The Joys of the Dump Truck

Vrrrooom, vrrooooom. Clank, clank. Oh the bygone days of onomatopoeia, when cities on the living room rug were made of recycled milk cartons and blocks, and the dump truck was the enforcer! Nothing could stop the dump truck. Your brother came by with his dinosaur, you ran it over. Your sister thought her "My little pony" could save the day, you threw it in the back of the dump truck and unloaded it off a block tower. Dump trucks, like the O'Doyles, ruled.

Today I knew I was in for it. I wanted to sleep a little because I knew I'd be working from 9PM to 5AM today. Graveyard. I didn't want to be another corpse, but of course I was awoken from my slumber at an early hour to help out a family member with something that was anything but urgent. So I was off to a good start. Then, when I tried to get back to my rest I was awoken once again, by the incessant ringing of my phone. I had to make it stop, and in my incoherent grogginess I answered it. It was my former boss, and he needed a favor. I was reluctant at first, but then he said those magic words: Dump Truck. I didn't exactly jump out of bed, because he said I'd need to pay for the dumping until he could meet with me later in the day, but we resolved that, and my enthusiasm resumed.

1988 was a good year. This truck was forged into a man-beast on that fateful year. Green, dilapidated, dirty, and formerly owned by the DC Housing Authority, it was a gem. A diamond if I may, in the rough. Except, it's hard to say how much diamond was left in this rough. So my first task was to unload construction junk at the "transfer station" (a PC term for what used to be called "the dump"). So of course, as luck would have it, after waiting forever to get weighed on the scale, the lady at the window took my permit, refused to return it, and said I couldn't dump there, but had to go to Lorton, a place in the middle of nowhere that used to be a prison complex on the edge of Fairfax County Virginia. I was perturbed. I called my boss, who was also perturbed, having dumped there for the past month. So, I resolved to park the dump truck and have a word with this lady. Long story short, I got the pass back and was permitted to dump. However, I dumped in the wrong place, got yelled at, finagled out of it claiming novice incompetence and ignorance, and then got to load the beast with "free mulch" to deliver to one of my boss's projects.

Now, the construction debris was easy to dump with the hydraulic lift, but the guy who loaded the mulch packed it in with so much skill as to render my job mission impossible. So after about 45 minutes of raising the bed and lowering it, going forward, then reverse, I finally dumped it. Sweaty, and freckled with mulch, and all the while on my cell phone with a friend, I was victorious. I had lived the dream. I drove a dump truck.

Whale Watching

Humor me for a moment. Close your eyes. Imagine you are on a wharf overlooking Plymouth Bay in Massachusetts. The water is a deep azure blue and the sun shimmers on each little wave's cap. The smell of dead clams and sunscreen hovers over the scene. Then you see it, your boat comes chuggin in from Cape Cod, a pristine Whale Watching boat, steaming all the way to you, eager and filling the air behind it with smoke and leaving swells that lap the wooden dock. Of course you are excited, you're going to watch whales. For 3 hours. And you paid for it.

Well after you go out, get sun-burned, watch some whales swim, breach and flop around while munching on a tuna sandwich for 3 hours...you realize it was a fun trip, but not one you're liable to repeat any time soon.

The whales put on a show for you. Or did they? Maybe they were just minding their own business and think it's funny that all these pasty-white humans in tevas and sporting over-sized turtle shell sunglasses 'oo' and 'ah' when they take a breath and eat.

Imagine if they did the same to us.

Mac Updates Saved my life.

Here's a conversation I was trying to have amidst a mac update:

Michael: Hey Suzie*, I've got to restart my computer...some mac update thing...so if you could just sit tight for like... I dunno 2-3 minutes...I'll be back.

Suzie: haha ok

Suzie: c ya

Michael: This update is quick...but it's interesting how slow I think it is...oh, and I just restarted my computer, and now it's asking me to do it again...I'm like a monkey jumping through hoops....what gives...

Suzie: uhhhhh

Michael: I hope to be back soon....

Suzie: ok ok


Michael: oh, now here's the kicker with this update: No devices were found that require this firmware update....wtf? I mean seriously. This auto-update put my whole world on hold for 10 minutes, so it could install some garbage that isn't even relevant to my computer....that is genius. I applaud Steve Jobs for that one.

Wow. I mean wow. Updates are a Godsend. I mean, they protect my computer, keep me 'updated,' and above all, let me restart my computer and take time to text message friends, get a drink, take a nap, or possibly use the bathroom and read an article of Reader's Digest. Thank goodness for mac updates.

*Name has been changed.

Dressing for Success

Do you dress for success? No. You don't. No one does. There is a common misconception when someone says "dress for success." That misconception is that one must wear a power suit with a red tie and shiny shoes. The reality could not be farther from this pseudo-truth. Of course if you spiffy up a little bit, you'll make a good impression before you speak, but once they've gotten beyond your silk Italian tie and your Armani cologne, there has to be something tangible there.

Dressing as you feel helps you exude confidence and independence. If you feel that today is Hawaiian shirt day, then it sure is! You should dress in whatever way you feel makes you work longer, harder and more efficiently. So, if you are a scuba-dive tour guide, that probably means a wet suit. If you want to wear a tie with that, that's your bag. If you are a pro surfer, you should probably wear boardshorts a wetsuit, or a powersuit just to piss off your brother, who, while at his office job turns on the TV and sees you surfing in his $800 suit. Whatever your job is, even if you have a dress code and work at a country club, you have your options. If it has to be a polo, make it a purple one. If it has to be slacks, make sure they're tweed. If you have a uniform, make sure all your co-workers sign it with their John Hancocks.

Dressing for success is up to you. Just like your success with that dress. If you are the man, then dress like you own it. If you are the wo-man, do likewise. Wherever you go, whatever you wear, be the success that makes your dress. Make your office jealous. They'll be whistling a different tune when they see that those Winnie the Pooh slippers got you a promotion.

An Anonymous Death

Ok. I'm all for anonymous donations to charitable causes, and anonymous gifts to deserving individuals, but to an extent anonymity freaks me out. I mean, when you meet someone, generally you exchange names. To me, it's a little bit more than just a formality, but it allows me to say, "I met, or I know him/her/it." However, at least to date, I've never gone to a dinner party and had someone introduce themselves as "anonymous." Except that one time, and it was on his name tag, and he also wore a bag on his head and claimed to be mute. But that case aside, names are good. They provide comfort, not unlike a warm fire on a winter's day, or a lock on your front door before you go to bed.

Now to the point. Online people like to protect their identity. I get that. But I would prefer a lie than someone posting as "anonymous." I mean c'mon. Posting online is fun! Imagine how much more fun it could be with a new name. Let's say you hate your name, or, perhaps dislike your parents, well guess what? Now it's your chance to stick it to them. Those of you named Ug, Chesterfield, Nubby or Adolf can fight the system! Now Ug can be Sean, Chesterfield can be William, Nubby can be Chase and Adolf can be Bobby. Think of the possibilities! Liberate yourself and post with a new name. No more will you have to sit in the back of class and mumble when your name is called! No more will you bashfully write your name in size 4 font on the nametag stickers! No more are you Ug! Say no to anonymity, and live life with the name you deserve!

Self-Prescribed Skin Cancer

It's interesting how everyone seems to want their "day in the sun." I mean, thinking realistically, the sun isn't that friendly. It burns us, gives us cancer or it scars our skin to a deeper shade that everyone seems to want. Little do we realize that tanning thins our skin, makes us more susceptible to cancer and of course, reduces softness and firmness, not to mention longevity.

The sun takes its toll on us. We get all red and wrinkly. Or, as some would like to put it, in order to make their stupidity more justifiable, "distinguished." Right. Since when did leathery, wrinkled, freckled, pock-marked, tumor-ridden epidermus become "distinguished?" In all honesty you become less distinguished. In fact, being distinguished in my view had something to do with doing good and achieving success through generally intelligent means. Somehow I don't think ruining your skin's health fits into that category.

Skin cancer aside, the idea that everyone has of "a day in the sun" is generally not so literal. Unless you're stupid. Which, if you are, I apologize. But, if you are stupid and are still reading this, struggling and grappling with every other word I commend you. "A day in the sun" generally refers to someone being in the "limelight" or getting their share of fame and praise for something they did. But why do we want so much to bask in the limelight? Why do we want to be lauded and applauded by our peers? Well, to be blunt, we are all narcissists. To a point. Don't deny it, you know it's true. The ones who are denying it now are only lying to themselves.

We all have this ingrained, inborn, innate need to be loved and admired. We measure our worth by what others think of us, from our hair and wardrobe to our speaking ability or wit. While you might think that other people make really good judgments and assessments about you, and you generally take constructive criticism well, if you allow other people to determine the course of your life and the level of your happiness you're going to probably end up one of two things. First, insane. Second, unhappy. Since it requires that one must be sane to have feelings of happiness or sadness, they are mutually exclusive. However, there is not a clear divide between sane and insane.

On that note I am going to make a blanket statement. People are generally insane. That means that at one moment or another, given the right (or wrong) circumstances any normal, self-respecting ideologue will flip his lid. For other terms see: bonkers, go mental, go off the deep end, lose one's marbles, one rachet less than the full set, etc. But, why are so many people ridiculously obsessed with how the world perceives them to the point that they lose their sanity or become melancholy and depressed?

It's our nature. But it can be beat. What it calls for is a resurgence of cold, callous, insensitivity. We need to be able to let stuff roll off our backs. We need to have thick enough skin so that when the poachers shoot at us on the Serengeti to get our ivory tusks, we can whip our tail at the bullet, turn around and trample 'em. We need to be able to laugh at angry hippos and crocodiles that want to dash us to pieces and store us on the river bottom. They can't. We are humans. We can eat them. The moral is more clearly delineated as follows: Don't get mad, get even. If the world turns its back on you. Turn your back on the world. When you get an 'F' on your report card, drop a little brown flaming bag on the teacher's doorstep. If they call you four eyes, tell them they have webbed feet. And then, to cap it off pour your school milk carton on their face, point, and laugh.

Why I'm a Peacemonger

Wouldn't the world be a better place if we all got rid of our leather, and wore some nice lace? Wouldn't it be nice if we could wile away the hours and days frolicking in the meadows, picking flowers and running up and down the beach like in that famous film from 1981, Chariots of Fire? Ah, it would be so perfect and serene. No one would talk loudly or bicker over Red Sox v. Yankees, or how raving mad Osama bin Laden is...they would be calm, composed and apathetic. Oh apathy! How you make us so carefree!

Why should we curl up in huddled masses under school desks when tornados and atomic bombs come hurtling our way? Let us stand up on the desks and embrace the world with arms wide open saying: "Oh Captain, my captain." We should have an international hug day where we go over to Saudi Arabia blow kisses to the Islamic Fundamentalists and hug the sectarian conspirators. Then they would see we're all in it for the peace and harmony, and they can do what they want, we'll still love them and live in our peaceful oblivion. That'll show 'em. Give peace a chance.

We need more of those simple-minded, inebriated, sweet love fests on the national mall like those of yesteryear. Where are all those wonderfully stimulating mind-altering drugs the CIA was so keen on using for their mind control studies? We need more of that. Fill up my bottle and we can dance in circles in the sun for days at a time and never find out which way is up or down. Munching on scones and sipping lemonade we can giggle and jest and live carefree. The man will be all by himself in his office with the blinds blocking the window, and the lights off, behind his computer, grumbling about the sunshine, but we, we will be free.

Why DC is so great.

Well, if you didn't know already, like it or not, DC is awesome. Yep, you might as well just face the music, bite your upper-lip half-heartedly and dance. The reasons are so astoundingly atestable and verifiable there truly is no sensible line of reasoning that could take you elsewhere. DC takes the cake.

First. DC has a thriving job market. No where else on earth do you have such a dependable job market. Why is that you say? Well, the big bureacratic beast with lots of fangs, rabies and a leash made up of red tape lives here. Right downtown. The world's most powerful, but strangely inept government. It doles out millions of new jobs each year for all the fabulous new cubicle mice who are bound to sit in dark cement-laden bomb shelter government offices for new agencies to act as middlemen for other agencies that society already thought were middle men. Yay!

Second. Everything is free! Oh yes, you can go just about anywhere in DC and see works of art, ancient artifacts, and years worth of archives and memorials without paying a dime for admission. And how can this be? Well, surprise surprise. You pay for it. You ever wonder why you pay so much in taxes when you live out in the middle of Wyoming? It's so all the illegal immigrants who protest in DC can have a great weekend planned out with their Aunts, Uncles, Grandparents, and children who are citizens and demand representation without taxation or legal entry. It's so they can see all those monuments and museums that you paid for. Oh DC.

Third. You are surrounded by water and don't even have to deal with all the icky sandiness that you would get from other cities that have a beach close by. You are conveniently placed in between two possible entry points of the sand abyss, but are fortunately sheltered by the most wonderfully smelling and attractive bays in the world. The Chesapeake! Oh what pride. And let's not forget the Potomac. Beautiful brown and gloriously full of treasures like free pianos, tractor tires, refrigerators, bowling balls and old cars...you don't even need to go shopping here, just go fishing and hope an angry minifridge takes your bait. Oh yes, and if you do have a hankering for some blue saltiness and want to get skin cancer you can drive 3 hours north to Bethany Beach Maryland or 3 hours south to Virginia Beach. See, in DC you're lucky.

There are many reasons that DC is the best, these three are just a start. Come on down and check out what all the Peruvians, Hondurans and Guatemalans are raving about! DC! DC! DC!

My funeral

I hope when I die and people make a facebook group about me, they explain how I died, so people don't try it themselves. That, and when I kick the bucket I want the bucket to be at my funeral. That and a lot of good food and music. I mean, who wants to be remembered as the guy who had crappy food at his funeral? And oh, please for goodness sake don't wear black. Wear polka-dots, tie-dye, fuschia even, but no black, unless you wear black nail polish, then I laugh at you. Maybe I'll even roll over in my grave. And then that roll will cause a cataclysmic event that triggers an earthquake and swallows up all of Los Angeles. Then they'll remember. Not like I honestly care if they do or don't. I mean when I'm dead I could not care less who remembers me. If you want to, because you think it's polite and makes you feel better then fine, but please don't feel obligated to "remember Michael". And I want it to be like a spelling bee for eulogies. The one who screws up gets kicked off...kinda like survivor, and the best one wins. Oh yeah and I want that Billy Joel song "Only the Good Die Young" playing...because my guess is, I won't be dead for a while...

The Manly Man

What happened to the manly man? Did he die off or disappear? Did the heir to his throne become a cross-dressing, hairstyling, shoe horse? It is beginning to look that way. But whether it be a look at what was, or a glimpse into the endangered lives of the rugged few who still proclaim themselves such, we shall define what is a manly man.

A manly man is a rough rider. No, not one of those rolled up pant leg, lunch lady hair net on their head, driving out in an imported Japanese car with shiny wheels and a subwoofer as big as a Cooper Mini – rather the kind that rode out on horseback with Teddy Roosevelt in Cuba to show the Carribean why the west was won – with a six shooter and a mouth full of tabbacy.

A manly man is the king of his domain, his throne is in the bathroom. If his byproducts are not huge and smelly, he’s a wuss, a pretender…even a metro. The bathroom is his sanctuary, and as such he should have plenty of good reading material that deals with what really matters in life, not Ladies Home Journal or a cook book.

A manly man is a man so composed and controlled he can keep his poker face all day long, or stare at the crack on a wall for days at a time without flinching. If the world is falling down outside around him, he can stay still and finish his meal and turn around and give it the old lazy eye and scare it back to normal when he feels like it.

A manly man eats meat. If there were no more lettuce or green vegetables in the world, he would make a salad out of meat slices and barbeque sauce. Meat to the manly man is like oxygen to the normal man.

A manly man does not need a lot of words. Sometimes a nod, a pat or a grunt suffice. Oftentimes these simple gestures are much deeper and more meaningful than words themselves. The manly man language is mocked and is usually indiscernible to women, but if there weren’t Navajo code talkers in World War II, those pansy Japanese still would have had their hands full.

A manly man gives his coat to a lady. The obvious reason is because he’s a warm hairy beast and would overheat if he kept it. A manly man’s hands are so warm he can heat up a hot pocket without a microwave, or pop the last few kernels of popcorn left in the bowl after a movie, instead of getting up and popping more.

A manly man’s fruit roll up is a piece of leather, and his trail mix is sand and gravel. When he tells you his chili is hot, you shouldn’t be able to feel your tongue for a week afterwards.