Ten Sucky Things About Temp Work

by Thomas M. Pender

A companion piece to last week’s Ten. . . . Just teasin’, Aquent.  Love ya!

10)          You never get to unpack your cutesy toy things to put out on your desk

9)            Your “vacation time” is the time you sit at home sweating when your next gig will come along

8)            Your “sick time” is made up of the days you feel nauseous because you haven’t worked in weeks

7)            You never get a cool nameplate for your desk or cubicle.  Not even a cheesy nametag.

6)            You never hear wild rumor mill lies about yourself . . . or get to spend time finding out who started the lies, and plotting your sweet revenge!

5)            Tearful hugs on your last day?  Nada.

4)            Corporate ladder?  Advancement? . . . Not so much.

3)            You have to really time your assignment right in order to get to any office Christmas parties

2)            Not enough time to find the sweet candy stashes to pilfer

and

1)            You never get to stay at one job long enough to figure out who to dislike

So Far To Fall

by Thomas M. Pender

I'm reaching way back now.  This was written in the fall of my sophomore year in college.  I had just had a really short relationship with a woman, and was in mourning over that, but also angry that she'd rather party than be with a more sober person.  There was a mess of emotions, and they all came out here.  I don't make it a habit to go back and edit how I felt in the past, or else I'd clean this one up a bit.  Still, I do like the mess of emotions here a bit.  It's honest.  Everyone feels a mess of emotions after breakups, don't they?

  

My memories

Up in the clouds

You’ll always shine in my eyes

But for now

I’ll leave you alone

Leave you to your cigarettes

Beer and hangovers

And I’ll wonder “what if”

When I’m bored

What a thing to do

What a risk to take

So far to fall

And yet, I’ve landed on my feet

No guilt

No hard feelings

No worry

And when I look back—

And I will—

I’ll smile

And when you look back—

If you do—

Remember the laughter

Not the tears

Remember the tender moments

Not the harshness

And may we both find our separate happinesses

written by t. michael pender  11/10/85

©1985 T. Michael Pender.  All rights reserved.

Caroliteraoke: A Mock "Review"

by Thomas M. Pender

Last year at this time, I performed in a local Macon event entitled "Caroliteraoke."  This was a holiday version of "Literaoke," which had become a local phenomenon of folks performing literal analyses of rather ridiculous song lyrics.  Inspired by author Steve Almond's original skewering of Toto's "Africa," this comical performance practice is enjoyable to write, perform and hear.  Being Christmastime, I thought it would be timely to reprint my "review" of the lyrics in "Rubber Chicken Soup."

You don't have to be familiar with this rather obscure Elton John song to grasp the writing, just follow along and enjoy.  However, if you wish to listen to the original tune before, during or after reading, it can be found on YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iXP5OXm3v8k.

HO! HO! HO! (Who’d Be A Turkey At Christmas)

by Elton John and Bernie Taupin

An open letter to Elton John and Bernie Taupin, entitled simply “How Not To Get A Visit From St. Nicholas”:

Christmas is a time of giving.  Of joy.  Of Santa Claus.  Or, for you Brits who can’t seem to follow the superior traditions of your more successful offshoot country, “Father Christmas.”  Here’s a guy who takes it upon himself to provide all the world’s people with free gifts every Christmas morning.  To accomplish this, he must get around the world and visit every house in the span of an evening.  This is a pretty great thing.  Something that deserves thanks.

The song "Ho! Ho! Ho! (Who'd Be A Turkey At Christmas)" is NOT a great “thank you” card!  Let’s review:

Sitting here on Christmas Eve

With a brandy in my hand

Right out of the gate, we’ve established that you’re drinking.  This song was, in fact, penned and recorded during Elton and Bernie’s infamous drinking days.  So, in short, nothing we learn from you from here on out is trustworthy, or should be taken to heart.  A truly magnanimous warning.  To continue:

Oh, I’ve had a few too many

And it’s getting hard to stand

Now, Mr. Taupin and Mr. John, you have upped the ante, by informing us that you are so wasted, vertical maintenance has been breached.  Again I submit, and now with even more rigorous fervor, the two of you should not be trusted to convey accurate information.  A mere four lines into this ditty, I’m already wondering why it was written, why it was recorded, and why I’m still listening to it.  Frankly, I think it’s the giggling, babbling elves and the obviously schnockered background screechers.  I don’t know where this song is taking me, but I do know that I’m going to enjoy witnessing the wreck at the end of the journey.

Next:

I keep hearing noises

From my fireplace

I must be going crazy

Or the brandy’s won the race

I concur.  If you are, in fact, hearing noises from your fireplace – and we assume here that either it is not the crackle of a hearty fire, or that your blood-alcohol level has reached such proportions as to render you incapable of recognizing the sounds coming from a standard fireplace – that you have indeed lagged behind brandy in the Christmas Derby.  Speaking of your hops-inspired hearing impairment:

And I keep hearing

Ho Ho Ho!  Guess who’s here?

Your fat and jolly friend draws near

Ho Ho Ho!  Surprise, surprise!

The bearded weirdie’s just arrived

I say “Halt,” gentlemen.  We’ve established that the singer is home (or, at least, he believes he’s at his house) on Christmas Eve.  He is hearing someone (physically present or not) saying particular phrases.  Now, if we give enough credit to this soused troubadour, we can say he has established that it is Santa Claus’ weaker cousin Father Christmas who is arriving to distribute gifts.  To me, one of the last things one should do upon learning that someone has arrived at his house to give out freebies is to insult him!  Here, the slosher – er, the singer – has already called Papa Christmas “fat” and a “bearded weirdie,” while somehow attempting to make up for this slap in the face with a lame “jolly” tag.  Well, I don’t know about Daddy Christmas, but with the Star-Spangled Santa Claus, this behavior will earn you a healthy-sized briquette in your stocking!

On my roof there’s snorting sounds

And bells inside my head

My vision’s blurred with colour

And all I see is red

Being a literature buff, I’ve always enjoyed the writing device of symbolism.  Not one to assume or accuse, nor even to imply, I do find it interesting that someone in the music business would use the word “snorting” in a song that involves, to some degree, “snow.”  Perhaps it’s not the brandy that’s causing the slosher to see and hear assorted yuletidian images, if-you-know-what-I-mean!

There’s a pair of large-sized Wellies

Coming down my flue

And the smell of burning rubber

Oh, is filling up the room

Okay, a wee bit of American translation is needed here.  “Wellies” is a common Brit term for Wellington boots, which are big, bulky, shiny black boots one could safely associate with Father Santa.  However, without this knowledge, it makes the stanza vague at best, and deliberately confounding at worst.  Was this song written with the intent to only be distributed in Merry Old England?  Or did the creators feel that foreigners didn’t deserve an explanation?  Without one, we are left to wonder why the smell of burning rubber is filling up the room!  And if you do know what it means, you are horrified by the realization that someone in the household – drunk or otherwise – has lit a fire in the fireplace, on the very night that Santa Christmas is due to drop down that particular architectural orifice.  Presents, you say?  “Like hell,” Pop Claus retorts, as he shinnies his way out of the brick birth canal to leap into his sleigh and tear out of this alcoholic’s abode!  As if to overemphasize how plastered and how ignorant he is, the singer actually repeats the insulting chorus:

And we keep hearing

Ho Ho Ho!  Guess who’s here?

Your fat and jolly friend draws near

Ho Ho Ho!  Surprise, surprise!

The bearded weirdie’s just arrived

So, as he has insulted the world’s nicest person this side of The Easter Bunny, virtually guaranteeing he will never again receive another solitary Christmas gift, he rebelliously kicks it home with more name-slinging.  Now, that takes guts!

Calling In Sick . . . With Style!

by Thomas M. Pender

My four-year proofreading job in Atlanta had many plusses and only a few minuses.  One plus that eventually became a minus, but which I turned into my own private plus, was the sick day policy.

At first, it was incredibly easy to call in sick.  I would phone the desk of the composition supervisor at least two hours before my shift began (to allow time to get a replacement proofreader, if need be), let him or her know that I would be out that night, thank him or her for his or her kind assistance, and hang up.  This operation was fast and easy, so therefore, the brains behind all things corporate decided it must be wrong.

One night when I called in, the second shift supervisor asked me why I was going to be out.  “Do you mean why am I taking a personal day?  Oh, well, that would be personal,” I said.  I knew this was not the supervisor’s doing or fault, but when I am encroached upon by forces that don’t deserve to encroach me, I tend to push back a bit.  John, the supervisor, laughed and said, “I know, I know, but now they want me to write down why you’re calling in.”

As it turned out, a legitimate reason for calling in on third shift (which was 11 p.m. – 7 a.m. in Bowne of Atlanta, Inc. terms) was “lack of sleep.”  Since I could never really sleep in the daylight, this was actually the truth, as well, so I went with that . . . at first.  After a few call-ins, which were rare, I became bored with simply telling the truth.  If these invisible buggers were going to nose their way into my business, I was going to give them something worth reading, by God!

John and one of the other supervisors, Hank, had great fun when they asked me why I was calling in, because it became a habit for me to try to come up with the strangest reasons for anyone to do so.  My theory was that if I confounded and disgusted the higher-ups enough, they’d stop asking.

A few gems over the months were “I’m having an unusually heavy period” and “Something green and thick and runny is coming out . . . everywhere!”  My personal favorite, however, was an actual disorder.  Still, it was designed to make my point.

“Leprosy!”

“What?” John asked, talking and laughing at the same time.

“You heard me,” I said.  “It’s a legitimate disease.  It’s also been so long since a true case has been recorded, that it could crop up again.  I mean, we aren’t exactly immunized for leprosy, now, are we?”

“No,” John said, playing along, “but they may be concerned about your ability to work if parts of you are, uh, falling off!”

“Just tell ‘em . . . a fingertip.  Just about a quarter of the tip of my left pinky.  That wouldn’t affect my proofreading abilities at all, being a rightie.”

After a few chuckles, John had to get back to work, so I was forced to submit “Lack of sleep” as a reason.  I was highly disappointed that leprosy didn’t get past the guards, though.  I wanted the satisfaction of dropping at least one corporate jaw.

The Great Vonnegut

by Thomas M. Pender

I have to sing the praises of Kurt Vonnegut Jr. for those who have never read his works!

Vonnegut (November 11, 1922 – April 11, 2007) wrote such amazingly worded novels, he could sway his readers’ emotions and thought processes.  Not everything he wrote is worthy of praise – in fact some is so repetitive and cyclical, you will think you’re trapped in rap lyrics! – but a few gems are well worth crowing about.

Player Piano was his first novel, and it tells the story of man versus machine in a society where machines are replacing humans.  Right out of the box, I have to say I loved the title.  Having nothing to do with the story, the player piano is a simplified image of a contraption that, while normally operated by a human, runs on its own.  Brilliant!  The story immediately grabbed my attention, and held it through every page, so I immediately went on to his next work.

The Sirens of Titan astounded me, plain and simple, for the accomplishment in the writing itself.  Without changing anything about his main character’s actions or motives, Vonnegut manipulates how the reader sees him and changes how we think of him.  You spend the first third of the book thinking the hero is the best guy in the world, the second third wondering what the heck he’s really doing, and the last third thinking he’s the worst guy in the world . . . all through the power of Vonnegut’s wording!  As a writer and aspiring novelist, I see this as superhuman skill and talent.

Slaughterhouse-Five is about a man who becomes “unstuck in Time.”  He is constantly juggled through scenes from his past, present and future.  He experiences World War II Dresden, the planet Trafalmadore (as a human zoo display!), 1950s American married life, and his own murder in 1976 Chicago.  (Published in 1969, this would be in the near future.)  You feel for the character, and you learn from his predicament, as well.

Mother Night had a profound effect on me.  The theme is “You must be careful what you pretend to be, because in the end, you are what you pretend to be!”  This was meant as a cautionary tale, featuring an American who pretends to be a Nazi in World War II Germany.  The character has good reason to do so, but sees himself as a monster because his reason does not change the evil he is doing.  Still, I took this lesson as a positive: If you pretend to be the person you want to be, you become that person!

I was also very affected by a story written in screenplay form, Fortitude.  Published in the short story collection Wampeters, Foma & Granfalloons, it tells the story of a very rich woman who should have died long ago, but is being kept alive by a building full of machines.  Only her head remains in its original form.  She is prevented from committing suicide when she becomes too depressed over her situation, so she exacts some wonderfully poetic revenge.  Here again, I was impressed by how Vonnegut evokes strong emotional reactions from his reader.

While I was incredibly disappointed in one of his most lauded books, Breakfast of Champions, I find Vonnegut’s work to be completely original in tone, and I will miss his writing.   In general, his work makes you want to laugh, but before you can laugh, it makes you think, and in thinking, you realize that what you just read isn’t funny, but kind of sad or infuriating.  I have no idea how he did that, and I’m incredibly jealous.  However, as a reader, his books are a playground for the mind.  If you’ve never read his work, I recommend you start with the first novel, Player Piano.  It’s a fine introduction to his style, and if you like it, you can easily progress from that.  If you love the written word, and the magic that a masterful writer can conjure, give Kurt Vonnegut Jr. a try.  In whatever way you are affected by his words, you will certainly be affected, which is a rare and wonderful thing in the world of literature!

The Invisible Swords of College Conquest

by Thomas M. Pender

College – or, as I’m apt to refer to it, “The Limbo of Life” – was a wonderful and magical sphere of being, where you get to be an adult, but you get to be a kid again, too!  While you are working to better yourself, it’s also the first time you get to be on your own (assuming you go away to school, as I did) to really find out who you are.  It’s also a great place to meet all kinds of people, and learn what kinds of friends you really wish to have!

To no one’s shock, my chosen friends were all loons.

My freshman year, while being incredibly challenging and lesson-teaching (mostly the outside-the-classroom-lessons-of-Life kind), was made up of nine straight months of laughter and adventure, centered around a goofy crew of a few close-knit men who made the most – and the most fun – of any and every situation.

Dating rituals, for example.  While I have no doubt that those I met and chose as friends were polite gentlemen on their dates (although they’d never admit it back then, whilst trying to maintain their coolness), in our women-free zone of male bonding time, we had great fun discussing upcoming dates, successful dates, women of interest and certainly attractive complete strangers who passed our way.  One ritual that just kind of “happened” was the sword brandishing.

On a random day when one of us in the group was discussing an upcoming date, a successful date or a woman of interest, someone . . . most likely Terry “Trigger” Thompson . . . pulled an invisible sword from an invisible sheath attached to his invisible belt, made the sound of a sword being drawn, held it invisibly aloft and made a sort of pirate-y cry of triumph.

Those of us in attendance proceeded to immediately bust our collective guts, love the action, and mimic the action.  A tradition was born.

After that, whenever one of us had an upcoming date, a successful date or had met a woman of interest to talk about, however many of us in attendance would immediately draw our invisible swords (complete with sound effects, of course!), invisibly clang them together, and re-insert them.

Silly?  Yes.  Immature?  Granted.  Fun and memorable boy fun?  Yar!

As is the case with everything that went on during that incredible year, the tradition has faded as friends have gone their ways.  Still, I know for a fact that the men these kids have become have a silly and raucous side to them, hidden beneath their business neckties and barbecuing aprons.  Should two or more of us meet up, and one have a piece of good news to share, I have no doubt that those in attendance will find that the swords of triumph, first wielded in the dormitories of Michigan State, are still firmly affixed.

Huzzah!

Assless in America

by Thomas M. Pender

I have a birth defect, which is rarely discussed in public.  It’s apparently genetic, as my father before me had the same defect.  It’s been the cause of pain and heartache, as well as shame and embarrassment.

I have no butt.

I used to have one, back when I was thin as a rail.  In fact, back then a butt was all I had physique-wise!  A bump halfway up the broom, if you will.  As I started to gain normal weight, however, the distribution of the added poundage was not exactly even.  Plenty of people complain that too much weight ends up on their posterior, but mine was the opposite problem: thighs fatter, check; love handles visible, check; stomach bigger, CHECK!  Everywhere in the derriere neighborhood was getting “pound-ed,” but apparently my behind was not invited to the calorie-fest.  Soon, with the expansion of fat above and beneath it, it simply went away.

There are some actual problems associated with this lack-o’-tushy syndrome, too.  With nothing underneath to cushion a sitting position, I can’t be comfortable sitting anywhere with little or no padding.  This has been an issue every time I’ve been in a church with only non-padded wooden pews, and also public events that feature metal folding chairs.  When I was younger and thinner, you could actually hear the bones collide with the harder surfaces if I sat down hard!  I was also known to sit on Mom’s lap throughout my teens, and teasingly say that she used to let me sit there, but the joke never lasted long, as Mom would say that my hip bones were digging into her skin.

Here was one reason I could actually look forward to gaining some normal-range weight.  But noooo!  I got the bod curse handed down from Dad.  I remember Mom following Dad up the stairs once, and Mom grabbed a handful of Levi’s denim where his body should have been.  “Look!  There’s no butt!” she announced, and the household erupted in laughter.  You just gotta love silly parents.  Nowadays, however, it’s not so much humorous as irritating . . . and I get mocked on occasion, too.  The prime-time cartoon series King of the Hill did an entire (and, admittedly, hilarious) episode dedicated to the fact that central character Hank Hill had no behind.  He ended up having to wear a kind of backward-silicone-implant thingy in order to sit comfortably.  This was shown for entertainment value, but it just may come to that one day.  Horrors!

As far as I can tell so far, my boys have not carried the assless gene.  Still, I suppose I’ll have to wait until they hit their twenties to really find out.  In the meantime, please pray for my sons’ butts.  Thanks.