A roadside bar that wants no one there. Yet the father figure is inside looking to make the owner’s wife. All on the pretext of an Italian dinner in an old scratched up Telflon coated frying pan. Squatting at one of the four spot round tables my mother and I wondering. No where to dare to sit with any safety lest we be discovered by the disconsolate owner and violently called out with our unheated glob of tomato paste still uncooked. – DREAM
Die Deutschen Frau, clean, dependable and functionally adequate, demanding acknowledgement of her superior utility. A mystery solved as a smelly Wisconsin SUV pulls up and her hearty and hale male counterpart de-trains from it. Into the coffee shop beside which his wife sits at one of the four outside sets of table and chairs. The conversation begins aloud on his return fielding his own cup of coffee. His wife having preceded him in this ritual. The talk is about writers and famous folk, or so it seems from just outside earshot. Fancy polemics or maybe just radical bum’s rush from U. of Madison evidencing the local spirit of moral equivalency. I remain in place at a distance casually practicing my ‘man spread’ mentally engaged in the current state of male virtues of today. Pemmican the mental meal of the hour as another pair of male miscreants arrive to take the field. The more immaculately dressed of the two begins the advance of a wandering tale that to his mind stretches the Spandex of incredulity for the sake of his partner. Such a trivial tale of baggage luggage mismatch and other equally contemptible fashion sins by a client WHO IS A WOMAN!?!. A CEO no less who, of course, should know better than most that appearance matters more than substance. The only continuity that might be offered in the sales kit of snake oil by such an organization being in the continuity of dress with matching demeanor of glib personality. Not a man’s task to comment save for the most recent cake slice of that culturally mixed up off-canted era of today!
I listen on. Having long ago lived my ‘Madman‘ years in publishing, I mentally counter the veracity of his claims, comparing the length of yarrow stalks to ‘tall’ tales. The heady claim of ‘epic nature’ of everything leaving his tongue being suggested in every breath as the ever-present handmaiden of the elite. This cult of nerds, ‘manginas‘ and neutered males treading past over the long dried ruts left in the dirt by former woolly bison. Perhaps these ‘tall tails‘ this upstart spins are a form of self-confession that relates his feelings that the world should be available to solely entertain him? His credo? Management by appearance. Administer all the little people from a safe distance through that superficial algorithm of ‘fit‘. Management to him is simply keeping the ‘troops‘ perpetually on parade and standing at attention. Ever formed up in tight formation through the afternoon on the corporate parade ground and in good marching order awaiting the call of the superficial. Careful so as to not stumble into any possibility of substance. “Only sure things please!”
The voice of reason across from him at the table speaks! Intelligent questions emanate from his unwanted gob. The mounting pile of questions being posed an obstacle upsetting its target. The outraged ‘squidy‘ furiously pumping out rhetoric designed to recapture the conversation with an overwhelming ‘baffle of bullshit‘. Jargon and stilted terminology freely being excreted attempting to cover his tracks. All to escape the insecurity of that thing generally acknowledged as common sense logic. Not part of the plan, it seems to this specimen from a rare phylum of corporate existence. One whose office life is lived within his own methane fumes of a ever festering pile of bullshit that his behavior has amassed. A place upon the ladder where persistence through continuous objections and deflections is the only doctrine that can be considered as worthy. Offered for your approval the story of the pathetic plight of a tiny germ desperate to gain entrance into a human body to inspire a common cold? The old techniques well-worn and time honored purloined from ‘The Pale‘. Exploit that chink in the armor by some faux expression of charity posing as deep concern. Then rip the sucker open to expose the naked breast to a sharp pointed mortal attack. That overwhelming lifelong bilious shibboleth of, “Find a need and fill it!” Argue, argue, argue!