There are compelling reasons to upgrade our printing press, this coarse forum where we convene night after night, and those reasons basically rhyme with F.E.A.R. You see, my computer will be a decade old soon, which in tech years doesn’t even translate into anything remotely intelligible. I don’t think you can express this phenomenon in English, never mind alphanumerics.
But don’t think me disrespectful. Underpowered as this machine may be, I’ve rebuilt and tinkered with it again and again, to the point where only a few stickers hearken back to a time when you asked not what you could do for your country, but what could MMX™ do for you? Of course, we wouldn’t be having this conversation if the primary responsibilities of my box were word processing and, on holidays, possibly playing an entire MP3.
Here’s the problem. I have a weakness for games, particularly tense and spooky games. This wasn’t always the case, but that’s the way things are now. And F.E.A.R.? It’s a rare breed that commands approbation from professionals and real people alike. Click intently enough and you will discover an entertainment upon which horror extraordinaire John Carpenter has stamped his imprimatur. The best thing to do, I believe, is simply to see the full thing in motion.
That’s the temptation: to spend hundreds of dollars on a glistening altar of technology for the sole purpose of sacrificing more money in pursuit of shiny trivialities. The only issue is computers don’t exactly hold their value. Buy a brand new one, and you might as well invest in a type of gold that rapidly transforms into Monterey jack the moment you sneeze.
Our discussions were apparently so good, they thoroughly evacuated the room of both host and guest. That’s the official explanation, at any rate, and heaven knows you’ll need to wait three weeks from this Thursday pending a half-crescent moon to hear the truth of the matter.
How are you? It’s been a few. You probably expect an apology lined with oaths most severe–and rightfully so, because that’s the procedure de rigueur. But things are different now. I realize I can’t promise you commodities like consistency and frequency because, vital as this medium may be, there are other things. It’s just a blog, not a full-time gig. What I can assure you is, should we ever careen near the verge of closing, you may take comfort in portents large and defined. There will be long bouts of silence, similar to the one we experienced, followed by posts like this:
Saturday, October 24, 2015 :::
Dear Diary,
Ate breakfast today. It was good.
Went to work. Came back.
Ate. Washed my hands.
Real wife yells too much. Comparison-shopping for android model w/out voice synthesizer module.
I would also put up a “condemned” sign or something.
“It’s like this,” explains your boss as he graphs nonsensically on the whiteboard. “When we bifurfab the investment quotient with the local Y-factor, which is to say your free time, we maximize results well beyond initial projections.”
One of the interns turns green and runs to the bathroom, and like a chorus Kristy begins to cry. Pete slams his fist on the table.
“Now, I love investment quotient as much as the next fella,” he offers, “but I’d prefer to love it on a weekday. My son’s got a game this weekend. I promised I’d go watch.”
“I hear you, Pete,” your boss responds magnanimously, “which is why I’m going to buy everyone pizza.”
Pete rubs his temples in despair.
“What’s more, I’ve secured something that will give my troops–that’s a metaphor for you guys–an effort-positive, hotdesking-friendly incentive. The person who componentizes the best report by Sunday will get these.”
He flashes two tickets to the sold-out Sox game.
“You deliver the deliverables, you put the “O” in ROI, and you get dugout seats.”
There it is, you tell yourself. Exoneration. You raise your hand.
“Yes!” your boss exclaims and points to you. “Do you have something to add to our quarterly learnings?”
A. Start slowly.
B. Start quickly.
C. Hoot like a hooty owl.
D. Start mediumly.
E. Nachos BellGrande con carne, por favor.
You chose A. Stress level => 32
“Although your turnkey plan to repurpose our Saturday and Sunday is actionable, to a degree,” you hold forth, “I have a scalable solution that should please all parties.”
“You’ve certainly repurposed my ears,” says your boss with a smile. “Go ahead, I’m listening, which is a metaphor for I’m ignoring you.”
A. Parry.
B. Thrust.
C. Riposte.
D. Dodge up.
E. Wonder why those fencing kids are always so goddamn weird.
You chose C. Stress level => 25
“It all starts with a quick-win proposal,” you say. “Uh, value-added.”
“Did…did I hear ‘value-added’?” your boss begins to fan himself.
It’s time to…
A. Make the coffee.
B. Schedule a conference call.
C. Ignore a voicemail for three weeks.
D. Follow up with a one-two punch.
E. Feint left.
You chose D. Stress level => 19
“We need to exorcise the ghosts in the wetware with a win-lose-draw paradigm shiftstall, as it were,” you outline in broad strokes.
Your boss clutches his heart and stumbles a bit.
“That’s right. We need to triangulate the profit matrices for a delayed, 20-sigma staggered return on spend. A cakewalk, really.”
He coughs violently and lurches to the table, clutching a corner for dear life.
“So, like, synergize?” he gasps.
A. Go for the kill.
B. Go for the kill.
C. Go for the kill.
D. Go for the kill.
E. Go for the kill.
You chose all of the above. Stress level => 0
“More like winnergize, am I right?” you let fly with the silver bullet, adrenaline singing in your ears.
With a piercing cry he falls to the floor as if dead. Your colleagues cheer and dash out the door. You fish the tickets from your boss’s hand.
Woof would be proud.