That’s right people.  In today’s microwave society where we get our news instantly by means other than an evening newscast or a morning paper, we’ve become one which is dependent on instant results.

It’s the nature of the beast.

One of the little tricks we use in the 21st century in order to make things go a little faster involves abbreviating our language.  Face it people.  If you can’t speak text or instant message language colloquially these days, you’re just a matter of steps away from being generally screwed.

The abbreviation has gotten to a point where even our names are abbreviated at our place of work.  Bigger companies nowadays (at least one that I’m pretty darned familiar with) have relegated their employees basic profile to their initials.  Everything the employee does within the company is assigned to the initials; from basic human resource information to the network profile they use to access the computer system to perform the most basic of tasks.

On a side note, I wonder if the person who designates denim days has initials.  I bet they’re “BJB” for “Blue Jean Boss”.

Sometimes, people don’t get assigned the initials of their actual name when they get hired on.  The obvious reason is that there may be others within the company which have the same initials.  In those events, there is a consortium within Human Resources which messes with the new employees initials by adding a letter or two.  They’ve also been known to grab more than one letter from the first or last name in order to find a unique set of initials.  It’s perks of the job if you ask me.  What real joy could anyone derive from working in Human Resources?

Now before some of you HR types get all snitty with me, consider this.  When you were 7, and some adult asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up, did you really say that you wanted to be an HR associate?

I rest my case.

Back to the initials.

They’re pretty common in Cubeville, and I’m thinking about instituting an initials policy here within TharpSter.Org.  The following is just a sample of those I work with in Cubeville who are assigned to three or four letter acronyms as their name.  Their company assigned initials appear in red:

• Luanne Olivia Lareaux loves to hear a good joke and is not shy or discreet with how funny she thinks it is.
• WalTer Franklin doesn’t really appreciate being told what to do, and tends to question it and authority in the most colorful of manners.
• Bonnie Francis Eubank lives really far away from the office, and tends to come in real early or leave late to avoid traffic.
• Bonita Fernanda Diaz doesn’t put a whole lot of herself into her work, and could really care less about things.
• Olivia Marie Gunderson continues to show surprise and wonder about the things she learns every day.
• Trenton TYLer usually doesn’t have the time to discuss things and subsequently returns your calls at his convenience.
• ROland FLorence appreciates a good joke and typically can’t stay seated when he hears a good one.
• TiM Iverson has no filters when it comes to discussing in extreme detail the intricacies of his lactose intolerance and irritable bowel syndrome.
• Calvin YbAnez is pretty good about making sure nothing can be blamed on him.  The man is like Teflon.
• STanley Frederick Upton is a rude character who has no tolerance or patience for anyone who speaks to or around him.

Frankly, if you ask me, it’s amazing any of these people get any work done.

Speaking of initials and acronyms, I have another movie clip to show you.  Just for the record, this is probably the only time I will ever give a shout out to Robin Williams here on TharpSter.Org.  I find his entire body of work in film and stand up comedy to be derivative of, well….. Robin Williams.

As much as you’d like to think that I’m talking about the Ron Howard movie that came out over twenty years ago, I’m not.

But maybe I am.

Ladies and gentlemen, what in tarnation has happened to the practice of parenthood in the last 15 years (by my reckoning) where responsibility has been shucked in favor of letting the Wii take over?

This isn’t dedicated to the Wii alone. Name your game system, your smart phone, your app, and any other electronic wonder born of in the last thirty years and designed to perpetuate our collective lethargy.

Did I suggest that electronics have replaced parents?

Don’t forget what appears to be a magnified attention on diagnosing kids with any and every ailment, learning disability, or other malady known to man at this particular time in history.  God forbid if a kid sits in class and looks out the window for a bit, only to be subsequently diagnosed with attention deficit disorder.  I speak of this from personal experience, people.

Granted, I skipped all 10 plus years of medical school, assorted certification, and internships, but I would suggest that a majority of kids diagnosed with things like ADD today and subsequently medicated don’t really need the prescribed treatment.

It would seem at the increased rate in which kids are being diagnosed with some bullshit ailment these days, short buses in the future will be designated for kids without a diagnosis.  Sure that seems absurd now, but wait until it happens and remember where you read it first.

Did I mention medication?

Of course I did.

Any conspiracy theorist worth his salt and a traipse through Area 51 could put those two puzzle pieces together.

I don’t subscribe to conspiracy theories, so I’m not going to walk down that path.

Well, gee.  Who can we blame here?

Should we blame the likes of Microsoft, Apple, or Sony for purveying electronic bliss?  Why not sue gun manufacturers for gun violence, or spoon producers for obesity?

Nope.

What about the teachers who refer kids for analysis?  What about the shrinks who misdiagnose or “Big Pharma”?

Nope.

I tend to blame parenting, or lack thereof.

There are generally some pretty screwed up kids out there that are the hapless victims of their parents inability to dispense the correct level of parenting.  It’s quite sad really to watch it day in and day out without the

I’ve never really discussed it before, but I believe parental imprinting has a whole lot more to do with the behavioral development of a child than what we actually understand at this point.

Did I mention the movie Parenthood earlier?

Of course I did.

Take a look at one of my favorite lines from that movie.

That’s right people.  By the time you read this dispatch, I will be firmly ensconced in the middle of Cubeville doing unspeakable things which I normally don’t perform on a Saturday.

I’ll be working.

The common phrase uttered around the office on a Friday usually involves the ever so optimistic phrases such as “Well at least it’s Friday” or “Have a good weekend”.

It’s hard to participate in such banter on a Friday when you know you’ll darken the door with your access badge the next day.

Yeah, yeah, I know.  In today’s depressed economy where the unemployment numbers continue to be ugly enough to wear a paper bag, I should feel happy and blessed to have a job at all, let alone one that allows me to keep banker’s hours.

At the same time, complacency makes a more compelling argument.

For the record, I wasn’t bitching about putting in time on a Saturday, so you don’t have to get all up in my face about what I do or do not have to do tomorrow.

None the less, I wish everyone a good weekend from the middle of Cubeville where my nameplate remains intact after yesterday’s mea culpa.  Whether you have to work or not, do what you gotta do in your time off.

When you open your oven to check dinner, the rump roast farts in your face.

For those of you younger readers, an oven is a big hot box that people used to put food into in order to cook it.  It’s kinda like a slow microwave.

That rump roast joke used to kill me.  It’s still firmly ensconced in my skull as one of my all time favorite jokes which feature punch lines like “…because he can”.

This morning while wandering into Cubeville donning my old Spurs t-shirt from the 2007 endeavor, tennies, and denim (as approved by the company power broker), I happened upon the most troubling of indicators which had the gall to suggest that things weren’t going to go as well as I originally anticipated.

How could this be?

How is it that a return to cubicle sweet cubicle on a beautiful Thursday morning where I would partake in my bottle of Lipton Green Tea (the unaltered flavor) and the promise of a  lemon poppy seed muffin (false positive) lead to certain demise?

But then it occurred to me.

Ladies and gentlemen, just a few days ago I revealed to the world that the real power behind any corporation is the person who designates and approves denim days.  Those are the days where you can step away from the trappings of a pair of Dockers and a short sleeve polo type shirt and into the freedom of jeans.  Tennies are typically forbidden in those cases.

Now that the secret is out, I believe that the powers that be are a little miffed at me for exposing them.  I think they’re trying to send me a message that if I continue to pursue this narrative, that I could possibly regret it.

The first sign they sent me of their disapproval wasn’t a farting rump roast or anything like that.

Instead, it was a metaphor in the presence of my nameplate lying face down on the floor just outside of my cubicle.

Memo to the Chief Denim Designator:  Message received.

I don’t mind telling you that it was pretty good.  They rocked the house.

Now certainly you wouldn’t expect such an utterance to be made with regard to a high school orchestra, but it’s true in this case.

Mark Wood is a kick ass violinist.  Right now, the only thing I can hold against him is that he’s worked with Celine Dion.  I can only hope that it was under duress.  I swear if I hear that song from Titanic one more time……

Anyway, go check his website linked to his name above.  He has an admirable cause.

The concert was sectioned off between grade schoolers, middle schoolers, and high schoolers.  In each section, Wood accompanied the orchestra in various classics such as We Will Rock You, Crazy Train, Carry On Wayward Son, Eleanor Rigby, Live And Let Die, some Coldplay crap (not my choice to work in with a classic but good for an ongoing verbal gag that you’re reading right now), and Stairway To Heaven.  They finished the night as a group off with a fast version of Hoedown by Aaron Copeland.

Junior has played that piece in concert several times over the last 6 years and sawed away at that viola like it was no one’s bidness.

Mark Wood made it fun for all of those kids last night.  He made it fun for the audience too.

I’ve quoted the statement before and I’ll do it now.  Find something you love to do and you’ll never work a day in your life.

Mark Wood doesn’t have a job.

I’ve really have to give it to Junior for pursuing a music career.  The kid has been at it since he was 10 and his attendance at a School of Music this coming fall after graduating high school opens all sorts of doors for him.

Naturally I’ve made all types of jokes about being on the countdown to getting him out of the house, but that’s all they’ve been is just jokes.

I’m excited for the kid and I can’t wait to see what he does with his God given talents.  He’s found his purpose and he’ll do just fine.  If Junior can do for his eventual students / audiences the same thing that Mark Wood did last night….

Well, you know.

Okay, for now I’ll stop using my words to brag about the boy.

Here’s an excerpt from last night’s event.

I’ve seen it all by now in the world of fabric covered modular walls.  I’ve participated in my share of video conferences where the coworker sitting next to me made faces as I spoke.  I’ve been on plenty of conferences calls where moot points were converted to mute points with the touch of a button and an ill fated attempt to put on a display of intelligence.

I can speak business-speak colloquially.

My Sunday go-to-meetin’ clothes are professional casual by mere coincidence.  Professional casual has been my Monday through Thursday dress code for a majority of those years.  It’s based on that dress code that I dispatch this little nugget of brilliance to you today.  Pay attention because it’s a forehead thumper.

After all of this time I’ve figured things out.  For years and years, I’ve been of the impression that the top dogs in any given company were the likes of the President, the CEO, the CFO, the COO, the HBIC, or any host of characters whose last names represent three or four letter acronyms.

Boy was I wrong.  It’s none of those people.

You know who has the real power?

It’s the individual in charge of designating denim days.

You don’t believe me.  Consider this.

For those of you who work for a company where the minimum dress code is non-denim, professional casual attire, when was the last time the top dog wandered into work wearing a button down oxford, penny loafers, and a pair of 501s without the pre-emptive email blast declaring a denim day?

For the younger crowd, 501s are blue jeans.

Unless you live in some parallel universe where you wear a goatee to represent your evil self, the answer to that question is an unequivocal “Never”.

That’s because the real power that governs how the top dog dresses on any give Monday through Thursday is the person who designates denim days.  Easy as that.

Now that the jig is up and the news is out, I have a few questions.

Do the people who designate denim day have a budget on how many days they can declare?

Do they ever go over or under budget?

What is the difference between “denim with tennies” and “denim without tennies” from a professional attitude point of view?

For those companies located in cities without professional sports franchises which go to the playoffs a whole lot (Go Spurs), how are denim days determined?

Is there a direct relationship between the number of denim days and the size of the gene pool within a company that looks really good in a pair of jeans?

What is the compensation package involved with designating denim days?  Does it get so high that it just comes down to stock options?

How is the quality of work measured when it comes to declaring a denim day?

And last, but not least by a long shot……

Where do I apply?

Many years ago I had a t-shirt featuring a road sign on a highway.  The sign touted two destinations:

End of the world – 5 miles

Casper, Wyoming – 6 miles

Yeah, well.  You can’t fault me for posting something like that.  I bought the shirt at a gift shop located in one of those destinations.  The jury is still out on which one it was.

Last week, America was exposed to a magazine cover featuring a woman breast feeding a toddler.

This week, our President has been featured on a magazine cover donning a rainbow colored halo and touted as our first gay President.

I expect that readership for both rags has increased well into the double digits as a result of those covers.  The funny thing is that both covers will inspire more artistic license with those who have the presence of mind to subject the images to Photoshop and other editing software to make or convey any type of message they want.

I’m looking forward to the demotivators.

Speaking of demotivators, well……..

I won’t say too much at this point, but one of my primary ones is back after a brief hiatus.  Typical for a Monday, and I knew it was coming.  Ideally within a year, it will be gone.

Last week, I had a really good idea for a product that a whole buncha people could use and appreciate.  Even cooler was the fact that I searched the item out on the internet and app stores and didn’t find it there.  Certainly there’s nothing new under the sun, however this little idea banging around within the confines of my skull may just very well put that statement to the test.

Just for the record, if you think it’s that idea I have for a spring loaded toilet paper dispenser which changes the orientation of the roll from front dispensing to back, you’re wrong.  Granted, I’m still pondering that one, but it’s been on the back burner for a pretty long time.

None the less, I’m not ready to share my idea until I can get some official ownership of it.  Taking a picture of it and putting my logo in the bottom right hand corner isn’t going to be enough.  Next to that, I need an electrical engineer, marketing, and a couple of more resources (ka-ching) to create a prototype worthy of presentation to the vast cogs of capitalism.

Interesting.

How is it that I turned a blog about oblivion into a teaser for the next great thing in toilet paper dispensary?

Must be a slow blog day.

• Pencil (preferably mechanical)
• Graph paper (not necessary if your teacher wasn’t focused on aesthetics)
• Scientific calculator (back in the day for me was the late 80′s and early 90′s)
• An affinity for strategically contained profanity
• A friend who knew what the hell he was doing on the assumption (or knowledge) that you didn’t.  Ignore the misogyny there.  There were no women in my calculus classes.

Even still, the knowledge I gathered in that year in which I took three different Calculus classes gave me no real foundation for my eventual role (or roll, take your pick) as a Bidness Analyst in the financial services industry some twenty years later.

Or did it?

I’ll tell you right now that it’s been a long time since I calculated the area under a curve, and can barely remember where to start.

Even though I don’t do that on a regular basis, I invoke a lot of the same problem solving skills I learned back in the day in order to solve the problems that come up in Cubeville today.  For those you who don’t have a Business Speak to English / English to Business Speak dictionary at hand, a problem is the same thing as an issue complete with the negative connotation.

So what do I have left over from three psychotic semesters of calculus?

Problem solving skills and a Casio fx-7500G graphing calculator.

I didn’t really realize that until just now.  Sure, I know I have the calculator.  I use it to keep ongoing track of our grocery bill whenever we’re getting a big load of vittles.  I’m sure my professors from back in the day would be rolling in their respective graves over that if they just happen to be dead.  Come to think of it, I haven’t found them on Facebook yet.

Last week, Junior hit me with a request for a trip to the hardware store in order to complete an assignment he has for calculus.

As a reminder, Junior is less than three weeks away from finishing high school.  He has plans to go to a music school to study viola.  He will most likely test out of whatever math classes his degree plan throws at him.  Senioritis has set in, and he’s pretty much phoning it in at this point until the last week of this month.

For his calculus class, Junior has to create some sort of elaborate curve or other shape in segments in order to create a visual representation of how the area under a curve is calculated.  For this project he’ll need:

• Pencil (at this point, who cares what type?)
• Ruler
• A working knowledge of the Pythagorean Theorem
• Paint
• Wood glue
• Plywood
• Velcro
• Jigsaw
• Sander
• Saw horses will help

For this, he’ll create a segmented, pyramid, shaped thingy which will carry a specific domain and range.

As a result of creating this thingy, Junior has learned that the jigsaw blade gets hot from the friction of cutting plywood.  He learned that the jigsaw has a compartment built into it to store extra blades.  He learned that his hand will get numb after prolonged use of an orbital sander.  He learned that the Gorilla Glue brand of wood glue is pretty darn good stuff.  He learned where I keep my rubber mallet used to put the lid back on the paint.  He also learned what happens to my bald head when I go outside to help him with a calculus project without exercising the forethought of putting a lid on.  I learned that part too.

I really can’t complain though.

After all, he got some exposure to the woodwork he missed out on by not joining the Cub Scouts with the express intent of building a Pine Wood Derby car.  If he developed a better understanding of finding the area under a curve (or whatever) for use many years in the future, so be it.

This message goes out to Mom.

You know who you are.

You’re the one who…

• Pulled that key out of the electrical outlet after I shoved it in there looking for Reddy Killowat
• Rushed me to the doctor that time after we fell over on the bike so that I could get sutures a mere inch away from my eye.
• Wouldn’t let me settle for “good enough”
• Let me make my own mistakes
• Held me accountable for my actions
• Taught me the importance of half-birthdays
• Encouraged me to pursue my interests
• Helped get me a job or two
• Taught me the importance of a good chocolate malt after a visit to the orthodontist
• Hauled me up a great big ole mountain to witness majesty

The list goes on and on.

Mom has good company though.

Let’s see, there are my two Grandmothers who gave us Dad and Mom.  There’s my step-Mother and her Mother.  There’s also my Mother-in-Law and her Mother.  Two of them are no longer with us, the other five are still here.

That’s seven Mothers if I’m counting correctly, ladies and gentlemen.  In my 43 years, 11 months, and 13 days, these seven women have been instrumental in molding and shaping me in a manner consistent with minding my manners and staying out of society’s woodshed.

Don’t forget number Eight though.

Wifey in her role as Mother to my children keeps me in check just as much as the other seven.

To all of you, I wish you the happiest of Mother’s Days.  I love you very much.

The compound.

Here’s the problem with that term.

It has a negative connotation associated with assorted fractures, various chemicals, bows, cults in Waco, rape in Hyannis Port, and concatenations of two words into one.

I’m not interested in perpetuating such negativity with such an innocuous term.  Going forward, I will no longer refer to the house as the compound.

I’ve updated the autocorrect feature in my MS Office suite of programs to automatically change the word to something else whenever I type it.  I think I can do in on the ole iPhone as well.

From this point on, all soliloquies, blogs, dispatches, rants and other ramblings will be dispatched from my domain.

It only makes sense.

For now, that is all.