New policy, effective immediately.

I have decided to enact a new policy in my life.

I am going to say the meanest, most judgmental things to someone, and it will all be OK because I will preface it with, "Now, I don't mean anything by it, but....."

For instance. If I see a woman walking around with 6 or 7 kids, I can tell her, "Now, I don't mean anything by it, but pooping out that many kids can really be a financial drain on you."

I say this because Nemesis and I were outside smoking at work this morning, minding our own business. This guy I've never seen before in my life was delivering bottled water, and he walks right up to us. "Now, I don't mean anything by it, but a few years ago, I got really bad sick. Had allergies. My esophagus closed up and I couldn't breathe. And it was because of those things." Pointed at my cigarette.

(Now, I don't mean anything by it, but maybe if he'd studied a little harder in school and knew the difference between an esophagus and a windpipe, then maybe he wouldn't be delivering bottled water for a living.)

See how easy it is? All of my meanest thoughts can come rolling out, and I can be guilt-free about it because I prefaced it as such, and you can't have hurt feelings.
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The Reaper's sickle swings close.

You ever have one of those days where you feel like you spent it in a dream, watching terrible things happen to other people while you stood there stone-faced and powerless to stop it? 

The Reaper made an appearance yesterday at work, and I feel as though he still hovers.  And that's probably a poor choice of words, given the tragedy that's taken place over the last two months - the plane crash, and then -

Hold the phone.  I didn't tell you about the replacement, did I?

The company searched and recruited and scoured and interviewed and hired, and they brought on someone named Greg to replace Mark, who as you may recall, passed away in August.  (See post titled "Dave and Mark," somewhere below this one.)

Greg moved into Mark's old office and started assuming Mark's duties.  And he was there for a week - and then during the ensuing weekend, had a heart attack. 

And died.

!!!


!!!


And yeah, it's just a stupid coincidence, I'm certain, but still.

It's the utmost in tastelessness when, a week after that took place, one of the managers asked me and Nemesis, "So, either of you want to move into Mark's old office?"

And it was the utmost in professional behavior when I immediately replied, "Fuck no."  Wait, what's the opposite of utmost?

Anyway. 

As I was saying, The Reaper made an appearance yesterday at work.  It's an inappropriate choice of words, yeah, but how else do you explain this gnawing feeling that he still hovers?  Although I feel safe, I'm reasonably certain that the guy who lost his job today felt the same.

Joe Corduroy* came to us when we were hiring a bunch of folks from a local auto-parts plant that shut down.  By "a bunch of folks," I mean 2.  We hired the first one, Ozzy**, to be our group's lead, and then he recommended Joe Corduroy for an opening in FP&A (financial planning and analysis).

* - "Joe Corduroy" because I don't use real names here and he happened to wear corduroy on more than one occasion. 

** - "Ozzy" because I don't use real names here and his last name was similar to "Osbourne" and because it's an ironic nickname, much like you'd call a fat guy Slim or a clumsy girl Grace.

Ozzy lasted about 9 months or so in his position as our lead before deciding he wasn't cut out for it, and he moved over to Contracts.  He spent about 4 or 5 months there before deciding he wasn't cut out for *that*, and moved to another company just last week to do something in accounting.

Me?  I was still terribly aggravated by Ozzy's handling of one particular episode early on in his tenure as our lead, and I don't suppose I ever really got over it, seeing as how I contributed zero point shit to his farewell breakfast and only consumed a couple of donuts at my desk, not socializing or wishing him fair winds and following seas and all that good-time-touchy-feely crap that goes on at these things.  (And wow that was a long sentence.)

(Full disclosure to undercut my wordy badassness: I did send Ozzy an e-mail upon learning of his pending departure.  Said something about keeping my name out of the book that he was sure to write about his time in our company, but he could use Nemesis' name, and best wishes and all that.  He didn't reply.)

Although this did happen:  Before I arrived that morning, however, I did leave a voicemail on my own phone and then forwarded it to a select handful of people who I would trust with such a thing.  The gist of it was this:  I impersonated Ozzy wishing me well as he embarks on his new career as a cashier at the Super Weenie Hut in his town.  ("They have a real good lunch crowd," "he" said.)

We've gotten some mileage out of that one in the last week, Nemesis and I.

Anyway, I was standing in the accountant's office late Thursday afternoon when Joe Corduroy came in behind me and put his hand on my shoulder.  Announced to the accountant and me that he wouldn't be attending tomorrow's financial meeting because he was leaving the company.

I thought he was joking, riffing on his friend Ozzy who just left the company.

Ultimately, he wasn't joking, although his departure is less than voluntary, if you catch my meaning.  He claims that it was performance-based, and deep down, I really wish he was looking at midget porn at work or something instead.  I'll tell you why.

The fact that even though he had an entirely different chain of command than I do doesn't make the appearance of The Reaper's sickle any easier to stomach. We still worked very closely together, and the fact that other people keep their jobs in spite of their raging incompetence - and Joe Corduroy wasn't incompetent, just sort of a doofus - makes me feel a lot less secure than I did at this time yesterday.  If someone who was mildly competent could get the ax while all of these Reverse King Midases who I work closely with (and often have to clean up after) still get to keep their jobs, then something is terribly upside down, and so it goes without saying (but I'll say it anyway) that I didn't sleep very well last night.

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You can keep your "football is a game of inches" crap. This is a game of millimeters.

(part II of my shooting match essay, started last night)

So, the Celestine match last night came and went.

I believe that these events come down to 10 percent skill and 90 percent luck - we can quibble on the numbers, but if you believe that the mix is any closer than 20-80, you're crazy - and here's why. Assuming that you have your gun sighted correctly, and you've spent time "patterning" it - i.e., practicing your shooting to see where exactly the BBs should spread out on the board - and you have everything down to the tiniest fraction of a millimeter, then the smallest change in humidity or a slight gust of wind can throw your pattern all to hell.

It was a relatively uninspiring night to start with. I was in rounds 33, 35 and 37, and my boards were all rejected. I had a pretty good spread of shot on my boards each time, but as is often the case at these things, I had my X in the wrong spot.

I was a couple of shots into my last board on round 39 when - at long last! - I noted through the scope that it looked like I had something to be excited about. The circle I had marked around my cross was filling up with BBs, and it looked like at least one was pretty close to dead center, best I could tell. I finished my round and went inside the building to wait on the result. (Don't know if you've noticed, but there's a lot of waiting at these things.)

The board runner brought all the boards in from that round. Judge looked at the first one (out) ... the second one (out) ... then mine ...


First, some background:

This board is approximately 6.25 inches by 7.25 inches. My name is in the upper left corner, the number of shots I am taking is written in the upper right. In red pen just below says, "R39 P3" - this means that this board was shot in round 39, from post #3.

The black circle on the left hand side of the board, just past halfway down - about the size of a quarter, to give you a sense of perspective of the sizes we're dealing with - is a mark for me to know exactly where the cross that I've cut onto the board earlier tonight is. (Again - this is from 47 yards - 141 feet away. Give or take.) This is the cross that I am most interested in - a dead center shot here, and you've probably won a good portion of beef. Graze the center of it, and you'll probably still take pork home.

The red circle on the right hand side is stamped on there to denote that the cross inside of it is the half-pot circle. I have marked that cross with pencil as well, to indicate that that is my half-pot cross. Dead center there, and you've won the money that everyone put in to win half-pot (an extra $1 per board). Last night, it was $176, which means that $176 went to one lucky shooter, while the other $176 went toward the community club. Sort of a sucker bet, really.

So, your opinion of the board above? Do you think my excitement and subsequent expectations went fulfilled?

The answer is no. Here is an enlarged picture of the cross on my board.


You see, just below where the lines intersect, the BB embedded in the vertical cut? The distance between the top of it and the point where the lines meet - and likely some meat at the end of the night - is about one-twelfth of an inch, or 2.12 millimeters. To have been in the running for a half beef, the distance from the intersect to the middle of that BB is 2.5/16 of an inch, or 3.97 millimeters.

Which brings us to the other marking on the full image of the board a few paragraphs up:

The two red markings with a grease pen about three-quarters toward the bottom of the board mean "out." That's how they mark "out" boards at Celestine and most other places. At some places, the judge will scribble "out" on the board. At Ireland, they stamp the word "OUT" on it, which seems very formal.

And so the difference for me on this night from going home empty-handed versus going home with some meat is a hair over two millimeters. As I said, 10 percent skill, 90 percent luck.

Life at 47 yards. Give or take.

Something that I've gotten great enjoyment and misery out of in the last year or so is participating in shooting matches.

This seems to be a uniquely rural/middle America activity. It's pretty blue-collar, as the participants are typically the people who make America go. Truckers, factory workers, machinists, mechanics, farmers - people who typically get their hands dirty for a living.

These shooting matches are a great moneymaker for the community clubs or conservation clubs that put them on. Usually the prizes are some form of meat item - usually a half-beef is the top choice for the winner, with various choices of beef and pork for the other top finishers - although occasionally you might hear of one that offers cash instead.

Here's what happens at one of these.

Before it starts, you make your selection of any number of boards to shoot at. These boards are usually about 6 inches by 8 inches, though there is no uniform dimension from place to place.

Then you take a knife and mark a cross anywhere on the board. Many places, in addition to offering meat, also offer a cash prize called the half-pot for an extra dollar, for which you can mark a second cross on your board.

You determine how many shots to shoot. These events are strictly for 12-gauge shotguns, so the more shots you shoot, the better chance that your shot will splatter toward your cross. There is usually a mnimum purchase of 5 shots, max anywhere from 12 to 20, all at a dollar per shot.

Mark your name on each board and the number of shots for each, then go turn your boards in to the folks running the match. After they take your money and stamp your boards, they'll ask you which of the available rounds you want to shoot, as well as which post you want to be at. Consistency is important for these matches, so I typically take the same post in each round I shoot. Terrain changes or inconsistencies in board height from post to post - even of a few inches - can play havoc with your fortunes. At most clubs, there are anywhere from 10 to 12 posts to shoot from.

Once you've made your selections, you give them your boards and then wait. This waiting period can last anywhere from a few minutes to a couple of hours, depending on when you shoot. (This time is often filled by socializing, smoking, drinking, playing cards, eating dinner or, if you're anything like Your Author, blogging about shooting matches.)

And then when your round comes up, you shoot. You sit on a stool about a foot high, load your gun when they hand out the shotgun shells, and take aim at the board you marked earlier, which is hanging about 47 yards away.

If the splatter of the shot happens to land close to where the lines of your cross intersect, great. You might be going home with meat. But shooting matches are a game of millimeters - you've got to have a BB either dead center in your cross or "cutting three" - that is, in three of the four lines of your cross - to really feel comfortable about the prospect of winning some groceries for the evening.

Myself - I use a stock Remington 870 with a Sightron scope. Lots of people bring custom or "outlaw" guns to these, with 60-inch barrels, scopes where you can count the BBs on your board when looking through it, with really elaborate stands where all you have to do is point and shoot - you barely have to hold the shotgun. I'm not a fan of that; it took me the longest time to even break down and buy a scope.

More later, as I'm getting ready to shoot. I have four boards in tonight, with 12 shots each.
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Pop quiz:

Q. Which song is Rollins singing here?


A: All of them.

The McDonald's National Literacy Tour has hit my town

Yes. That does say "Thank You Crew Your Grate".

Is it any wonder they always fuck up my order? I typically don't have this problem at most McDonald's restaurants, but for some reason, the one in my town could fuck up a wet dream by leaving the girl out of it completely. As they do with french fries or a sandwich.
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Dave and Mark.

Two of my colleagues were killed in a plane crash early Tuesday evening just a little north of here.

I knew Dave for two years, as it was two years ago Tuesday that I began in my current position with my company, and Dave's was the first program I took fiduciary responsibility for.  The day I met this retired Navy pilot with a Cheshire cat smile, I had him pegged for a crazy old man who wasn't terribly enamored with us pesky financial types nosing around in his program. The more time I spent with him, the more I realized that I couldn't have been more incorrect.  Dave respected my work, respected what I provided him - and I think he respected me.  (He respected me enough to call me a bean-counter at every opportunity, and I relished the jibing, wore the playful insult like a badge of honor.)

Dave had little tolerance for bullshit, and as such, he forced me to up my game, so to speak.  When I took the position, I knew very little about government contracts and the quirky financial issues sometimes tied up in them, and as such, tried to cover my ignorance with BS.  Dave saw through it, and as such, I owe him much for where I am today, because if he hadn't asked the probing questions, if he hadn't made me learn quickly about the financial side of his very difficult-to-manage contract, I doubt that I would have lasted this long - and for that, Dave, I thank you from the very bottom of my heart.

About a year and half ago, I went into Dave's office to discuss an issue on his contract, only to encounter a loud, gregarious, incredibly friendly man - and that was when I met Mark for the first time.  Dave had brought the former Navy chopper pilot on as his deputy, and it was evident within a short time that Dave had made a spot-on hire.  Mark became a rising star in the company in the short time he was with us - hell, the dude had a corner office on the bottom floor of the new building (although he insisted that he wasn't too impressed with it, because it was right next to an outside door, and they could boot him out on a moment's notice). 

At least every other day, we'd have the same conversation:  "Hey Mark, how's it going?"  "Livin' the dream, man." 

Corny, right?  Thing is, Mark was being sincere about it.  Always cheerful, always smiling - and I can probably count on one hand the number of times since I met him that I'd gone through a day without seeing a look of pure happiness on his face.  What an amazing attitude he brought to his job, and how sad that I've only really appreciated it in the face of his loss, in the aftermath of the tragedy that struck in a Greene County soybean field on Tuesday night.

God, what a couple of characters we lost last night.  They will be terribly missed in these quarters, both on a personal and professional level.  I pray that their families will eventually find peace.

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Because everything I own is crap.

As you may or may not know, I've been essentially sans phone the last few days, conserving the last few droplets of battery juice as if I had to make it last me the rest of my life. Charging pod came in today, and my phone now sits happily, reinvigorated with life-sustaining lithium or whatever they are putting in batteries these days.

But it almost didn't quite end so well.  A few months ago, I bought a long-life battery for my phone.  Long-life = thicker battery, and thicker battery = different battery cover to accommodate it.

Naturally, when I placed the phone on the charging pod and nothing was happening, I was slightly furious.  "Yeah, that's about f***ing right," I thought to myself.

Fortunately, removal of battery cover was all it took for the phone to sit properly on its charging contacts.  We are both satiated.

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Isn't it ironic? Or is it?

While performing preventative (or is it preventive? hell if i know) maintenance on my phone last week, I inadvertently have prevented it from being able to charge through its USB port anymore.  Idiot.

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After this post, I'll be off to write a song about Michael Jackson. Cause I'm inspired now.

News item:  A rollercoaster in Virginia will be named after the still-dead Dale Earnhardt. Just hope it don't get too loose in 3 and get all boogered up but go get'em next week.

On the "Dear Jesus God, are we ever gonna let that guy die?" scale, would a rollercoaster named after the still-dead Dale Earnhardt rate above or below the song about the still-dead Dale Earnhardt that I wrote shortly after he died?  It was called (wait for it ......) "Dale Earnhardt."  Here's a sample:

Dale Earnhardt
Drove race cars
His first name was D-A-L-E
And his last name E-A-R-N-H-A-R-D-T

I don't know.  Again, to borrow a phrase used earlier in this blog tonight: it's a toss-up.

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When she says "alot," then we're gonna have issues.

My Son Cool's kindergarten teacher is fresh out of college.  This is her first teaching job, and so as such, she hasn't been beaten down by unruly kids, unruly school bureaucracy, unruly parents and the like.  She seems to bring an actual enthusiasm to the task at hand.

This is a good thing.

My Son Cool's kindergarten teacher also used the not-word "boughten" last week at the open house.

So it's a toss-up.

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How much difference does it make?

Tonight was the first time I'd listened to Pearl Jam's Ten from start to finish in years. I remember waiting in line at the Den in Bloomington for the follow-up at midnight on a Monday night in 1993 or whatever year it was. (Do stores still do that anymore - open at midnight for a highly anticipated new music release? I don't see it happening just because our music and our culture is so fractured anymore, that there's not a unifying musical movement as a cultural undercurrent.)

Anyway, that's another album I haven't listened to start-to-finish in years. Kinda looking forward to seeing how it holds up.

Update:  not terrible. There were a few moments - and it might be due to the production - where I said to myself: "Wow ... that sounds like (insert name of any mid-to-late 90s alt-rock band here)."  I rated all the songs in Windows Media, and whereas Ten didn't have any songs that rated fewer than four stars, only four of the 12 songs on Vs. rated four or higher, and two of them ("W.M.A.", "Rats") rated only two stars.

Long story short: Ten was lightning in a bottle. And no matter what PJ has done in the ensuing years, I can forgive any of it because of how close that album is to my heart.

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Now playing: Pearl Jam - Release
via FoxyTunes

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Eye appointment today. It was My Son Cool's first visit to the eye doctor.

A few months ago, he had his 5-year checkup at his pediatrician's, and he took a quickie eye test in the hallway. Seemed to have passed with flying colors, and I was thrilled because Daddy has terrible vision - without glasses or contacts, my vision is somewhere around 20/400. Bats look at me and say, "Wow. We thought *we* were blind! Sorry, pal." And the last thing I wanted was for him to inherit my eyes because having poor vision is a grand pain in the ass on so many levels.

(Editor's note: The writer's usage of the word "seemed" in the last paragraph ought to serve as foreshadowing as to how this story ends.)

So My Son Cool needs glasses, and it's a little heartbreaking, really. Not because of the social stigma attached to glasses, because that doesn't really exist anymore. (Eye doctor said it was because everyone has glasses now because we're a reading society, while I contend that it's more to do with our reliance on computers, PDAs and the like. The truth falls somewhere in between, I'm sure.) Rather, I wished wholeheartedly - and thought before today that this was the case - that he had inherited my wife's eyes instead of mine. Her vision isn't perfect, by any stretch, though it's a hell of a sight better than mine (no pun intended).

Instead, the eye doctor said, "Yep. He's definitely your son."

Hopefully, instead of crying over spilled lemonade, we can make the lemons into a nice meringue. Maybe the fact that he can't see close up (are you sure he's my son? He's far-sighted!) makes everything a blur, makes it hard to concentrate on coloring or whatever kindergarten tasks he undertakes. And, as I mentioned on Twitter this week, he's not been the best-behaved child in his class since school started. Maybe this might help?

Please, God?

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Now playing: Sloan - Cheap Champagne
via FoxyTunes

Next thing you know, she'll be twittering: 10:30am - walked dog. 12:15pm - walked dog. 2:58pm - walked dog.

I found out something mildly disconcerting today.

My mom has a Facebook page.

Somehow, this knocked me over. It caught me completely unaware, shocked me in much the same way as it would have if you had told me she was having an affair or tortured animals.

I don't do Facebook. Which makes me feel as though I'm creeping ever more toward the edge of complete social obsolescence.

(Which is fine, because I'm going for the Obsolescence Daily Double: hello, dial-up!)

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Now playing: Ben Folds - Trusted
via FoxyTunes

For what it's worth, my dear friend The Captain has carved out for himself A Fantastic New Internet Blog Site. You can find it at Forever Since Breakfast.

I hesitate to point you there, only because he writes circles around me.

I bet I can still drink him under the table, though.

Oh yeah. I went there.

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Now playing: The Beatles - Eleanor Rigby
via FoxyTunes