Head First
Hello World,
Well, these are strange days indeed, and likely to get even stranger before long, I shouldn't wonder. You just don't know what next is going to come flying out of left field and smack you in the back of the head, and you don't dare turn around and look, because whatever is back there just might be gaining on you. This is no place for the faint-hearted, not by any means, and even those of us who aren't, seem to be wearing the sort of shell-shocked expression usually reserved for victims of alien abductions or worse. After a particularly trying day at work last week, when I was attempting to put the best possible face on things, I remarked to a co-worker that someday, we would look back on this and laugh, to which she retorted, "Only if I'm drunk." I guess this is why people say, "I'll drink to that!" or perhaps that's just in the committee meetings that I go to at the hospital.
I don't know if everyone else was having the same sort of week I was having at work, but at one point, I got a phone call from a very friendly gentleman who wanted the opportunity to introduce his company, which provides continuous passive motion devices for patients recuperating from orthopedic surgery, such as knee, shoulder or hip replacements. He asked me if I was familiar with this therapeutic treatment, and if I had ever heard of his company. Oh yes, I assured him, in fact, we were already one of their customers and used quite a lot of their products. This apparently took him by surprise, and left him nonplussed, which is the only explanation I have for what he said next, which was, "Thank you for your call." Inasmuch as I hadn't called him at all, but he had called me instead, I didn't feel that "You're welcome" would be the proper response on my part, so I said "Okay" and left it at that. Of course, it's always nice to be thanked, but there is such a thing as taking it too far.
Also at work, I was asked to track down an errant purchase requisition that had passed through my hands on its way to Finance for signatures, and bring it directly to the CFO's secretary, so that it could be hurried along faster and not waste time wending its weary way through the normal channels. When I spoke to the secretary about it, I said I had left it in the wall pocket of the next person who was supposed to get it after me, however, since that person was on vacation, I could take the paperwork back and give it to her instead. She assured me that she would be happy to take care of that herself, and not to trouble myself. I thanked her and remarked that since she was so much taller than I am, it would be much easier for her anyway, since the wall pocket is over my head, and we both got a chuckle out of that. I was surprised to see her a few minutes later back in my office, and empty-handed, and I certainly wasn't expecting what she asked me next, about what I meant when I said that the wall pocket was over my head. I will spare you the next few minutes of pointless jabbering, as we danced around and around this issue totally at cross-purposes, until it finally dawned on our dull-witted consciousness that the person in question apparently has TWO different wall pockets, in two different places, and we were each aware of only ONE of them. The one that I use on the second floor is in a group of wall pockets for various Accounting staff, and because there are so many of them, the upper tier of pockets is over my head and I have to stand on my tip-toes to put anything in the one that I'm trying to reach. The CFO's secretary had never heard of these wall pockets, and was entirely in the dark as to their existence, up to the moment that I brought her down the hall to show them to her. Likewise, when she told me that up on the third floor where she is, this same person had a different wall pocket, it came as a surprise to me and was the first I was hearing of that idea. But later, as I had something else to deposit for our vacationing staffer, I figured I may as well take it upstairs and try out the mystery wall pocket as an experiment, and at least find out where it was for the first time. I had no luck tracking it down on my own and finally had to ask someone for help, and it turned out that the wall pocket I was looking for was at the bottom of an assembly of attached pockets, so that it was about a foot off the floor, and you practically had to get down on your hands and knees to put anything in it, especially if you wanted to read the name on the pocket first. This only became funny in retrospect, when I remembered how I told the secretary that the wall pocket was over my head, and it would be easier for her to take the papers out than me, because she's taller, and at the time, she only knew of this one wall pocket, which is just barely off the floor. I tell you, it's no wonder that our motto at the hospital is: "You don't have to be crazy to work here, we'll train you."
Speaking of crazy things, here is a perfect example of something that just makes no sense to me at all. Alert readers may recall Mac Talla M'or from our experiences at the Scottish Games in July this year and last year, and while I might describe them as a Scottish rock band, according to their web site (and please feel free to visit them at www.mactalla.com and see for yourself) they would be more properly identified as a Celtic fusion band instead. It's true that the band features bagpipes, but also guitar, piano, organ and drums, and its music represents varied influences from Ireland, Scotland, America and elsewhere. I had been listening to one of their CDs, and it came as no surprise to find them choosing "Oh Danny Boy" as one of their selections, which apart from "Scotland the Brave" is possibly the most famous bagpipe song of all time. In fact, the words immediately after the song begins with "Oh Danny boy," are "the pipes, the pipes are calling," so you would figure this to be a natural for any Celtic band with bagpipes, it would be pretty much inescapable, much the same as accordions and "Lady of Spain." So here we have this Celtic bagpipe band doing "Oh Danny Boy" and nothing could have prepared me for them playing it as a piano solo instead, of all things. I just can't imagine what they could have been thinking, but it seemed to me like an accordion band deciding to play "Lady of Spain" on glockenspiel instead, and to the improvement of neither. And while I'm certainly on board with the concept of avoiding the obvious, then leave out "Oh Danny Boy" altogether, rather than play it in a way that mystifies fans and foes alike. Perhaps they'd be interested in my version of "Chopsticks" as played on the banjo, not to mention a humdinger of "Scotland the Brave" for xylophone. And before we go any further, I feel it's only fair to warn everyone that I have a kazoo, and I'm not afraid to use it. "Oh Danny Boy," anyone?
Of course, everyone realizes that there are no standards anymore, heaven knows, and what people wear out in public can be alternately perplexing or downright disgraceful. This prompted the wife of a colleague to bemoan the lack of decorum by observing, "They don't leave anything left for the hookers to wear." Ain't it the truth! I was reminded of that recently when Bill sent me this tidbit from his daily online calendar:
==========================
Great calendar entry again today featuring my favorite -- useless stats:
UNCLE JOHN’S RESEARCH LAVATORYIn 2004 researchers at Odeon Cinemas determined that celebrities making appearances at awards shows and movie premieres expose an average of 59 percent of their skin. That’s up from 39 percent in 1994. After scanning thousands of celebrity photographs and videos, they also determined that the least skin-flaunting decade was the 1970s, when stars showed off just 7 percent. If the trend continues at this rate, the researchers say, movie stars will be completely naked by 2030.
==========================
Well, I don't know about anyone else, but I certainly consider that good reason to look forward to the future! In fact, I already see signs of hope in the present time, in spite of the continuing economic uncertainty, at least in one respect, and not a small thing at that. It feels like only a month ago (actually it was August 29th) that I considered myself a sharp customer for getting gasoline for my car at under $4/gal for regular, because it was "only" $3.93 at the Sunoco station around the corner, which seemed like a great deal at the time, and glad of it. Since that time, the price at the pump has been dropping in what can only be described as a precipitous manner, sometimes every single day, in spite of the fact that the gas that is already in the ground cannot have changed in price since it was delivered to the station. Last Friday after work, the price for regular at the Sunoco was $3.15, and when I went past them again on Sunday morning, it was $3.13. When I went to work on Monday, it had dropped (overnight, mind you) to $2.99, and while I admit that I never before thought I'd be happy to see $2.99 for gas, you can believe that I really was. It's no joke that there were times that I doubted if I would ever see gas under $3/gal again in my lifetime, so this was as unexpected as it was welcome. Today after work, it had come down again to $2.89. I said to Bill that the gasoline that I got in August was so much more valuable than today's gas, that I should siphon it out of the tank and save it. In fact, I know a handy wall pocket where I could keep it, but the problem with all this high finance stuff, well, it's over my head.
Well, these are strange days indeed, and likely to get even stranger before long, I shouldn't wonder. You just don't know what next is going to come flying out of left field and smack you in the back of the head, and you don't dare turn around and look, because whatever is back there just might be gaining on you. This is no place for the faint-hearted, not by any means, and even those of us who aren't, seem to be wearing the sort of shell-shocked expression usually reserved for victims of alien abductions or worse. After a particularly trying day at work last week, when I was attempting to put the best possible face on things, I remarked to a co-worker that someday, we would look back on this and laugh, to which she retorted, "Only if I'm drunk." I guess this is why people say, "I'll drink to that!" or perhaps that's just in the committee meetings that I go to at the hospital.
I don't know if everyone else was having the same sort of week I was having at work, but at one point, I got a phone call from a very friendly gentleman who wanted the opportunity to introduce his company, which provides continuous passive motion devices for patients recuperating from orthopedic surgery, such as knee, shoulder or hip replacements. He asked me if I was familiar with this therapeutic treatment, and if I had ever heard of his company. Oh yes, I assured him, in fact, we were already one of their customers and used quite a lot of their products. This apparently took him by surprise, and left him nonplussed, which is the only explanation I have for what he said next, which was, "Thank you for your call." Inasmuch as I hadn't called him at all, but he had called me instead, I didn't feel that "You're welcome" would be the proper response on my part, so I said "Okay" and left it at that. Of course, it's always nice to be thanked, but there is such a thing as taking it too far.
Also at work, I was asked to track down an errant purchase requisition that had passed through my hands on its way to Finance for signatures, and bring it directly to the CFO's secretary, so that it could be hurried along faster and not waste time wending its weary way through the normal channels. When I spoke to the secretary about it, I said I had left it in the wall pocket of the next person who was supposed to get it after me, however, since that person was on vacation, I could take the paperwork back and give it to her instead. She assured me that she would be happy to take care of that herself, and not to trouble myself. I thanked her and remarked that since she was so much taller than I am, it would be much easier for her anyway, since the wall pocket is over my head, and we both got a chuckle out of that. I was surprised to see her a few minutes later back in my office, and empty-handed, and I certainly wasn't expecting what she asked me next, about what I meant when I said that the wall pocket was over my head. I will spare you the next few minutes of pointless jabbering, as we danced around and around this issue totally at cross-purposes, until it finally dawned on our dull-witted consciousness that the person in question apparently has TWO different wall pockets, in two different places, and we were each aware of only ONE of them. The one that I use on the second floor is in a group of wall pockets for various Accounting staff, and because there are so many of them, the upper tier of pockets is over my head and I have to stand on my tip-toes to put anything in the one that I'm trying to reach. The CFO's secretary had never heard of these wall pockets, and was entirely in the dark as to their existence, up to the moment that I brought her down the hall to show them to her. Likewise, when she told me that up on the third floor where she is, this same person had a different wall pocket, it came as a surprise to me and was the first I was hearing of that idea. But later, as I had something else to deposit for our vacationing staffer, I figured I may as well take it upstairs and try out the mystery wall pocket as an experiment, and at least find out where it was for the first time. I had no luck tracking it down on my own and finally had to ask someone for help, and it turned out that the wall pocket I was looking for was at the bottom of an assembly of attached pockets, so that it was about a foot off the floor, and you practically had to get down on your hands and knees to put anything in it, especially if you wanted to read the name on the pocket first. This only became funny in retrospect, when I remembered how I told the secretary that the wall pocket was over my head, and it would be easier for her to take the papers out than me, because she's taller, and at the time, she only knew of this one wall pocket, which is just barely off the floor. I tell you, it's no wonder that our motto at the hospital is: "You don't have to be crazy to work here, we'll train you."
Speaking of crazy things, here is a perfect example of something that just makes no sense to me at all. Alert readers may recall Mac Talla M'or from our experiences at the Scottish Games in July this year and last year, and while I might describe them as a Scottish rock band, according to their web site (and please feel free to visit them at www.mactalla.com and see for yourself) they would be more properly identified as a Celtic fusion band instead. It's true that the band features bagpipes, but also guitar, piano, organ and drums, and its music represents varied influences from Ireland, Scotland, America and elsewhere. I had been listening to one of their CDs, and it came as no surprise to find them choosing "Oh Danny Boy" as one of their selections, which apart from "Scotland the Brave" is possibly the most famous bagpipe song of all time. In fact, the words immediately after the song begins with "Oh Danny boy," are "the pipes, the pipes are calling," so you would figure this to be a natural for any Celtic band with bagpipes, it would be pretty much inescapable, much the same as accordions and "Lady of Spain." So here we have this Celtic bagpipe band doing "Oh Danny Boy" and nothing could have prepared me for them playing it as a piano solo instead, of all things. I just can't imagine what they could have been thinking, but it seemed to me like an accordion band deciding to play "Lady of Spain" on glockenspiel instead, and to the improvement of neither. And while I'm certainly on board with the concept of avoiding the obvious, then leave out "Oh Danny Boy" altogether, rather than play it in a way that mystifies fans and foes alike. Perhaps they'd be interested in my version of "Chopsticks" as played on the banjo, not to mention a humdinger of "Scotland the Brave" for xylophone. And before we go any further, I feel it's only fair to warn everyone that I have a kazoo, and I'm not afraid to use it. "Oh Danny Boy," anyone?
Of course, everyone realizes that there are no standards anymore, heaven knows, and what people wear out in public can be alternately perplexing or downright disgraceful. This prompted the wife of a colleague to bemoan the lack of decorum by observing, "They don't leave anything left for the hookers to wear." Ain't it the truth! I was reminded of that recently when Bill sent me this tidbit from his daily online calendar:
==========================
Great calendar entry again today featuring my favorite -- useless stats:
UNCLE JOHN’S RESEARCH LAVATORYIn 2004 researchers at Odeon Cinemas determined that celebrities making appearances at awards shows and movie premieres expose an average of 59 percent of their skin. That’s up from 39 percent in 1994. After scanning thousands of celebrity photographs and videos, they also determined that the least skin-flaunting decade was the 1970s, when stars showed off just 7 percent. If the trend continues at this rate, the researchers say, movie stars will be completely naked by 2030.
==========================
Well, I don't know about anyone else, but I certainly consider that good reason to look forward to the future! In fact, I already see signs of hope in the present time, in spite of the continuing economic uncertainty, at least in one respect, and not a small thing at that. It feels like only a month ago (actually it was August 29th) that I considered myself a sharp customer for getting gasoline for my car at under $4/gal for regular, because it was "only" $3.93 at the Sunoco station around the corner, which seemed like a great deal at the time, and glad of it. Since that time, the price at the pump has been dropping in what can only be described as a precipitous manner, sometimes every single day, in spite of the fact that the gas that is already in the ground cannot have changed in price since it was delivered to the station. Last Friday after work, the price for regular at the Sunoco was $3.15, and when I went past them again on Sunday morning, it was $3.13. When I went to work on Monday, it had dropped (overnight, mind you) to $2.99, and while I admit that I never before thought I'd be happy to see $2.99 for gas, you can believe that I really was. It's no joke that there were times that I doubted if I would ever see gas under $3/gal again in my lifetime, so this was as unexpected as it was welcome. Today after work, it had come down again to $2.89. I said to Bill that the gasoline that I got in August was so much more valuable than today's gas, that I should siphon it out of the tank and save it. In fact, I know a handy wall pocket where I could keep it, but the problem with all this high finance stuff, well, it's over my head.
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 8:43 PM
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