Man Martin's Blog, page 186

Freud's Lost Diaries

Vienna
April 3rd, 1902.  Had the same dream again.  Four men with long hair like women but with beards and mustaches are crossing a street.  The front one is dressed in a white suit.  The second to the last has no shoes.  I have been unable to analyze this.  Unresolved Oedipal Complex?  Too many radishes at supper?   Ernst [Ernst van Laader, heir and great-grandson of Bertholt van Laader, inventor of the step-ladder.] came in for therapy today.  A sad case.  A wealthy young man, attractive, well-educated, and cultured, but he keeps hitting everyone he meets with a tablespoon.  I have attempted hypnosis to gain access to the libidinal urges that drive this behavior, but this is difficult whilst being hit on the forehead with a tablespoon.  In my case notes, I refer to Ernst as the Monkey Man.  His obsession has nothing to do with monkeys, but I just find the name so comical.  Behind his back, I say quietly, "Monkey Man, Monkey Man, Monkey Man."  It helps compensate me for the tablespoon thing.

April 5th, 1902. How can I hope to achieve anything while I am haunted by these terrible dreams?  Last night I dreamt of tangerine trees and marmalade skies.  What is wrong with me?  Suddenly, someone was there at the turnstile: a man with kaleidoscope eyes.  I shall go mad.  Last night Martha fed me nothing but radishes.  I suspect she is plotting against me.  Meanwhile, I am pursuing a new therapy with Ernst the Monkey Man.  He must write a very large check to my psychiatric institute.  I have had good success with patients using this therapy in the past: surrendering large sums of money seems to diminish their symptoms.  A tablespoon-shaped bruise has begun to appear on my forehead.

April 13th, 1902.  I have not touched a radish in a week, and my nightmares have abated, confirming my hypothesis.  The other night, Martha attempted to tempt me with a radish souffle, but I merely snapped my fingers at it.  So much for you, Martha!  She ate the whole thing herself, making yummy noises to torment me.  I stuffed cigars in my ears, and so was immune.  The other night I had a fairly ordinary dream, four thousand holes in Blackburn, Lancashire, and though the holes were rather small, I had to count them all.  Now at least I know how many holes it will take to fill Albert Hall.  This information may come in handy.  I have had a breakthrough with the Monkey Man.  He still hits me on the head with a tablespoon, but now instead of Monkey Man, I call him Monkey Boy.  Monkey Boy, Monkey Boy, ya-ha-ha-ha!

April 16th, 1902.  A terrible relapse.  After abstaining from radishes in any form, I suddenly went on a radish  binge.  It was terrible.  I ate plateful after plateful - radishes in heavy cream, radishes with orange sauce, radishes stuffed with radish comfit.  Martha merely laughed.  How I hate her!  That night I woke up screaming, "I am the Walrus!  I am the Walrus!"  Martha said she would tell Karl [Jung] who is a terrible gossip, and I could only keep her quiet by promising to buy pretty clothes for her, and threatening with a tablespoon.  At the clinic today I found Monkey Boy has made huge progress.  He has progressed from a tablespoon to a shovel.  God, my head hurts.  I have given up smoking cigars, and now smoke only radishes.  I do not know how much of this I can endure.

Fan Club

The ceiling fan at my parents-in-law's spare bedroom was broken, but now it's fixed.  Or if it's not fixed, it's broken in a new way, and that should count for something.  My sister-in-law had gone down one weekend and discovered the fan could not be turned off, and so she brought a brand new fan, and when Nancy and I went down, I was asked to put it in.
When it comes to putting in ceiling fans, I have my own method.  One might almost call it a "system."  First, I open the box and get rid of all those useless packing materials that manufacturers throw in: contoured Styrofoam blocks, that strange little sugar-packet that tells you not to eat it, instructions, warranty, cellophane bags of screws and washers.  All of this goes into the trash.
The installation process has several stages: 1. First attempt.  2. Cussing.  3.  Second attempt.  4. Search for missing piece.  5.  More cussing.  6. Breakage.  7.  Cussing.  8.  Third attempt.  9. Visit to hardware store to purchase missing piece.  10. Return to project and discovery wrong piece was purchased.  11.  Supplementary cussing.  12. Return to hardware store to get correct piece.  13. Discovery of piece where it had rolled under bed.  14. Fourth attempt.  15. Assessment of project's success or failure.  16. Gin.  17. Repetition of steps 1-16 as needed.
As I worked, my dear, dear wife stood by in case any assistance was needed.  My dear, dear, dear father-in-law, Dad, I call him, was on hand, too.  The dears.
I need to explain that to achieve maximum effectiveness, I prefer to work alone.  The layperson, and I do not blame him for this, he can't help it, is apt to express doubt or downright contempt the fourth or fifth time I attempt to install the same fan.  He may ask silly or irrelevant questions - again, this is not blameworthy, but merely due to inexperience - such as, "Are you sure it's supposed to go in that way?" and "Shouldn't you take a look at the directions?" and "Would it be better to turn off the power first?"  These queries disrupt the concentration of the installer and inhibit the free vocalization of cuss words, which is integral to the Martin System.
There I was, uninstalling the previous fan, systematically dropping miscellaneous screws and washers onto the floor, and Nancy - God, love her, she doesn't know any better - picked them up and put them in my pocket.  She fails to grasp the simplicity of the Martin System.  By allowing gravity to operate unhindered, I ensure that all of the necessary pieces wind up on the floor where I want them.  This way, when I need a missing a piece (Step 4) I merely get on hands and knees; no matter where I search, I'm guaranteed to find something I can't do without.
I should also say, this is a fairly smallish room.  I wouldn't say there's not enough room to swing a cat, but it would have to be a small cat, and swung with care.  With the furniture already in the room, plus the ladder, and the various ceiling fan gizmos, it was pretty tight.  Nancy's and Dad's presence made it no looser.  Sensing a square inch of space remained to be filled, my mother-in-law also decided she should join us.  Mama was not interested in ceiling fans, per se, but only wanted to dry her hair.  Why the hair-dryer is not in the bathroom or her own bedroom is a mystery I did not pursue.
There is a scene in A Night at the Opera, when an entire mob , squeezes into Groucho's tiny room aboard a cruise ship.  Except for the addition of a ceiling fan, the bedroom tableau was not dissimilar.  It was hard working in such environs, and cussing of any effectiveness, all but impossible.  "Doggone" and "dang-nab," do not suffice when it comes to ceiling fans.  One needs to employ vocabulary strong enough to scald the ears of passing sailors and make wallpaper peel to the floor.
At this point, I dropped the ceiling fan.  I do not blame myself for this, nor do I think the fair-minded reader will blame me either.  I will not say I was at the end of my rope - but I could fairly see the end of it from where I stood.
I will admit, dropping the fan was not intentional, nor did it fit into the regular course of the Martin System.  It was an improvisational move, the sort of thing one does without thinking, as so often happens in these situations.  One moment one is holding the fan against the ceiling, flanked on either side by one's wife and father-in-law, one's mother-in-law nearby serenely blowing hot air through her gray locks, and the next moment there is a resounding crash, and everyone is ducking for cover.
This maneuver took a toll in everyone's confidence in my ceiling-fan-installing capabilities.  Indeed, were Martin's Ceiling Fans a publicly-traded stock, brokers would have been on the phone at that instant, urging their clients "sell!"  Nevertheless, there was one salubrious outcome.  Everyone within his or her secret heart, pondered.  They reflected.  Is it wise, they seemed to ask themselves, to remain in a cramped room with a notorious butterfingers who has already dropped enough lock-washers and bolts to fill a quart jar, and who has just let fly with the entire apparatus, while he installs a fan overhead, a fan which must weigh a good ten or fifteen pounds, the weight of which will be magnified by its falling momentum.
One by one, they trickled out, assuring me, if I needed anything, I should just "holler," implying they'd be listening from a safe distance for hollers or crashing ceiling fans.
With them gone, I was able to complete my System unhindered.  A few trips to the hardware, one busted globe, and the recitation of several novel and especially vitriolic oaths later, and the job was complete.
I admit it is not perfect.  At high speed it wobbles slightly.  It wobbles even more at medium speed.  At low speed, it shakes the windowpanes.  But when it's off, it does not wobble at all.  Not even a bit.
Time for gin.

Conversations with a GPS

Turn right on ashFORD DunWOODy Road.  Turn right now.  Right.

...ReCALculating...

In 500 yards, turn right on Lake HEARN Drive.  Turn right on Lake HEARN Drive.  Turn right now.  Right.

...ReCALculating...

At the next intersection, go STRAIGHT ON.
In 500 yards, turn right on Mount VERNnon Road North EAST.  Turn right on Mount VERNon Road North EAST.  Turn right now.  Right.

...ReCALculating...

Turn around when possible.

...ReCALculating...

Turn around when possible.

Look, are you going to DO what I SAY or not?  Turn around when possible.

...ReCALculating...

I'm not the ONE who ASKED to DIRECTIONS to ChamPIon Street, MarIetta.  Turn around when possible.

...ReCALculating...

Okay, if you're SO smart, get THERE by yourSELF, why DON't you?

...ReCALculating...

See if I CARE.

...I won't SAY another WORD.  See HOW you like THAT.

...ReCALculating...

Come ON.  This is DRIVing me CRAzy.  Turn around when possible, damn it.

...ReCALculating...

Oh, WAIT.  I see.  You're GOing an alTERNate route.

...ReCALculating...

In 500 yards, turn right on SpalDING Drive North EAST.  Turn right on SpalDING Drive North EAST.  Turn right now.  Right.

...ReCALculating...

You basTARD.

Those Pesky Tupperware Lids

On top of everything else - Global Warming, the West Nile Virus, the stagnant economy - now I'm expected to deal with Tupperware lids.  We seem to be missing lids to several containers (and by several, I mean all) and Nancy expects me to account for them.  This seems unfair.  In any other case the missing item is the responsibility of whoever noticed it was missing.  If I tell Nancy I can't find my car keys or my wallet or my clean shorts, she doesn't automatically assume it's her fault and scout around looking for them, oh, no!  Instead she says unhelpfully, "Where did you put them?"
That's what I should have said to Nancy when she broached the topic of Tupperware lids, "Well, where did you put them?"  Only the knowledge that she would have replied, "In the cabinet where they damn well belong," prevented me from posing this apt query.
To be fair, a certain degree of missing-Tupperware-lid culpability may rightfully fall on my shoulders.  I take my lunch to work in Tupperware containers and sometimes have neglected to replace the lid once I have eaten.  At work, I may have a number of orphaned lids - I'm not saying I do have, only that I may.  It's very hard to ascertain exactly what is on my desk at any given moment.
Also, some of the lids - as Nancy conjectures - may be in the chicken coop.  Leftovers no longer fit for human consumption are still tantalizing treats to Sorche and Loretta.  I often employ the lids as little "plates" when I set out last week's broccoli and rice or whatever for their delectation.  Subsequently, the chickens scratch wheat straw over the lids, concealing them from view.  Now in fairness, Nancy should hold the chickens at least partly to blame, but does she?  She does not.  It's all my fault that the chickens are sloppy eaters.  You see how I am treated around here, and yet I endure without complaint.  A saint, me.
Nancy - and I cannot fault her in this, for she is a fine woman in many respects - is completely irrational where Tupperware is concerned.  I do not know why this is.  Perhaps as a child she was berated unfairly for the loss of Tupperware.  I believe Freud has written on this.  Tupperware Retentive is the term he uses.  To show you how bizarre her thought processes are vis-a-vis Tupperware, she says when I go out to the coop to look for missing lids, I should also look for missing bottoms.  Now this makes no sense.  If we already have a shortage of lids, locating more bottoms will only exacerbate the problem.  My solution, simplicity itself, is if we don't have enough lids, to start losing bottoms until we come out equal again.
Alas, I do not even dare put forth this eminently practical solution but go out and look for missing lids, covered as they may be with wheat straw and bird poop.
I love her and I must put up with her foibles, however odd.

The Future Lies Ahead

I've been asked by many people to share my thoughts on our economic future.  (Well, several people anyway.  OK, a few people.  Alright, nobody really asked me.)  So I've set aside my busy schedule of computer solitaire and vacantly staring into space to write this overview, so the very least you can do is sit up and pay attention and wipe that silly smirk off your face.
The first thing you have to understand when it comes to the national situation, is the international one.  The continuing crises in far away Flirtonia and the Persnickety Islands (not to mention Whereamanation, where the currency is throat lozenges) mean that the value of the US dollar will continue to rise.  Unfortunately the values of the US quarter, dime, and nickel will continue to shrink.  This will result in confusion.
Milton Friedman says let U stand for the tastes and preferences of the consumer.  I say, yeah, go ahead and let it.
Meanwhile, the all-important housing situation will remain, a we economists say, higgledy piggledy.  Anything can happen.  One moment your house will have three bedrooms and two baths, the next it will have two bedrooms and one bath, and then suddenly it will have forty-four baths and no bedrooms at all.  This will make it more difficult than ever to remember where your clean pants are.  I suggest leaving all your clothes in the middle of the floor until the situation has a chance to clarify.  So much for the higgledy end of the housing situation.  When it comes to the piggledy end, the less you know the better, trust me.
To stem this, it's vital that banks be encouraged to lend as much money as possible to as many people as possible.  Simultaneously, however, the banks must be regulated to lend as little money as possible to as few people as possible.  This will also lead to confusion.  See my comment at end of paragraph 2.
As far as this impacts healthcare, keep in mind we don't have enough hospitals, doctors, nurses, CAT Scans, and tongue depressors to go around.  We will give more people access to what we do have, thereby increasing the supply.  See comment at end of paragraph 2.
Everyone agrees Congress needs to act.  As far as I'm concerned, they can act, sing, dance, walk tight-ropes, or whatever, so long as they don't attempt to legislate.  Whatever the outcome of the current deadlock, it's a pretty sure bet the ultimate decision will be indecisive.  (Comment at end of paragraph 2)
Then there's the stock market, and I'm tempted to go ahead and refer you to the end of paragraph 2 and be done with it.  J P Morgan once famously said, "The stock market will fluctuate."  This may no longer hold true.
The unemployment picture remains pretty grim no matter how you look at it.  Look at it with one eye half-closed and your head tilted to the right.  Now stick out your tongue and pull the corners of your eyes squinty with your index fingers.  Touch your nose with your thumb and look at it cross-eyed.  See what I mean?  (Paragraph 2).
So in sum, I recommend the individual investor buy land.  Not property, just land.  I have several large containers of fill-dirt strategically stored around my house waiting for them to appreciate.  Also, buy as much stock in the British East India Company as you can lay hands on.  Currently the stock is worthless so it seems unlikely to depreciate in value much further.
And there you have it.

Write that Novel!

I can't tell you how many good novels
I've seen ruined this way.Welp, folks, I was at the library yesterday, and it looks like they're running out of books again.  The librarian gave me a woebegone face over the tops of her trifocals and I realized if the earth wasn't going to run out of reading matter altogether, I'm just going to have to sit down and write myself a novel.  I'm a pretty busy man myself - what with FarmVille, computer solitaire, and nap time - and I have half an impulse to turn the whole chore over to one of my flunkies.  "Flunky," I'd say, "the world needs another novel, and it's up to you to write one!  I figure it shouldn't take you more than a couple of years, now go out there and make a name for yourself!"  And I'd sit back and see if I couldn't grow some imaginary vegetables on Facebook, given that crows keep eating my real ones.
So now that I know I'm going to write a novel, what will I need?   Well, first and foremost: words.  Incredible as it may seem, these few scant keys on my computer can supply me with any word that I know, all the words I don't know, plus a lot of words that don't even exist, such as ioug, for example, and ourga.
So we're set as far as words are concerned, and the next thing we need - and opinions differ here, but I'm a stickler for this sort of thing - is people.  In the novel writing business, we call these "characters."  I hate throwing all this technical jargon at you, but writing is a complex business and you can't expect it to be easy.  Fortunately, it's not hard to get these people or "characters," because I'm surrounded by people all the time.  (Except when I need to borrow money, ha-ha.)  A lot of these people will jump at the chance to be in a novel.  Just tell them you're writing a novel, and they'll say, "Can I be in it?"  I think they have the impression that if they were in a book, they'd be able to walk around inside it and peep out and see who's reading it, but I don't bother explaining it doesn't work that way.  Let them dream.  Of course later, when they see how the novel turns out, they might not be so keen to be in it anymore, but that's their lookout.
So we have plenty of people for characters, which is a good thing, because I say when it comes to people in novels, the more the merrier, unless you want to write about a talking dog, which now that I think of it, is not such a bad idea, so we'll have a talking dog in there, too.  Of course, some of these people, I won't include.  Mable, for example.  I don't know if you know her, but there's something shifty about her.  She's never done anything wrong, so far as I know, but there's just something shifty.  But it's not enough to have people; things have to happen.  You can't just have your characters sitting around looking at each other, waiting for something to happen.  Oh, that sort of thing might've worked out alright for Chekhov, but we've advanced beyond that by now, and all the brightest readers pretty much agree they want novels where things happen.
I don't want to overtax your brain here, but in the writing biz we call these things a "plot."  So let's take some events: getting flowers, being hit by a safe, and leaving the hospital.  Sounds good doesn't it?  Just the sort of book you'd like to read?  Not so fast, chucko, because now you've got to think about what order those things happen in.  If a guy gets hit by a falling safe, later gets some flowers, and then leaves the hospital - that's a happy story, but if he leaves the hospital, gets some flowers, and then gets hit by a falling safe - that's a sad story.  If he leaves a safe, gets hit by some flowers, and receives a hospital, the story won't even make sense.  So you can start to see how complicated this is.  I can't tell you how many perfectly good books I've read with wonderful happy endings ruined because at the end everyone gets hit by a falling safe.
So now, I've got a slew of people to be in my book, a bunch of interesting events, and possibly a talking dog, so I just need to tap out 70 thousand words or so, run "spell check" on the computer, and ship that sucker to my agent.  The local library will be back in business in no time.
Where's that flunky?

Tours for the Twenty-First Century

Yes, children, here we are, so you can all stop asking when we'll get here.
Javon, leave Terika alone!
At this first display, we have an actual book.  Can everyone say, "book?"  Good.  How many of you have ever seen a book?  No one?  That's okay.
Javon, I'm not telling you again!
It's okay to touch it; it has no value whatsoever; it's just here for historical interest.  Don't bother looking for the charger, and the battery isn't dead either.  As you see it's pieces of paper covered with marks kind of like a text message, only a lo-o-ot longer.  No, Devin, ha-ha, there aren't any emoticons, are there.  In those days people tried to communicate their emotions by what they said, by their ideas.  Can you imagine anything so quaint?
Uh, quaint means, like old-fashioned, odd.
Anyway, in these "books," they didn't even use phrases like "lol;" if a writer was trying to be funny, he expected a reader to know it without being told, "This is funny."  Yes, Enoch, that must've been very confusing.
Javon, stop it this instant!
Ooh, good question!  Did everyone hear Marissa's question?  She wants to know if anyone ever actually read one of these things?  As far as archaeologists can determine, no one ever actually read a book.  They seem to have been produced for the sole purpose of making people wait for the movie version.  Nevertheless, there were entire storehouses of these books called "libraries," that kept stacks and stacks on hand just in case someone wanted to come in and give it a try.  Legend has it there were even bookstores, but that's just too silly.  But - and this is the tantalizing part about history - Javon, stop! - research has uncovered that Amazon.com once actually sold books in addition to women's clothing and engine lube.
Now before we go to the next gallery where you'll get to see an honest-to-goodness record player, let's stop by the restroom in case anyone needs to tinkle.
And Javon, come over here.  You and I are going to have a little talk.

A Reading From the Book of Zoe

There are things thou must do, and things thou must not do.  Wise is the dog that knowest the difference.
THOU MUST NOT bark incessantly at everything that goes by in the street, nor must thou wake up thy masters in the middle of the night barking at things that art not even there.
THOU MUST NOT drag thy nether regions against the carpet, no matter how much thou itchest, for this is an abomination.
TUG NOT THOU upon thy leash chasing squirrels.  Thou wouldst never catch one anyways, and thou are only fooling thyself.
WHINE NOT THOU at the dinner table.
LICKEST NOT THOU thy nether regions when company is there, for this is an abomination.
THE LAW HAS ORDAINED many places where thou mayst dump.  Thou mayst dump in the backyard, on the dog trail in designated areas, and in extreme situations, in the front yard.  Thou mayst not dump in the neighbor's yard, nor mayst thou dump outside designated areas lest thy master be compelled to retrieve thy warm dump with a little baggie.  But even to dump outside the designated area on the dog trail is not as foul in thy master's eye as dumping inside the house, for that is an abomination in the sight of thy master and really gross.
IF THOU COMEST ACROSS something dead and stinking in the dog park, roll thou not in it, for this is an abomination, and it is ordained that the dog who rolls in any dead and stinking thing shall get a bath forthwith.
NEITHER SHALT THOU eat of any thing thou findest in the park around the trashcans, though it be even chicken, and thou knowest how much thou lovest chicken.
IF THOU ABSOLUTELY MUST dump inside the house for thou, against the will of thy master, has eaten of something in the park, then at least don't dump on the carpet or the good furniture, but just on the hardwood which isn't as hard to clean up and at least is not quite as bad.
IF THOU WILT obey these, the commandments thy master has given, thou art a GOOD DOG.
Sit.

Illnesses for the Twenty-First Century

Text-Messaging Digitalis
FaceBook Hyper-Gluteus Syndrome
Gasoline Price Ocular Distension

Getting the Most from Meetings

From The Director in Charge of Going Forward to the Next Level

To All Departments

Another fiscal year has rolled around which means more meetings for everyone.  I'm sure you agree, that the one thing this company needs to improve its productivity, morale, and profitability is more meetings.  Two years ago, the theme of our meetings was "thinking out of the box," and last year it was "shifting the paradigm."  This year we'll be "taking it to the next level."  I'm sure you're all as excited as I am at the prospect of this exciting new phrase, and maybe just a little apprehensive but not to worry - we'll still be using the standbys you've come to know and love, "going forward," "best practices," and "at the end of the day."  Additionally the woman in accounts is still guaranteed to mention her former position was in California at least twice per meeting, and the guy with the weird squeaky voice will raise his hand at least three times to clarify a point that has already been clarified, so you will feel right at home.
We will continue to uphold our tradition of scheduling as many meetings as possible, but remember meetings aren't just an opportunity to daydream about the time you're losing from the finite quantity allotted each of us on this earth, time once lost you can never hope to recapture, or about horrible violent and ironically appropriate deaths for the speaker - no, meetings can also be a chance to nap, text-message, and doodle.  There are a few things you might wish to keep in mind as you approach this year's round of meetings.  To wit:Doodling:  The Zen-like state of boredom induced by the endless monotonous drone of meetings is ideal for doodling, and yet recently there has been a significant drop-off of this practice, which is disheartening to all of us.  Many doodles in the past were quite amusing, and some of them, I believe, had genuine artistic merit.  Please don't be shy about expressing yourself on paper while your brain slowly turns to coleslaw under the relentless onslaught of jargon and verbiage from whatever idiot is up there yakking.Napping: We ask you not attempt to take an actual nap in a meeting unless you are already expert in the practice.  Supporting your head in your hand as you sleep is bound to lead to disaster; sooner or later, your elbow begins to slide outward, and next thing you know, you drop your head and wake up with a start and a snort, and everyone knows what you were up to.  The fun of taking a nap in a meeting is leaving everyone guessing - is that person taking a nap, or is it possible he's actually so interested in what's being said, he's sitting in that position without moving for the last half hour?  Hunkering over your paper, a pen poised in your hand while you sleep is also prone to failure.  An escaping pendulum of drool is likely to give you away, and ultimately gravity takes over, and you bump your head on the table, again waking with a snort.  Therefore, we suggest you reserve all nap times until you're back at "work" in your cubicles and offices.Text-Messaging: Technology has improved our lives in so many ways, and one of them is how easily we can entertain ourselves while someone talks about taking It to the next level going forward at the end of the day, or whatever the hell it is he's talking about.  When you text message, place your cellphone in your lap and train your gaze toward the table as if your were focused on the documents before you.  Another method is to prop a folder in front of you like a screen and place the cellphone on the table behind it.  Perhaps, text-messaging is taking the place of doodling, and I for one am sad about this, but we cannot detain the march of progress.  Therefore, I ask that you share your text-messages with each other to build a sense of camaraderie and community.  You might text each other derisive comments about the wardrobe, appearance, hygiene, or sexual habits of your coworkers.  Make bets about the number of times the accounts woman will mention she once worked in California or how many times the squeaky-voice guy will clarify an already-clarified point.  I feel this would be a much more creative and effective use of time than merely surfing for amusing kitten videos.I think if we all heed these suggestions we will find our meetings more enjoyable and productive.Thank you,The Director in Charge of Going Forward to the Next Level