First Days Blues

Upon starting any new endeavor – in this case a yob – I am always brought back to a classic line from Die Hard, one that my buddy JDB likes to use: “welcome to the party, pal!...... you’re late!” Similarly, navigating the first days’ barrage of rules, regulations, directions, and misdirections, I am always reminded of Don Rickles’ epic rant from the film Dirty Work, a favorite of the consummate orator of interweb communications, ESS. For the infant-sized handful of loyal readers who were on-board during the ’09 hatchling stages of this samble of rambles on Al Gore’s interwebs, you might recall that a book that JDB gave me, Rickles’ Book, was the inspiration for wilosblog. Don Rickles is the effin man. I mean, shit, the guy chayed hard with Sinatra. Can’t really top that.

After the first couple days of any new job, I would venture to say that many people experience a feeling of unrest similar to that of the elderly lady in Happy Gilmore, who so tragicallt gets hit by a dislodged air conditioning unit.

Essentially, as was the case when I commenced this new yob in January, I was greeted with the standard, reverse/anti David Byrne Naïve Melody moment: i.e. this most certainly is not the place. In these moments, however, it is essential to not let the pyanic become too widespread. PGroove’s Walking In Place tends to do the trick. (Hyeady tryacks! Yya myan!)

As with many – your humble author included – in these moments of pyanic, there are immediate and constant flashes to the quandary of: “OMG OMG, where on earth will I be in 5-7 years??” I, for one, know exactly where I will be in 5-7 years. Well, not the exact physical location nor the specific company for which I will work. However, I can tell you this: I will be doing the exact same shit that I have been doing for the last decade: hanging out with my friends and family, playing and watching sports, searching for powder in the mountains, hunting native trout in cold-water streams and, most likely, still embarrassing myself, with no shame, from time to time. Hopefully less frequently. This is not meant to come across as a “the world is my oyster” statement; nor, should it be interpreted as a laissez faire attitude towards life. I do genuinely enjoy working hard on things that interest me and, in my next job, I am confident that I will be doing something that I genuinely enjoy. For now, however, I must admit that it is tough to get fired up about proofreading 60 pages of numbers. Thank goodness that we have The Saga of the Intriguingly Good Looking Girl (web log post to follow), who walks by my desk at a constant rate. And, as they say in Casablanca: “we’ll always have [the Mens Room].”

Going back to my earlier statement, the world is not my oyster. I know that. What I also know, however, is that Tony Montana had it right: “The world is yours.” ;) Look out for those treacherous mountains!

...That Just Happened...

Now, for my 16 loyal readers, I will try to post very brief anecdotes of random things that happen, that intrigue wilos. To be honest, they most likely will not intrigue you. However, if you really think long and hard about it: a donut with no holes is a danish. But, a flute with no holes, is not a flute. Without further adieu, the first "...That Just Happened..."

I could have sworn that, as I was leaning back in my chair to yawn, the dood whose back is about 3-and-a-half feet from mine just leaned back, yawned, and audibly whispered in my ear: “yyyyyyyeeaaaaahhh baby…” Should I be worried? Excited? Yup. I’m excited. We need more guys like this. Kinda like a 6th man off the bench. An energy and enthusiasm guy. Every team needs one. A Brian Scalabrine.

The #2 Man in the Office

Today at work, I sauntered my way into the office bathroom. The office bathroom is never fun, and always filled with quirky surprises. Today’s surprise, however, above-and-beyond eclipsed my standards of the weirdest shit (ha!) that I have seen in my 24 years and 11 months of using the toilet.
Today, in the office bathroom, the guy next to me was taking, yes, let this settle in, a stand-up dump. Yup. I said it. Dood was dumping in the vertical position. The only other option I can wrap my head around is that he was filling up a coffee mug with some Santorum. As most would likely attest, the office bathroom is a world of its own. Not sure about the Ladies Room, but the Mens room is a pretty funky place. Lotta shit goes down in there. Literally. Hiyo! But, seriously. You hear some weird ass noises in there, and we’re not talking about those generally associated with using the restroom: grunts, moans, sighs, yips, yelps, sobs, bobs, etc etc. I mean, what the fuck is going on there that I am missing? Sitting through someone else’s dump gives the soundtrack/symphonic chorus of what I would imagine a party in the back of a Wesvalia van at Woodstock used to produce. The bathroom noises are analogous to everything from, but not limited to: chugging liquids (huh?), boking smowls, chopping up and gettin down on a gator tail, euphoric giggles induced by boom booms or doses, and the restless body movements that, to my limited experiential knowledge, were exclusive to coitus. This morning, it literally sounded like the Nitrous Mafia was rehearsing for their lot scene at Panic’s upcoming Wood Tour (Silver Spring shyows were awe-shum, myan), but I saw neither a tank nor balloons. What the fuck was making that hissing sound? Does the dude from accounting have an office pet snake? Lotta rough horseplay goin on in there.

Back to the original idea here: stand-up dump? Who fricken stands up when they go #2? Granted, one of my friends, Bug Mooseantler, is trending towards the majority of his dumps being in true “reverse-cowgirl” style (he likes to set down his laptop on the shelf and browse the interwebs); but, standing up? Where the fuck are we, on a camping trip? “Hey myan, you need me to toss you some moss to clean up over there? Be sure to bury the TP at least 300 yards away from any water source! Cya back the campsite. I’ll save you an extra Smore!”

Oh well. At least it’s not what I just found out, after running into an old teacher/coach last Tuesday: here’s how the kids at my hike skewl are using the school bathrooms these days: white off of the fricken urinals! I mean, come on. Grow a pair. Be an athlete. If you can’t make it through math class without taking a gummy, you’ve got yourself some serious problems. Whatever happened to ducking out during a free period to a cul-de-sac for a quick pull on the one-ie? Fucking kids these days, with their walkmen, nintendo, and casual bumps on a Tuesday morning. That noise wouldn’t have flown in my day. We had fun the good old fashion way: like beating up kids that did coke in high school bathrooms. (I’m theman). Also, we didn’t have any of those high-tech birth control methods. Like pulling out. (Dirty Work)