Wisdom

18 messages into this Twitter thing. Ya know...it IS kinda fun. But I still can't shake the feeling that this is the digital equivalent of picking one's nose at a slow traffic light. I mean..do ya REALLY want to know what I'm doing? Or what the voices in my head compel me to do?

I'm thinking that this may be one of those things that define our decade, but will seem funny a few decades from now. Remember when you had that BIG hair, that huge brick of a cell phone, listened to Duran Duran, and rushed home to see the VHS tape of Miami Vice? Yeah, those 80's...! Flash forward to 2028: Remember when we thought Blade Runner was fiction and not prophesy, physically commuted to work, and thought that informing the public of your bowel movement schedule is fun? Those 2008 years -- what a hoot!

Huh? You don't remember me with big hair? Of course not, I'm talkin' about *you*. I, of course, had a mullet.

Hey Twit!

Dragged kickin' and screamin' from my 8-track and fax machine.

I finally have a Twitter account.

I thought long and hard about my first histroric foray into this brave 24/7 connected word. A bit of JFK? Maybe something classical? Inspirational? What to write?

Here's where my ponderings lead me:

Ready....aim...

Try as I may, I realize that bad guys have a 100% effective defense against me.

Simply wear a target or bullseye -- I won't be able to hit it.

Not sure why, considering all the training I put in during my formative years...

Salonpas

Because of my ninja training, I'm often forced into using various medicinal crutches to get my creaky body through the work day. It's not that I'm undergoing double-secret probation level training -- it's just that my body has acclimated to sitting in a damn chair for 10 hours a day, using only my forearm, fingers, and eye socket muscles.

At any rate, I often use a stick-on pain reliever called Salonpas. Take a hot shower, stick a few of those on your back, get a good night's rest, and you're good to go. Especially effective, the instructions say, if taken with a shot of Wild Turkey. With a bit of a chaser afterwards.

I usually buy these things at the local pharmacy -- Longs Drugs or Walgreens. Last night, a colleague let me in on a little secret. Apparently, the Asian supermarkets carry the Original version, which is much more potent than that found in the American stores. What a scoop! I immediately checked out the Japanese website for the Salonpas product. My translational ability is a bit rusty, but it seems to mention something about insect removal from car windshields. THAT is what gives it the muscle-relaxing effect no doubt. And if I'm not mistaken, it says something about taking the used product and discarding it in the recycle bin OR to use to steep a refreshing cup of tea.

Plans!

Some days, it feels like everyone around is 'in the know' but I, for some reason, am not. Folks nod to each other across conference rooms, sharing a deep insight through line-of-sight. People walk by on the way back from coffee, shrug their shoulders and smile knowingly. As I sign for a package, the mail guy gestured ever-so-slightly with his chin, indicating that he totally hears where I'm at, yo.

It was driving me crazy. So today, I determined that it will be different. As the old commercial goes, "I'm not a wise man, but I play one on TV."

It'll play out like this:


"...and in conclusion, we are on track and will hit our April 19th window," my colleague would say triumphantly. "Any questions?"


"Any questions indeed!" I'd reply, nodding till my neck cramped up.


"Huh?"


"Oh, no no, never mind. You did great. Hey, don't every change. Oh yeah, and if anyone
asks, just remember that the Road to Riches passes through Chicago."


"..Chicago?? What's that have to do with.."


"Say no more," I'd interrupt, finger to my lips. "You'll see why this and the number 57 has other significance besides the number of ingredients in Heinz ketchup.""



All I need to do is to keep that up for a few weeks and I will likely develop a cult following that will grow and undoubtedly escalate till I'm forced into a terse standoff with ATF and the FBI in my armoured compound in the Appalachian foothills...

Et tu, Juan Valdez?

Ah Juan Valdez. Symbol of quality and the finest that Columbian beans has to offer. Imagine my delight when stumbling upon the packs of vaccum-packed coffee grinds newly installed in the office breakroom. Eureka! No more brownish sludge! No more all-purpose ink-remover/windshield fluid/caffenated beverage combo!

I was giddy with anticipation -- "Siganature Blend," the packet proudly proclaimed.

My joy was short lived. The Signature, apparently, was that of Juan's donkey, not of Mr. Valdez himself. One thing this new blend did, however, is to cure my dry-eye. I found myself tearing up as I suppressed a retch reflex when I downed the sludgy, acidic drink...