A Big F…ing Deal!

My mother turns ninety in April. We were sitting in front of the television watching congress vote on the health care bill. When the vote was over, Representative Boehner went into his rant about the dire consequences of passing such a bill. Mom smiled.

“You know,” she said, “I’ve lived long enough to hear people predict the same sort horrible things if we had Social Security or Medicare.”

Mom is a deeply religious person who has never given up on life here or in the hereafter. She does not simply sit around waiting for her life in this world to end. She still pays attention to what is happening today. She is living proof that we cannot always predict how people will react to something based upon their religion or some other grouping such as ethnicity or race or age. Forget the demographics. We are all individuals, and the conclusions we draw from our experiences will decide how we react to current events. What her experiences have taught her is that the world does not come crashing to an end if we make a mistake. Things usually get sorted out over time, and there is invariably an opportunity to change course and make the corrections we need to make. People who give in to their anger and make vitriolic statements predicting the end of the world look foolish for making those statements when things are finally sorted out. This holds true not just in politics but also in the normal course of our daily lives.

I was sitting in a restaurant once when I overheard a gentleman expressing anger over what another business had done. I do not know exactly what caused his anger because I was not intentionally eves dropping, but the part I did hear is instructive.

“I can’t believe the son of a bitch did that,” he said with raised voice. “I know they’re not exactly in compliance either, and two can play that game!”

His companion calmly said: “No. I want to find a way to get along with them because it’s not a good idea to get into a pissing contest when we’re both dressed for the prom.”

My point is that the normal give and take we have every right to expect from our politicians has degenerated into a pissing contest. The progressive Democrats are in a snit because the health care reform bill does not include a public insurance option, and the Republicans are in a snit because the bill that was passed in spite of the unanimous opposition of their party. It is time for both progressives and conservatives to take a deep breath and calm down. Neither party is setting out to ruin this country or destroy our democracy. I am not going to discuss the issue of a public insurance option here. That is a subject better suited to my political blog, and I am afraid I have to admit that the anger I occasionally express there will probably make me look foolish sometime in the future.

Calling the law that was passed a government takeover of our health care system and saying that it will lead to a socialistic state is absolutely absurd. A more accurate description is that it consists of a few corrections and some new regulations designed to curb the worst practices of the health insurance industry. Who can argue with the fact that the doughnut hole in our prescription drug program is undesirable and needs be closed? Who can argue with the fact that the insurance industry’s denial of coverage because of pre-conditions is leaving far too many people without the health care they so desperately need, or the fact that far too many people are being deprived of the health care they need because of annual or lifetime caps on their coverage? Those are some of the things this new law is designed to correct. The real question is not the need to correct those things; rather it is a question of whether the new law is the best way to accomplish that. No matter how you feel about this law, I think you have to admit there will be an opportunity to correct any flaws it may have. In that respect, I think it is a good starting point, and there is always room for improvement.

The question of who is to blame for the give and take degenerating into a pissing contest is one that I address in my political blog, if you are interested in that. Frankly, I do not think blame is productive if we are willing to come together and do what needs to be done. What should be readily apparent is that we are wasting too much of our precious time and energy by shouting at each other. Clearly what we need are honest debates that acknowledge the facts rather than knee jerk ideological reactions that make reasonable compromises impossible. It is time for us to negotiate with each other in good faith and to set about the difficult task of solving the other very real problems that confront us as a nation!

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms on Mar 17, 2010
 I stand by what I wrote, but I'm afraid it was obviously too optimistic.  I have also lost mom, and her calm voice.

Spring Time

It is almost spring. It is almost that time of year when the allergies kick up, older men lose their hair, and the birds set about decorating automobiles. What I have just written is obviously a different view of a season that many cheerful odes celebrate as a renewal of life. So which view of spring is correct? The answer is both. Anyone who has looked into a bird’s nest after the fledglings have left it, or has changed a diaper, or has witnessed a birth will affirm the fact that life, as wonderful as it is, is messy. That mess, of course, is a small price to pay for life. I can appreciate blooming flowers and colorful birds as much as the next guy, and I am glad that I am around to enjoy it.

The vernal equinox is on March 20 this year, but it is not this celestial event that has me thinking about spring. It is not like the equinox instantly changes everything. The snow does not instantly melt, nor does the vegetation instantly spring to life. Up here we get a few days of relatively warm temperatures, followed by freezing temperatures that turn the run off into ice, followed by more snow, which is then followed by warmer temperatures. The other day I stepped out of my back door, took two steps toward my truck, and slid two and a half feet down my sloped driveway. Clear the ice, you say. Well bring your pickax and give me hand. I doubt that many of you would accept the invitation. I do not blame you. As you may have gathered, I am looking forward to the months of warmer, consistent temperatures. That consistent weather pattern usually starts sometime in May or June. In this regard the equinox is more of a promise than a desirable change.

What marks the onset of spring for me is not what nature does; rather it is what man does. It is this nonsense of springing forward, of setting the damn clocks ahead an hour. That hour of sleep I am losing hit me hard this year. I guess I am reaching the age when a disruption of my normal sleeping pattern is not well tolerated. I do not care whether you want to stay on standard time or switch to daylight savings time. Taking advantage of the longer days is fine with me. What I object to is the changing. Pick one time and stick to it!

Speaking of how we adapt to nature, Top Gear displayed a device that falls roughly into the category of you have to be kidding. It is called a she-wee. It is a false penis that is supposed to allow women to urinate standing up, like a man. It is made of plastic. I could not help thinking that it would make someone who is wearing it appear to have to an erection that is too small to be flattering on a man but would still raise some serious gender questions about a woman. I also wondered how well it fits and whether there is a danger of it leaking. I will let you draw your own conclusions in regard to the pun. One of the more amusing aspects of this device is the way it is being promoted. Whoever wrote the promotional copy made it sound like men whip out their hoses and spray whenever and wherever the urge to do so strikes them. Most men know that life is messy enough without random sprayings. Give us some credit, ladies!

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms on Mar. 17, 2010

The Listener

Tom (Cat) Catilan sat in front of his computer. He had retired last year. Now he was a couch potato. He had nowhere to go and nothing to do. Yesterday he had suffered from shortness of breath. It was probably his heart. He should make a doctor’s appointment, but first things first. He had so much to say. The problem was that he had been holding it in for so long that he could not remember what it was. That was understandable. “If you don’t open your mouth, you can’t put your foot in it.” That is what he had been taught, and it had served him well. Like his father, he was a pipe smoker. The pipe was a wonderful prop. If the conversation became too deep, he lit it, puffed on it, and looked thoughtful. If he was required to say something, he usually asked a question. He tried to make it a question that would help refine the thoughts of the person conversing with him. He thought doing that was better than actually stating his own opinion.

His friends and colleagues jokingly called this placid man tomcat. One look at his wife seemed to confirm the sexual connotation. She was a beauty queen with all the grace and style that comes from having a finishing school education. Her looks and style made people think she was way out of his league, but she adored him because he actually listened to her. She was not the only one who felt that way about him. People instinctively turned to him when they were upset. Even the movers and shakers of the corporation he worked for connected with him on an emotional level. He was also very competent at what he did, and he rapidly rose to become the head of one of the corporation’s divisions. He resisted any further attempts to promote him. He was where he wanted to be.

He lit his pipe and blew smoke at the empty screen of the monitor. What he was thinking of writing was a memoir of sorts, but this posed a problem. He had heard far too many comments about how wise he was. If he wrote anything, people who thought he was wise would expect it to be profound. They would expect him to reveal one of life’s great mysteries or tell them how to achieve tranquility. He did not want to disappoint them. So what had his experiences taught him? His most intense experience was when he had fought in Korea. If you talk to combat veterans about the battles they fought, they will invariably mention the stench of death. It is an indelible sensory impression of the horror. He did not know anything about it. He had fought in the winter when it was too damn cold for the bodies to decompose. He suffered the wound that resulted in him receiving a purple heart and a bronze star well before the weather changed enough to thaw things out. It did not matter. Describing how terrible war is would only remind people of what most them already knew. So what else did he learn from his experiences?

“We all do what we must do, and we struggle to do what we know is right. Most people are selfish, but they are also basically good. They will frequently set aside their own interests to help the people they love, and they will even sacrifice some of their time to help complete strangers.”

He smiled. “Those thoughts are not what you would call an epiphany. So what can I say, other than the fact that I have lived? In Korea, I had to piss on my rifle to thaw it out enough to fight off the people trying to kill me. The experience was unique to soldiers who have fought in such bitter cold, but the one thing I have learned from listening to so many people is that my struggle to survive was not unique. Nor are my thoughts. I suppose the best thing I can say about my life is that I am here. No, that’s not right. What would I like to have people say about me? The best thing you can say about people is that they were there when you needed them. That’s it! That’s how I should like to be remembered.”

He placed his fingers on the keyboard and typed the following: “In the event of my death, please have my tombstone inscribed with the simple statement, ‘He was there -’.”

It struck like a sledge hammer. It was a massive heart attack, and it killed him. Since he was a decorated combat veteran he was entitled to a military burial. The good men at the VFW helped his widow make the arrangements for the funeral and burial.

George Samish was a good friend of the tomcat, and his likely successor. He was driving to the funeral. Sitting next to him was his wife Jill. In the back seat was a young assistant, Rod. Sitting next to Rod was Cat’s secretary, Helen. Helen was a beautiful young blond who loved the man who had been her boss. She was already weeping, and her ample breasts rose and fell with her sobs. Rod could not help thinking she had a magnificent set. When they arrived at the church, Helen tried to pull herself together. She dabbed her big blue eyes with a facial tissue, and she forced herself to stop crying.

“Are you going to be okay,” Rod asked.

“I think so.”

“You can use my shoulder if you want.”

She rewarded him with a smile. She wept through most of the eulogy, but managed to stop as the preacher finished. That is when the clergyman asked if anyone had something to say. She stood up.

“As you all know Cats was a very compassionate man. When I caught my fiance cheating on me I went into Cat’s office to cry on his shoulder. Between the sobs, asked him what I should do. He said: ‘That’s not something anyone can tell you. You have to do what is emotionally right for you, but I’ll be interested in hearing what you decide and how it works out for you.’ He gave me the rest of the day off to think about it. I can’t tell you how much it meant to talk to someone who was so non-judgmental and so wise.”

“Damn it,” Rod thought. “I wish she had told us whether she’s still involved with that lout or anyone else.” It was not something he could ask while she was grieving.

Several other people told similar stories. They were all very impressed with how much he seemed to care and the wonderful advice he gave them. Rod could not help noticing that the advice usually amounted to nothing more than a few questions, and the people seeking this advice wound up doing what they were inclined to do in the first place.

George was the last person to speak. “I am probably one of the few people who ever received a fairly lengthy statement from Cats. I was young and very ambitious at the time. Cats thought I had talent, and I was soon impressed by what I thought I was accomplishing. This made me propose something that was rather self-serving and not very sound from a business standpoint. I asked him what he thought would happen if I submitted this proposal. He puffed on his pipe for a moment then asked me if I had heard of Billy Conn. I had to admit I hadn’t, so Cats told me about him.

Billy Conn was as dominant as the light heavyweight champion as Joe Lewis was as the heavyweight champion. Since neither fighter had any serious competition in their respective weight classes they decided to fight each other. Conn used his quickness to counter Lewis’ strength and was getting much the better of Lewis. He even staggered Lewis. This success would prove to be Conn’s downfall because he then planted his feet to deliver the coup de grace. Unfortunately for him, Lewis landed his punch first and knocked Conn unconscious. After the fight a reporter asked Conn what happened. ‘I must have lost my mind,’ Conn replied, ‘and when you lose you mind your ass goes with it!’ Cats was a man who never lost his mind. He carefully measured both his words and his actions.”

The funeral ended on that note and the mandatory prayer. Everyone then drove to the military cemetery. The tombstone bore Cat’s name, the date of his birth and the date of his demise. Beneath the dates was “Korea” to indicate the war he had served in, and beneath that was the epitaph, “He was there.”

Cats was now in his final resting place, and everyone got in the car to return to the office.

“It’s odd that they would add ‘He was there’ to the tombstone, Rod said. One look at Korea on the other tombstone will tell you that is where Cats fought.”

Helen stopped crying. I don’t think that’s what it meant. I think it was suppose to be an epitaph. It should have said, “He was always there for us.”

Jill turned her head to look at Helen. “I agree. It’s the one thing everyone said about him. Do we know who wrote it?”

It was George who answered. “I think Cats did. I heard his wife say that’s what he wanted people to remember about him.”

Ron shook his head.  “Probably, but I think most people will interpret it the way I did.”

“It doesn’t matter. The only people who will ever know how wonderful he was are the people who knew him,” Helen said.

George could not help laughing. “I agree, but you have to admit it’s classic Cats. He was always short on words. He said just enough to let you conclude what you wanted to conclude.”

Jill was the only one not laughing. “He was a very wise man indeed.”

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms on Mar. 11, 2010

Be Careful What You Wish For

The firm had cut back. The associates no longer had their own secretaries. Instead, each of the associates shared a secretary with another associate. Gini and Max shared Brenda. In spite of the fact that Brenda passed off some of the work to the typing pool, she was soon complaining about the workload. She eventually quit because of it. Other secretaries were also complaining.

The ladies in the typing pool worked at night. Most of the attorneys had little or no contact with them. This was because the work was funneled through their supervisor, Clark. Clark was from Jamaica and had that wonderful accent. He was very easy going, but he ran a tight ship. His task was now made more difficult because of the firm’s reaction to the complaints of the secretaries. This reaction consisted of creating a typing pool consisting of three women who worked during normal business hours. Sally had started out on the night shift but had convinced Clark to move her to the new day shift as soon as that shift was created. She must have been rather astute when it came to office politics because she soon convinced the personnel department to make her one of the four people to be interviewed for the secretarial position vacated by Brenda. Convincing the personnel department to do that could not have been easy. Being a competent legal secretary involved a lot more than typing, and Sally had no experience as a legal secretary.

Max left for lunch at eleven-thirty. He liked to go to lunch early. The restaurants are less crowded then, and his work was less likely to be interrupted when the rest of the firm was at lunch. He was waiting for the elevator after eating. When the doors opened he found himself face to face with an absolutely gorgeous women. She was almost as tall as he was. She had long brown hair, big brown eyes and a terrific figure.

“Hi, Max.” She smiled at him.

“Hi.” He smiled as he stepped out of her way.

He watched her walk away. She turned her head to look at him, and she offered him a little wave of her hand. He waived back at her, wondering who she was. She was not someone he had seen before. He was sure of that. There was no way he would have forgotten her. That afternoon he and Gini interviewed two of the women who were applying for the secretarial position. They were not very impressed with either woman. They would interview Sally and another woman tomorrow.

Max arrived at the firm early the next morning. As he was walking to the elevator another strange women greeted him with a smile. “Good morning, Max.”

“Good morning.” She was a petite brunet. She did not wow him with her looks, but she was attractive. She was vaguely familiar. The problem was that he could not say where he had seen her before. He took the elevator up to the floor where his office was located. He went to the break room and poured a cup of coffee. He then walked to his office, set the coffee cup on his desk, and started sorting through the stack of papers. The interviews were going to take time, and he had a lot of work he needed to finish by tomorrow.

At ten o’clock Gini called to tell him it was time for the first interview. The woman they were interviewing had three years of experience as a legal secretary. She was very proper and businesslike. Which is to say that she was not what you call engaging on a social level.

After the interview Gini asked him what he thought.

“She’s confident and probably efficient,” Max replied.

“Yes,” Gini agreed. “Let’s see what the next one has to offer.”

At eleven they interviewed Sally. She was young and vivacious. She was not a head turner, but she had a charming smile she used to good advantage.

He and Gini decided to discuss the applicants over lunch.

“As far I’m concerned it’s between Sally and the first one we interviewed today.”

“I agree.” The fact that Gini did not use the first one’s name told Max something.

“I know Sally doesn’t have any experience, but I like her,” Gini said.

“So do I. Her enthusiasm tells me she’s a quick study.”

“That’s right, and there are some advantages to training her. She’ll be more inclined to do things the way we want them done. On the other hand, I am impressed by the other one’s experience. Let’s sleep on it. We’ll decide tomorrow.”

Max worked late that night. He finished dictating the answer to a complaint filed against one of the firm’s clients. He looked at his watch. It was nine o’clock. All of the secretaries had left for the night. He took the dictation tape to Clark.

“It’s an answer to a complaint. Do you think you can have it transcribed in an hour?”

“A single tape. No problem, mon.”

“Good because I’m starving. I’ll be back after I eat.”

“I’ll put it on your desk for you.”

“Thanks. By the way, we just finished interviewing someone on the day shift.”

“Sally.”

“Yes. What do you think of her?”

“She’s good at what she does. She’s also pleasant to have around.”

There was something about the way Clark said it that made Max think Clark was holding back some information. “That’s it?”

Clark hesitated for a moment. “Well, I t’ink she might be a bit too ambitious.” Clark rarely said anything bad about anyone. He also tended to understate things.

“You mean like leaving the typing pool to become a secretary.”

“Yes.”

If that was all it was, Max was not going to hold it against her. “Anything else.”

“Noo, dat’s it.”

When Max returned from dinner, he found a print out of the complaint sitting on his desk. A floppy disk containing the transcription was sitting on top of the print out. He gave the print out a quick a read. He then plugged the disk into his computer and made a few minor changes.

He printed it out the next morning and had a messenger file it with the court. He then met with Gini.

“Clark said he thinks Sally’s too ambitious.”

“He’s probably just irked because he’s losing her. I think we should hire her.”

Sally reported to her new job on Monday. She and Gini were standing in front of the filing cabinet when Max approached them.

“I was just showing her how to file. Is there anything you’d like to change?”

“Yes. I think our comments and observations should be filed with the deposition transcripts.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s too easy to overlook those comments and observations. I’m thinking of the Pool case.”

“What about it?”

“Well, in that case it probably did not make much difference because Pool was a party to the suit. So the partner handled his deposition. But if he was a witness who turned out to be important, my observations could have made a difference.”

“What happened?” Sally asked.

“Many of the witnesses talked about how Pool had lorded it over everyone, and about how he had boasted about being a good friend of the CEO of the company. That CEO was running a major scam. Pool was accused of aiding and abetting. He did not help himself when he was questioned about his relationship with the crook. It was not so much what Pool said. It was his demeanor. The evidence against him was rather thin, but he came across as a real asshole. The jury disliked him and ruled accordingly.”

“So he was convicted of being an asshole!”

“Convicted is the wrong word to use in a civil suit, but yes. The point I’m trying to make is that the partner needs to know what kind of an impression a witness makes.”

“Max makes a good point. Include the attorney’s notes with the transcript.”

Gini and Max took Sally to lunch as a welcoming gesture. They were entering the restaurant when a lady Max did not know said, “Have a good lunch, Max.”

“Thank you.”

The hostess showed them to a table. “This is getting to be too much,” Max said. “I can’t understand why so many women I don’t know are greeting me by name.”

“She’s in the typing pool,” Sally said.

“I guess I should thumb through the look book.”

“It wouldn’t do you any good,” Gini said. “It doesn’t include pictures of secretaries who have been with us for less than two years, and the girls in the typing pools aren’t even listed.”

“Do you think they looked me up?”

Sally smiled. “I know they did. You’re popular because of the quality of your dictation. Clark said you should be on the radio. We also got a kick out of the memo you wrote for the Willard case.”

“You mean the one in which I said we would be willing to admit that Mr. Willard was the biggest son of bitch to ever wear trousers if the witness would admit that none of the other parties were involved in the alleged conspiracy?”

“Yes. Were you quoting the witness?”

“I was. He had nothing but good things to say about the other defendants. I don’t know why he hated Mr. Willard so much.”

“Then I take it you don’t think Willard was an asshole.

“No, I don’t.”

Gini looked over at Sally. “And finding him liable for being a son of a bitch wasn’t an option because you can’t have a conspiracy without co-conspirators.”

Max laughed. “I guess that’s why the partner quoted me at a hearing. The memo was supposed to be an inside joke between him and me, but he knew what he was doing. Much to my surprise, Mr. Willard even told me he thought the comment was funny. He’s really a pretty nice guy.”

“Did the jury find in favor of Mr. Willard.”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad.”

Over the next few months Sally demonstrated an incredible ability to learn the job. After six months she was acting like she had been a legal secretary for years. It was also at that time that she told Max and Gini she could no longer be their secretary. “I was talking to Mr. Dorkin, and he said he wants me to be his secretary.”

“Congratulations!”

Gini also said congratulations, but she was obviously miffed. She led Max into her office.

“She’ll be sorry!”

“Well, I don’t think we can blame her. Dorkin has the pull to get her a raise.”

“If she’s here that long.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Do you know Dorkin?”

“No, but I’ve heard he can be difficult.”

“That’s putting it mildly. He chews up secretaries faster than a person with an eating disorder can devour a one-pound box of chocolates. The paralegals do everything they can to avoid working for him.”

“Do you think she knows that?”

“I think she was in such a hurry to get ahead that she didn’t check it out, or she’s naive enough to think she’ll be the exception.”

“And she needs at least two years of experience to be attractive to another employer. Do you think she can handle it?”

“Well, some of Dorkin’s secretaries have lasted that long, but it was pure hell for them.”

“I guess that falls under the category of being careful about what you wish for.”

“Well said.”

Gini was right. It was not long before Sally told Max she had made a big mistake.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m stuck for now. But you better believe I’ll apply at another firm as soon as I think I have enough experience to be attractive to them.”

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms.com on Mar. 3, 2010

Complex Phones

Ah technology, all of those marvelous gadgets and machines that increase your productivity and ease your burdens. They really do that to a great extent, but they also add a certain level of frustration. They force you to learn because they never work quite the way you think they work or should work. There is nothing personal about that. In fact, that is part of the problem. It does not do you any good to yell at them or kick them. They cannot be insulted, nor can they feel any emotional or physical pain. They do not adapt to you, you must adapt to them unless you understand them well enough to modify them. The more complex they are the least likely it is that you will be able to understand how they work well enough to make the desired modifications. Oddly enough, this is particularly true if you have an intimate knowledge of the tasks the machines are supposed to perform and how those tasks are normally done.

Max had been thinking quite a bit about that lately. It was an exciting time. Computers and programs had developed to the point where most people could now use them. There was a computer sitting on every desk in the office.  Secretaries quickly learned how to use word processing programs rather than type writers. The inter net was also beginning to live up to the hype. Attorneys could actually go on line and look up cases to see if the precedents they wanted to cite were still good or whether some appellate court had overturned or modified them. But hold on, it was not that simple. Databases and such posed a particular problem. To do anything in depth you had to know how to talk to the computer, and computers spoke a different language. Actually they spoke different languages. That is why the senior partners had young associates going on line to do the legal research, and it is why the partners hired experts to man the MIS department. Unlike the computers the young associates and the experts who were trying to get the computers to do what the partners wanted could feel emotional pain. They could be insulted! This re-established the emotional link between the partners and the tasks, and there is something about human nature that makes that link important.

The problem in this instance was not the computers; it was the new phone system. Phones have always been simple devices. When a phone rings you pick up the receiver and speak into it. When you want to contact someone you pick up the receiver, dial that person’s number, and talk to the person who answers. Now a whole new level of complexity had been added. If you read the literature that came with this system, you would think that it did everything but wipe your nose for you. It allowed you to record a message that played when someone called you. It took messages from the people who called you, and it played those messages for you when you wanted to hear them. It had speed dials that allowed you to ring other people in the office or out of the office with the single press of the button programmed to dial that number. It also allowed you to make conference calls and to transfer calls to other people. The technicians included a prerecorded voice to guide you through the process of programming your phone to do all those things. They even tried to personalize that voice by naming it Phoebe Phone Mail.

The phone people entered Max’s office and plugged in his new phone. They then placed a large instruction manual on his desk.

“Don’t be intimidated by the size of the manual,” one of the men said. “It’s really quite simple to program. All you need to read are the first few pages to get you started. Phoebe will guide you through the rest of the process.”

Max knew better. It all came down to the fact that nothing ever works quite the way you think it works or the way you think it should work. Programming the phone was going to take some time, and he had other work to do. He decided to put off programming the phone until after lunch. He was returning from lunch when he heard Allison.

“Phoebe, you bitch! That’s not what I wanted.”

Max laughed. “There’s nothing like the personal touch of the human voice,” he thought.  He continued walking.

“No,” Jim shouted. “How many times are you going to make me press that key, you useless slut?”

Max did not know whose voice he heard next, but it was certainly emphatic. “You want to know what I want to do now? I’ll tell you what I want to do. I want to shove this phone up your…”

Max rounded the corner into the hallway where his office was located. It was a good thing the phone people did not add a picture to go with the calm, clinical voice of Phoebe or people would be spitting on it. The door of the partner’s office opened. The partner stepped out with a look of pure frustration on his face. Max hurried. He wanted to get there in time to hear what the partner was going to say to his secretary, Gail.

“I don’t want to record a message telling people how bitchin I am and how much I regret not being there to take their calls. That’s why I have you. That’s what you’re supposed to do. And I don’t want some son of a bitch on the other side leaving messages on my phone. If he has to give you the message, I can always claim I didn’t get it.”

“So you want all your calls forwarded to me.”

“Of course I do.”

“I’m afraid it’s going to take me a while to learn how to do that.”

“That’s the problem,” Max said. “The entire firm is fighting with the phones rather than working on their cases.”

“What would you suggest?” the partner asked.

“We need someone to program them for us.”

“Who?”

“How about MIS? They’re good at programming things.”

Gail must have heard some of the comments Max had heard because she added: “And they’ve been taught to say ‘Okay’ rather than ‘God damn it!’ or ‘You rotten bitch!’”

The partner laughed. “Gail, call MIS and tell them to get someone down here now.”

Later that afternoon a very pleasant young lady from MIS entered Max’s office. She asked him how he wanted the features programmed and quickly completed the task.

“I’m impressed,” Max said. “I can’t believe how fast you did that.”

“I guess its now part of my job.”

Max decided to test the phone by speed dialing his boss. He was surprised when Gail answered.

“Hi Max.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“It identifies the extension.”

“You mean he even has the internal calls forwarded to you?”

“You know how he hates being interrupted.”

“Oh, well if he’s busy.”

“No, you’re okay. Hold on, I’ll transfer you.”

There was a click, followed be a ring. A moment later his boss picked up. “Yes, Max.”

“I just wanted to tell you that the young lady from MIS did a terrific job on my phone.”

“Well, it takes a woman. They’re used to conversing with people whose whole vocabulary consists of mamma, dada, and googoo.”

Max laughed. “A lot of people would say we should add doodoo to the list.”

“Probably, but I think the phone will work well for the people who want to use all its features.”

“Once they learn how to use them.”

“Yes,” the partner agreed.

With that they both hung up. Max leaned back in his chair and smiled. A little procrastination can be beneficial at times. It certainly saved him the aggravation of having to program his phone.

First published in macsbackporch. foxtail-farms.com on Feb 10, 2010

Carl’s Weather

Dear Ice sickle:

I have to admit that you sent one of the funniest letters I have ever had the pleasure of molding into a Christmas tree lamp shade.

Sounds like (I had to read between the spaces) you are barely surviving the somewhat less than tropical weather gifted to you by our dear Uncle Sam. I must commiserate with you, for if you are affected by the cold, it must really be COLD! I have a complaint about our weather too. Although the temperature is more than satisfactory, the velocity with which it asserts itself is most unbecoming. One must prevail upon a neighbor three blocks north if he wishes to water his yard, and trash collection has become unnecessary inasmuch as you can set your garbage adrift in the wind and watch it wend its way to torranee. The wind does have its good points, it is only necessary to raise the convertible top on the car to half mast whereupon one may sail to work or play. Speaking of playing, the residents of the split-level homes in this tract have developed a new sport. It is played on the balcony outside the master bedroom and is called “Expectorate on the pompous neighbor who purchased the foreclosure down the street”. One stands on his respective balcony and gauging the wind direction and velocity very carefully, lets fly with vigor. Records have been established in both the standing and prone positions and doubles are fun too. For instance:

Standing (into the wind) –22 yards

Standing (with the wind) +76 Yards

It helps to gain the proper salivary consistency if you consume about a half a pound of Kraft fudge caramels before competing. It also helps the judges spot your efforts. I really think we have something here, and I am busy envisioning national and world competition. How about the Empire State Building for the Nationals and the Eiffel Tower for the first World Championship. And how would we do in the thin air of Mexico City for the Olympics. Only time will tell.

Sincerely

Carl


Dear Carl:

That sure was a strong wind all right. After it was through terrorizing California, it whisked around the world gathering specimens of rain and sleet. As it reached the Alps it slowed down slightly, flitted about the high peaks, and then came crashing down on us with renewed vigor. It gleefully ripped the tile off roof tops, broke windows, and bludgeoned some poor G.I. senseless with a sign which it appropriated from a nearby post.

It deposited its frosty wares in my face, then playfully snatched my hat and sent it whirling down the street. Being a good Scotsman, I was not going to let this precipitous child of nature have the last word or my hat. I did an abrupt about face and took off in hot pursuit of my hat. The velocity of my flight assumed such proportions that objects to my right and left became mere blurs, smoke rose from my feet, and my ears were pinned against my spinal column. It was at this point that I realized I was headed straight for a sign post. Veering right or left at this speed would have been disastrous. I placed both hands around my imperiled manhood, planted both left feet, and leaned back at a forty-five degree angle. There was the sound of screeching rubber and scraping nails. My legs quivered from the stress and strain, and I went into a fifty foot slide that ended with a bone jarring stop against a curb. Slowly, I pulled myself together, swallowed my navel, and trudged down to the P.X. to buy another hat.

As I left the P.X., I distinctly remember picking some sleet out of my right ear. This sleet had the same texture and consistency as Kraft fudge caramel impregnated saliva. I know not which of your contestants may have accomplished such a feat but I suggest that you either add another record to your record book or disqualify the chap for hurling frozen missiles.

Sincerely

Steve 

First Published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms.com on Feb 2, 2010

G.I. Weather

Dear Midge:

Thank you for the cookies. They could not have come at a better time. We have been in the field since New Years day, and such things are hard to obtain up here. Due to the rough handling they received from our local mail jousters the cookies that were left whole were well padded by the innumerable crumbs the smashed ones so generously provided. This did not matter much, however, for the weather froze the crumbs together again, making a rough but delectable aggregate.

It has been so cold here that when I climbed out of the shower I noticed a marked resemblance between myself and what many people say Adam must have looked like. Which is to say, my navel was so full of goose pimples that it almost disappeared.

Unfortunately, I will have to mail this specimen of modern English when I return to Furth, on Jan 31. I forgot to bring any stamps with me, and even if I had remembered them the saliva I used to freeze the stamp to the envelope would have eventually melted, thus diluting the glue and causing the stamp to stick to the first thing that brushed against it. The mailman, therefore, might have been wearing a stamp that would not be sufficient to send him anywhere, and you would have to pay for my scrawl.

Love

Steve.

 
Dear Carl:

I have recently been informed that I do not show the proper respect for time because I do not put the date on my letters. I have discovered, however, that a chronology of my correspondence merely reveals the sparseness of my literary endeavors and serves no useful purpose unless one wishes to make a scrapbook, patch work quilt or something else out of my epistles. If you do wish to make something out of my letters, let me suggest a lampshade for a Christmas tree light. This should make a colorful reading lamp, and it is a hell of lot easier to make a lampshade out of my hieroglyphics than it is to make any sense out them. Besides, I rather like the idea of people describing my writing as colorful.
 
The weather here leaves a great deal to be desired at this time of year. It is so cold that it registers an eegads on the goose pimple scale. I am afraid I cannot give you a more accurate reading of the temperature because the Fahrenheit scale is too busy fighting with the centigrade scale to make a comment. What I can tell you is that the mercury has dropped clear out of sight. That last drop that always falls in one’s trousers after he has urinated has also frozen my zipper shut. Thus a great deal of ripping, chipping, swearing, and dancing has become a necessary prelude to draining my bladder.

In case you are wondering why I have made so many references to the weather, it is because I am out in the damn stuff. We have been in the field since New Years day and will not return to our barracks until Jan. 31.

Give my best regards to your lovely wife.

Sincerely

Steve (the ice sickle) McKeand

First published in macsbackporch.foxtail-farms.com on Jan 26, 2010