of our time is Phil Mickelson, who is currently in the news for not a good reason.

Crossing the Event Horizon

30 03 2017

Your Blogmeister’s Desk

My constant pleas to Mother Nature have gone unheard; she didn’t stop or slow down time for my behalf.

For better or worse, it happens tomorrow.

Which means I’ll be disconnected until at least Saturday.

Work is letting me play hooky, and while I’ll take them up on the offer, there’s a part of me that wishes I had some way not to think about what is about to become of me on the morrow.

By the time you read new material in this space, I’ll be in a whole new decade.

Until then:

Plan Z

27 03 2017


About the sword nutbar.

Almost two years ago, after the Charleston nutbar, I asked myself a serious question and came to an answer.  It’s a question I’m thinking of again now that this latest nutbar seems to have had very similar motives.

Here’s the question:

What would I do if the black undertow got on my last nerve?

As much as I don’t want to think that they can, or that I would let it go that far, I also know that I share a common trait with the other some 7,493,000,000 people in this world:  Human.

I’ve narrowed it down in my mind to one destructive and one non-destructive option.  The destructive option is the 25 cent retirement plan, the non-destructive option is a certain never to be revealed in this space spot in rural southern Illinois where I’d be getting up very early every morning to feed the chickens.

I’d most likely go for the non-destructive option.

Either way, you’d all probably never hear from me in this space ever again.

If you ever reach a point where there are no new posts in this space for a very long time, then you’ll know what happened.

All of you should be thinking about your Plan Z.

Maybe There’s Light At the End of the Tunnel After All

19 03 2017

Your Blogmeister’s Desk

As I do most Sundays after Church in the year since my mother has moved into assisted living, I and other close relatives will head to her place where she makes Sunday supper.  Some weeks she’s better than others, but she’s had a pretty good streak lately.  As you know, two weeks ago Sunday, she didn’t do any cooking, because it was her 78th birthday.

Mom has been seeing the increasing despondency in my face and knows what the problem is.

Today, she reminded me of something:  On the day of her 40th birthday, she would have liked to have had a midlife crisis, but she had an almost two-year old son to worry about, and a bunch of other worries.  In the 365 days that would follow, her own father died in August, I lost my hearing in November but quickly got it back with ear surgery the next month.  But even that temporary hearing lost happened at the worst possible time, and stunted my speech and language development, and it wasn’t until seventh grade that I was fully caught up.

Her point was that I needed to calm down and realize how good I have it.

And when I think of it, at this point in my life, I’m better off in majority of ways than either my mother or my father when they were on the verge of turning forty.  The only thing my father on his own 40th birthday could say that he has on me on mine is that his career track was a hell of a lot more stable, even if it was unremarkable (Chrysler assembly line, and a barber shop on the side).  Me, less stability, but way more interesting.  My mother at 40?  Almost as stable, but only a little more interesting than my father’s (chiropractor).

Then I remember that my 80-year old father is in a nursing home and not compos mentis, and could go at any moment.  I don’t want to think about the symmetry of me losing my father when I’m 40 just like my mother lost hers when she was 40.

Moo Juice

17 03 2017

Your Blogmeister’s Desk

Had to stock up on moo juice on the path between salt mines and nest.

Every gallon in the store had the same sell-by date.

Guess which date.

It’s getting real, and now so close enough to show up on milk gallon sell-by dates.

And it’s coming, right on schedule, whether I like it or not.