Craig and Mikey and the Missing Personality

by Thomas M. Pender

I’ve been exposed to many a personality in my years: angels, clowns, jerks, sphincters . . . the list goes on and on.  It is, however, a rare and puzzling thing when I encounter a human being who is completely devoid of any sort of character traits.  Someone who is more a piece of furniture, or perhaps an alien who just hatched from his pod, than he is human being.

Recently out of college, I got a job in the mailroom of a Troy, Michigan insurance company at the dawn of the 1990s.  A great portion of my day was spent running interoffice mail from office to office, but in the mornings, I would bring bins of mail from the post office to be sorted and distributed by myself and my allies.  One running joke among us lackeys was the question we received practically each and every time we would deliver a bigger-than-an-envelope package to a desk.  As if rehearsed, the recipient of such a package would sit back a bit, startled as though a snake had slithered out from behind their stapler, and ask, “What’s this?”

My sarcasm-laden brain would consistently respond with such inaudible gems as “I didn’t think I was allowed to use my x-ray vision on the job” and “Well, when I illegally opened it in the mailroom, it looked like Chinese porn.”  Alas, I was left to simply shrug and leave or simply roll my eyes (also internally) and leave.  They were apparently never going to understand the foolishness of their question.

Craig was a vice president of the company, and a peculiarly dry piece of human toast.  Normally, I didn’t attempt to pass the time with or amuse Craig, even though he seemed to be only a few years older than me.  I tend to gauge individuals, regardless of rank, in terms of openness, friendliness, and sense of humor.  I have been known to tease company presidents (and, in fact, had done so at this company).  When circumstances allow, and a janitor or a chairman of the board is willing to trade ribbings, I’m right there with them.

Not Craig so much.  Over my many months of working at the firm, I had seen him smile and even chuckle, but it was always with one or both of the other two men in his department, or with a client, or with the president.  He never laughed, though.  He apparently only allowed himself to chuckle at low decibels, and only for two seconds max.

Then one day, I was in a particularly cheery mood when I put a package of respectable size on Craig’s desk.  I was fully prepared for his reaction when he sat back a smidge and asked, “What’s this?”

“Some cereal,” I answered.  “Supposed to be good for ya.”

Now, folks born in the mid-‘80s or later may not get this response, but if you were alive and had a television in your house in the late ‘70s, you knew this line.  It was from an incredibly overused commercial for Life Cereal, featuring three freckly brothers.  It opens with the two older brothers discussing this new product their mother has forced on them at breakfast.  The middle brother asks the oldest “What’s this stuff?” and the oldest replies with the exact wording and tone I had used in response to “What’s this?”  After a few lines, they shove the product in front of youngest brother Mikey, who then proceeds to devour it.

I would have understood if such a reference was not exactly hilarious to our boy Craig.  Perhaps an upward jerk of his moustache would have been enough to prove I had brought some modicum of human humor to his otherwise automaton day.  Honest to God, the man blinked at me like I was speaking in Mandarin Chinese.  He had no conception – or at least, he did not allow himself to reveal that he had any conception – of something as lowly as a television commercial.

I left the office a bit stunned.  I was ready to tip the scale far into the “alien” category for the conundrum which was Craig, but first I had to check something out.  I scooted back to the mailroom, where my two co-workers were co-working, and said, “Okay, please tell me this makes sense to you,” and relayed what had been said upstairs in Craig’s domain.  Both judges laughed in earnest when I got to the punch line, so I could therefore conclude that it did, in fact, make sense.  If these two gentlemen, who were three to five years younger than I, could understand the response, surely an elder of a few years could.

Unless, of course, he had been born in another part of the galaxy. . . .

Sayings That Say Nothing Are Not Worth Repeating

by Thomas M. Pender

“Those who stand for nothing fall for anything.”

I came across this gem, attributed to British journalist Alex Hamilton in a 1978 radio broadcast, a few weeks ago.  I’d read and/or heard it before, but this last time, it struck me just how silly the “adage” is.

Sure, the phrase sounds cute enough.  It’s catchy, like Johnnie Cochran’s “If the gloves don’t fit, you must acquit,” but at least Cochran was making a point.  In this case, however, to “stand for something” means to defend a principle.  To “fall for anything” is to be overly gullible.  These two concepts have nothing whatsoever to do with each other.  A person who is easily swayed can still hold up a picket sign, and just because you never picket doesn’t mean you’re necessarily easily swayed.

Former New York Yankee catcher and manager Yogi Berra coined some nonsensical quotes – the most famous of which is probably “It ain’t over ‘til it’s over” – but he was being comical on purpose.  Former President George W. Bush has delivered quite a few news conference foibles – one of my favorites being “Fool me once, shame on you . . . you can’t get fooled again” – but he was just being unintelligent.  What bothers me is when folks say or write something that makes absolutely no sense, but those who hear or read it think it does.

Don’t be a blind lemming.  Listen closer to what is being said.  Think deeper about what is being written.  Most importantly, as most responsible parents will teach their children, don’t repeat something unless you understand it!

Ten Practical Uses For A Cat

by Thomas M. Pender

10)          Pre-deer season moving target practice

9)            Emergency replacement Brillo pad

8)            If you live near a cliff, they are excellent subjects to test Galileo’s theories on gravity, as well as that whole “land on their feet” thing

7)            Live bait for big game fishermen

6)            Your fat, lazy laying-on-the-couch-and-never-moving cat types are great for resting your beverages on while you watch TV, while your constantly-wandering-through-the-house cat types are great for strapping on a two-can saddle and using for delivering said beverages

5)            Bug squasher when the flyswatter is out of reach

4)            Chew toy to toss to large and restless dogs

3)            Alcohol-to-body-weight ratio tests (THESE are hilarious!)

2)            Subject for “World’s Most Dangerous Stunts” re-enactments

and       

1)            Side-by-side study model for proving why dogs are much more awesomer!!!!

My Father Never Called Me Tom

by Thomas M. Pender

 

My father never called me Tom.

He called me Little Guy,

then Grump,

then Bosco,

then Stretch.

Thomas Michael when I was in trouble.

He called Debi Skeeter.

Kristi was Punkin.

Mom was Willard.  She hated it

but loved it.

We never called my father Father.

My father was a Daddy, then

a Dad, then

an Old Fart.  He answered to

Hey You.

Never Father.

My dad told me he loved me in

a million ways except

by saying “I love you.”  I

couldn’t tell him either.  But we knew.

written by t. michael pender  3/8/88

copyright 1988 T. Michael Pender.  All rights reserved.

Terrific “Horrible”

by Thomas M. Pender

Modern comedies are frankly becoming a contradiction in terms to me.  In the black-and-white heyday of comedies, Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn could banter nonstop for 90 minutes (without uttering one curse word, I might add!) and get me laughing out loud.  Today, the comedy has become an endless litany of unhumorous sexual innuendos and brain-free sight gags with a smattering of drug use.  Incredibly sad.

I had a tiny bit of hope for Horrible Bosses, simply by virtue of the cast.  Headliner Jason Bateman (Hancock, Arrested Development) is grossly underrated and underused.  He does straight man facial humor with the best of ‘em, and earns honest laughter in most of his projects.  Hollywood bigwig Kevin Spacey – a personal favorite of mine dating all the way back to his mind-blowing seven-episode appearance on TV’s Wiseguy in 1988.  He can play heroes, everymen, and villains with equal ease and skill, and in Bosses, Spacey recalls his amazing work in 1994’s Swimming With Sharks as he plays Bateman’s abusive employer.  Jason Sudeikis (The Bounty Hunter, Hall Pass), a Saturday Night Live alum, is fast becoming a favorite of mine.  Jennifer Aniston (Friends and also of The Bounty Hunter) and Colin Farrell (S.W.A.T., Fright Night) add some laughs of their own by stepping out of their comfort zones.  The typical “girl next door” Aniston plays a sexual-harassment predator, and Farrell plays a comic dolt with a bad comb-over.  All these elements came together nicely to become a very enjoyable comedy.

My only low marks on Bosses were on the subject matter.  It’s hard to swallow a comedy about murder.  Yes, it’s been done many times, but to date, murder is not a funny thing.  In one scene, Spacey goes into anaphylactic shock due to a peanut allergy, and one of the would-be murderers goes through several “comedic” attempts to save him.  While it’s customary to park your reason at the door when viewing comedies, I kept thinking about those who actually suffer from these attacks, and it became less funny.  Maybe that was my fault.

In any event, I’m happy to actually recommend a comedy in these barren days of comic blandness and idiocy.  Horrible Bosses, while having a fairly dopey title, will make you laugh.  This is the best review a comedy can receive nowadays!

Garrett Versus The Atlantic Ocean!

by Thomas M. Pender

Living in the Midwest most of my life, I haven’t been to the coast much.  In fact, before arriving in Georgia, I had only seen it up close once, on a one-day trip to Atlantic City, where I could see it from the boardwalk.  The only time I’ve ever actually put my toes in the salty Atlantic Ocean was on a day in Savannah with my sons Nick and Garrett in the summer of 2002.

Two-year-old Garrett wanted to go out into the water.  I took his hand and we waded a few steps in, until the water came up to his thighs.  He delighted in the rare opportunity to feel cool water on a hot day, and for a few minutes, it was pure fun.

Then, that wave hit.

Having never been in the ocean’s waters myself, I was not aware that large rogue waves were to be expected on days with relatively peaceful tides.  I wasn’t on the alert, looking out to make sure no miniature ninja tidal waves sprang up to attack my child.  Instead, I was watching my son laugh and splash, and soaking in the moment.

Out of nowhere, the two of us were struck by a large wave!  It wouldn’t have bothered me if I was standing in the water all by myself, but it was high enough to engulf little Garrett completely.  One second, he was laughing, and the next, water was rolling in up and over his head.  In a parental flash, I was picturing my son coughing, choking and gagging after having swallowed a mouthful of seawater.  I was fully prepared to soothe and cheer him after such an assault.

Instead, after the vicious wave had rolled past, Garrett did two things, neither of which was cry.  First, he blew water out of his mouth.  Second, he looked out over the vast Atlantic Ocean, and bellowed at the top of his two-year-old lungs:

“Not in my face!”

This made me laugh instantly, but I was simultaneously struck with an instant respect for my child.  This little man was not only unafraid of the largest ocean on the planet, but he felt confident enough to bark orders to it!  It didn’t matter that the ocean didn’t have ears to hear him.  He was not going to have his fun day in the sun and sea ruined by a mean old wave, so he simply gave the naughty ocean a directive. After that, he went right back to enjoying the splashing for a bit, then I walked him back to our blanket.

Since that day, I haven’t been overly concerned about Garrett being intimidated by much.

The Ultimate (and Impossible) Cure For Bigotry

by Thomas M. Pender

I have always had a major problem with bigots.  Even as a very young TV addict, I never liked Archie Bunker.  It took many years for me to figure out that the audience was laughing at his small-minded character.  When I would watch the show with my grandmother, all I saw was an awful person with horrid ideas about people, based on elements that should not be used as human categories.

The amazing thing was that Archie Bunker’s daughter Gloria didn’t have as small a mind as her father.  Typically, racism and all other forms of bigotry are force-fed from generation to generation.  As babies and small children, we revere our parents, and believe that every word from their lips is gospel.  This is where bigots come from.  If all a child hears from a loved one is that any particular group of humans is worthless, that child will believe it, just as they believe everything else their loved one teaches them.

So years ago, I came up with a solution to all bigotry as we know it.  It will never happen, but it brings a smile to my face to muse about it.  In this fantasy, the procedure would go as follows: Adjust the questions on the census polls to include attitudes about immigration, various ethnic, social and belief-based groups, and other bigotry-inducing topics.  Use this information to locate all the households in the country (and the world would follow after our tremendous example, no doubt!) that include both bigots and children under the age of four.  Next, take the children under the age of four away from the bigots, and give them to households with more humane views on other humans.  Then wait about 100 years for all the existing bigots over the age of four to shuffle off the mortal coil.

Voila!  With no children to whom bigots could teach bigotry, the practice itself would eventually die.

But again, this is sheer fantasy.  The good news in the real world is that interracial and interfaith marriages and families are much more common, which means that future generations will have such mixed heritages, that there will be very few groups and individuals against whom they could even form prejudices.

Since childnapping – even for the greater good – is not only highly unlikely, but rather creepy, perhaps what humans should aim for is the creation of an actual “human race,” through the fine art of comingling the existing races.  According to the Old Testament, the races and nationalities were created as a punishment.  Let us prove we have learned our lesson, and while we promise not to challenge God again or be silly enough to believe we can build a tower to Heaven, let us become one society.  Let’s not wait for the Martians to attack in order to find a common ground with our fellow humans.

Simply love your brother and sister humans for the sheer joy of bigots’ discomfort.  That’s an awesome enough reason in itself!