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.

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’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?

• 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.

The blog itself should have no bearing on how I feel about that little psychotic head case of a dog.  Let me assure you that she’s gotten us through a lot of tough times when spirits were down here around the compound.

That being said, it rained today.  The key indication is that thunder was involved too.

Remember earlier this week when I wished for rain during the waking hours?  What I meant was that I wished for rain during the waking hours when someone is home to keep the psychotic little head case in check.

Just thought I’d clarify that, because the opportunity for Faith to escape the castle and cross the moat to freedom presented itself twice today while we weren’t there.  On both occasions, Faith seized on the opportunity and bolted.

Even still, Faith was gracious enough between escape attempts to pose for a portrait while wearing her Thundershirt.  I was quite happy about it, because pictures of her never turn out right, what with her inability to sit still or her dark brown eyes getting hidden in her jet black hair.

I think I may even submit the picture with the success story I submit to Cubeville in support of the San Antonio Humane Society.

I’m pretty sure I did.  It’s not like I would make that stuff up.

Today I got my wish when the thunder, lightning, and rain arrived mid-morning and carried on for an hour or two at least.  Strangely enough, I was awake.

“Would you consider going home for lunch to check up on Faith?”  Wifey asked me that this morning.

Translation:  “Regardless of what we do, Faith is going to go ape shit when the thunder comes.  I need you to go home during lunch, straighten up whatever furniture she’s been bouncing off for the last few hours, and pick up the expelled contents of her colon off of what I’m guessing will be the kitchen floor.  But before you do so, it wouldn’t hurt to take a picture of the destruction and text it to me.  Who knows?  It may make good blog material.”

Shows how much she knows.  The expelled contents of Faith’s colon were in the foyer, not the kitchen.

Beyond that, I followed the implied instructions, and almost in the correct order.  The picture came after I picked up a potato masher and the can it gets stored in.

But wait.  There’s more.

One of the admirable things about the people who run Cubeville is their charitable spirit.  Every year, the company picks a specific local charity to support for the year.  Over that time, various events are held both at work and off site to raise cash and awareness for the charity.  This year, the charity we selected was the San Antonio Humane Society.

Background has been set.  Stay with me here.

Upon returning to work from a disappointing lunch time visit to my beloved dogs, an email lay there in the ole inbox.  It said:

We want your adoption success story!

 Did you adopt your best friend from the San Antonio Humane Society?

We want to know about your experience, and your furry friend!

Ladies and gentlemen, have I ever told you about the origin of the species as it applies to Faith?  I know I’ve told you how we came about our pit bull Hope, but I’m pretty sure I haven’t told you where we got Faith.

During the Christmas of 2006, we wandered into the San Antonio Humane Society one night and fell in love with an 8 week old black lab mix named Buddy.  We had gotten there too late that night to adopt him, so the kids and I went back the next morning to bring the little guy home.

Unfortunately, someone else had fallen in love with Buddy the night before and arrived at the same time that next morning to adopt him.  Had I not been polite and held the door for them upon arriving at the Human Society, we would have gotten Buddy.

We didn’t get Buddy.  Even worse, I apparently didn’t learn my lesson.  I still hold doors for people.

As we wandered around, we happened across a couple of Buddy’s littermates in one kennel.  They had been named Blossom and Buttercup.

We took Blossom.

She was renamed later that day and the rest is history and a series of blogs.

At this point, I’m pondering what kind of “success story” to write about that psychotic head case of a little dog of mine that hasn’t been said before.

Perhaps I don’t have to write anything.  After all, a picture’s worth a 1000 words; especially a picture of a psychotic head case of a little dog posing in her lavender scented Thundershirt near the crime scene where she perpetuated kitchen utensil homicide coupled with assault and battery on an oven just a few short hours before.

Deep down, I know that if this dog ever had access to a basement, she would have a basket with lotion in it for the captives in the makeshift well.

All things being equal, I think I’ll take the pit bull burping in my face.

Come on everybody, sing along.  You know the words.

Anyone?

Bueller?

That’s not a song lyric that I know of.  I just wanted to see if I could get the members of the blog reading world to sing along for the sake of singing along.

In the meantime, my beloved pit bull Hope just ran into the bedroom where I’m sitting here on the bed, watching American Chopper on Discovery Channel, and typing up today’s dispatch.  As always, she comes in excited and guns blazin’.  Usually in this case, I put my hand out and growl at her to stop her from mugging me.

Today, things went a little different.

She runs in, throws her 60 lb. frame onto the bed, comes to a complete stop just a matter of inches from me, and burped in my face.

Run, run, run, bank corner, slide into the wall, correct course, run, run, jump…… brake, brake, stop, belch.

I’d like to take a moment out of today’s blog to address the good people at Iams.  For those of you not in the know, Iams is a brand of dog food which has made it’s way in somewhere between 15 and 20 pound increments into the TharpSter compound since Christmas of 2006.

In that time, we’ve sampled the puppy flavor and the adult blend ranging from beef, to chicken, to lamb, to bacon.  Okay, not so much on the bacon.  One can dream though.

Over all, we’ve had pretty good experiences with Iams, and don’t really have any intention of changing brands anytime soon.

To our friends at Iams, please understand that we’re loyal customers.  As such, I feel it only necessary that you consider what I’m about to suggest and treat it with the highest of regard and deepest of consideration.

Iams, I have a new flavor suggestion for you.  It was inspired by the events of just seven paragraphs ago.

Tic-Tac.

‘Nuff said.

What’s the deal with that?

Generally I don’t have a problem with thunderstorms.  The reason for that is because I grew up in Wyoming where I have no conscious memory of being caught up in one powerful enough to entrench itself into my skull as part of either a good or bad memory.

In fact, the only time I can remember it raining with any real consistency out there in the great plains was usually on Mother’s Day when the kids start playing baseball.  Here in Texas and generally nationwide, the Little League season usually starts in mid-March.  The league I participated in up there couldn’t start baseball that early because there was usually still snow on the ground or it was just to cold.

Back to the rain.

For whatever reason, I like to sit and watch it if it’s really coming down.  The effects of the gamma radiation subside and I become calm just watching it.

Wifey is a different story, and generally hates it.  There was an event in her past where she was caught up in a nasty storm while sitting in a travel trailer.

As for Faith, the TharpSter TreadMill, she hates it.  She generally tries to find the tightest little corner to hide from the noise.  As a result, laundry baskets get dumped over, shampoo bottles get knocked off the side of the tub, and on at least one occasion, the seal between the tank and the bowl on the toilet gets misadjusted from her trying to hide under the thing.

Did I mention that I don’t mind thunderstorms?  I generally don’t.

Did I mention that I don’t mind loud-ass cracks of lightening and thunder which jolt me from a deep REM state where the recesses of my subconscious has put me in a world free of roving mariachis and beanless nachos?

Yeah I know I didn’t, because I do mind those things.

I do mind the fact that cracks of thunder and lightning go off at 3:30 in the morning and my legs start running before my brain can engage and tell them to stop.

I do mind the fact that Faith jumps in bed and cuddles close enough to become my conjoined twin when the thunder and lightning work their magic on the contents of her little skull.

I do mind the fact that Faith is usually shaking so hard that my bed becomes it’s own shiatsu massager, yet not the good kind.

Pardon me for being grumpy, but those little worlds generated in my dreams where the life of an innocent bean is not sacrificed for the benefit of my palate or anyone else’s are quite enjoyable.

The way I see it, one of two things need to happen.

1. Beans and roving mariachis go away.

2. Thunderstorms need to be rescheduled to take place in the waking hours when I can enjoy them for all of their splendor.

Who do I talk to about that?

Let me tell you how I feel right now.

I’ve got a headache.

I’m a little dizzy.

The stuff I’m looking at appears to be caught up in some sort of temporal space distortion swirling around a drain.

My perception is generally off and I’ve spent a better part of the afternoon tilting my head vertically.  There ain’t no horizontal movement here folks.  That tends to enhance the distortion.

Suffice to say, I think I’ve managed to prove today that one doesn’t need hallucinogenic pharmaceuticals created by the evil drug companies in order to alter perception.

Nope.

All you really need is a good case of hyperopia and a pair of bifocals.  The lazy eye is the frosting on the top.

Care to guess how much more OCD I’ve become with the angle of the monitor on Mr. Laptop here in trying to find the optimum position which is conducive to the lines I type being at a 180 degree angle?

Good Lord in butter, I’m going to have to spend a couple of days wearing these things just to get used to them.  Hopefully my gray matter and eyeballs will learn to work together to acclimate to this bifocal torture device.

Speaking of “Good Lord in butter”, I hit the movie theater at 10:30 am on Star Wars day to see The Avengers.

For those of you without a streak of geek, May 4th is Star Wars day.  May the fourth be with you.

The film (back to The Avengers) centered around a  character portrayed by the lovely and talented Scarlett Johansson in skin tight attire and loaded for bear (or bare) and her five or six boyfriends who feel compelled to wear super hero suits and generally fly around shooting stuff or beat the crap out of it.

Generally speaking,  the lovely and talented Scarlett Johansson in skin tight attire and loaded for bear (or bare) was more appealing in Iron Man 2, however I had no problem paying attention to her in The Avengers.  Two of the supporting reasons I maintained that ability were that I saw the movie before I picked up my bifocals, and I stayed the hell away from the 3D version of the film.

Ladies and gentlemen, we’re in the 21st century aren’t we?  Why on God’s green Earth have the pioneers of digital technology not come up with a way to watch a 3D movie without putting on those stupid glasses that pinch your nose, bite your ears, and give you a general feeling that you’re wearing bifocals?

Pauses to lament the lack of flying  cars and better 3D movie experiences in the 21st century.

Okay where was I?

Oh, that’s right.

The lovely and talented Scarlett Johansson in skin tight attire and loaded for bear (or bare).

To be honest, I was just a little hesitant about whether the movie would be good or not.  I blame Junior and one of the trailers.

Without going into a whole lot of details, Junior saw the movie last week and had announced he didn’t like it.  “Good Lord in butter boy, why do you say that?”  I felt my response was appropriate.

Junior then listed a litany of plot incidents which didn’t hold up to general scrutiny.  “Ok, so it didn’t live up to something like Iron Man.  Was it as bad as Thor?”  I begged and hoped it wasn’t.

“No, not so much.  I just didn’t like it.”

Junior and I tend to have the same taste in film.  This didn’t set well with me at all.

The other potential issue I had was in one of the trailers I had seen which focused on the need for The Avengers to work as a team to beat the bad guys.  On a side note, who names a bad guy Loki?  This gave me the sense the movie was going to be a two and a half hour public service announcement sponsored by the Ad Council on the importance of teamwork.  Teamwork is good, however Hollywood gave us the perfect example for that with Apollo 13.  This is a movie about comic book heroes gosh darn it.  I didn’t shell out a wad of cash to go watch a PSA.

So I sat there and I watched it.

All two hours and twenty two minutes of it.

As I sat there and watched it.  I enjoyed it.  Sure the teamwork element was all over the film, but even still, I enjoyed the film.  I sent a text to Junior at one point calling him nuts.

There was something else that stirred deep within me as I sat there watching the film and enjoying it.  I can only describe it as a growing feeling of pressure and warmth.  I felt like I couldn’t sit still at all.  I felt like I had to drum my legs.  The feeling grew and wouldn’t go away.

After sitting through the first round of credits in order to see a teaser for the potential sequel, I knew what my problem was.

I had to pee.

Bad.

When you’re sitting in a movie that you’ve been waiting for since you saw the first trailer just before Super Sunday, you don’t dare walk out of it in the middle of the film to go relieve yourself.  That’s heresy.

Upon relieving myself and leaving the theater, I stopped at Subway for a sandwich to bring home to eat.  That was good too.

For those of you wondering about the drivers license I mentioned yesterday, I didn’t go get it.  I still have about 26 days left on that bad boy, and will most likely wait until the last minute to take care of it.  I would imagine I’ll probably see the movie again in that time frame, sans beverage, 3D glasses, or my bifocals.

Suffice to say, you’re favorite blogger on the whole worldwide web has pretty bad vision.

It all started in 1978 (when I’m sure a lot of problems started) when a less than ceremonial trip to the eye doctor rendered  me far sighted and in possession of a lazy eye (or two).

Back then, they used to dilate your pupils relentlessly during an exam.  By the time the doctor said you needed ocular assistance, you still couldn’t see well enough to determine if the frames you selected were ugly or not.  Even then, it was the 70′s.  Anyone who was around at the time should know that everything was ugly back then, and would stay that way for another few years.

Over the years, the vision hasn’t gotten that much better.  An eventual move to contacts helped a little.  Otherwise, my perception of certain things has been a little off kilter.  Literally and metaphorically, of course.

Quick show of hands.  Does anyone here remember those cool computer generated posters which were popular about 20 years ago?  These were the ones where you had to look at them and kind of not look at them to see the hidden three dimensional picture in them.

As I understand it, there's a penguin in there somewhere

I hated those things.

Care to guess why?

Because my visual affliction which is the culmination of one eye perceiving things at a higher rate of speed than the other one keeps the hidden image from being processed by my beloved gray matter into an image some geek dreamed up with his new CAD-CAM program on a nitro-infused Commodore 64.

None the less, an eye doctor told me about 20 years ago that by the time I hit 33 I would need bifocals.  I don’t remember my exact response, but I’m pretty sure it can be compared to a pile of something a bull leaves out in the pasture on occasion.

Truth be told, I think I was about 40 when the moment of truth came.  The funny thing was that I didn’t actually know about it until a year later when my eye doctor (a different one than the one I swore at) let me in on the secret.

Imagine the combination of disgust and arrogance I felt at the same time when I was let in on the secret that he had put me into multi-focal lenses the previous year.  Sure, I hated being there, but I beat the previous doctor’s guesstimate by about seven years.

Here we are a few years later and my vision isn’t getting better.

It probably doesn’t help that I stare at a couple of monitors in Cubeville everyday.  Nor does it help to come home and jump on the laptop or my iPhone to weave daily dispatches to the web.

Today, ladies and gentlemen, things come to a head.

As long as I’ve needed bifocals, I’ve remained in contacts.  At the same time, my current pair of glasses date back to 1999 and the prescription in them is pretty darn old.  Pre-bifocal old to be exact.  Even though I continue to wear contacts, sometimes my eyeballs just need a rest.  Case in point, the corneal edema I suffered last year which produced that evil persona in me named Left Eye Squinty came as a result of wearing my contacts for too long on a regular basis.

So in order to avoid the re-emergence of that pop eyed bastard, I’ve ordered a pair of glasses to wear a couple of days out of the week.  This morning, after I go to the DMV to renew my drivers license and right before I venture out to watch a film featuring the lovely and talented Scarlett Johansson in skin tight attire and loaded for bear (or bare), I will pick up my new pair of bifocal glasses.

Gee, I can’t wait.