Last Friday on my way to work, a large American station wagon of indeterminate make and vintage “it may actually have had fake wood panels on the side” attempted to change lanes, notwithstanding the presence of a significant impediment to this particular endeavor, i.e., me. I hit my brakes and my horn, and gave the driver the raised-palm, “What the hell were you thinking?” gesture, which I like to think is more witheringly opprobrious than the traditional bird flip. Then I pretty much stopped thinking about the whole thing, as it wasn’t exactly an uncommon commuting experience.

A few moments later, a white, full-sized American pickup truck passed me and pulled right up to the bumper of the station wagon, blowing his horn. The wagon changed lanes, and the pickup driver passed him, and then intentionally cut him off, missing the wagon’s front bumper by inches. I couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on. Then it occurred to me: The pickup truck driver was avenging me.

Perhaps he thought I was a damsel in distress, because at the time, Plooblewagon being in the shop, I was driving a rented Toyota Matrix, which anyone can see is not nearly as macho as a Mazda Protégé5. Not nearly as macho. Anyway, just for the record, I don’t want to be avenged. I considered the whole thing settled by my “you’re a moron grimace. Road rage is bad enough without forming alliances, coalitions and mutual defense pacts.

Some friend of mine, possibly Bryon, once proposed a course of action for dealing with fellow motorists too stupid to share the public roadway. Everybody would be issued with a dart gun, with a dart marked “IDIOT” “I think the idea was you get one dart a year, so you’d want to be selective in its use.” When you see somebody doing something incredibly stupid, you shoot a dart at his car, which would stick with an indelible adhesive. Once you accumulate five darts stuck to your car, you lose your license.

It really doesn’t take much these days to make me feel old and out of touch. Last night I arrived in Kansas City, MO for a seminar. After a day spent trying to get into Atlanta and then trying to get out of Atlanta, I arrived late and was forced to seek sustenance at the crappy sports bar in my hotel, where, despite the total lack of ambience, I got a highly serviceable burger and a decent local microbrew for $6.42, which is roughly 20 percent of what The Worst $34 Room-Service Meal in History cost me in Reykjavík. While I was enjoying the Cheapest Hotel Restaurant Meal in History “oh, and I was”, the woman sitting next to me at the bar struck up a conversation. “It’s a very friendly town.” Turns out she’s here with her 18-year old son, who is competing with thousands of others in a Magic: The Gathering tournament. First prize is 25 large. I was truly impressed, not the least because I have almost no idea what Magic: The Gathering is. I know it’s some kind of fantasy roleplaying game that requires sitting around late at night doing things with cards. I certainly have nothing against that. I just don’t know what it is. I thought I was pretty up on what the kids these days are doing, what with the fact that I watch MTV and all. Apparently this is yet another phenomenon, much like that thing a few years ago when college kids were running around in sewer drains doing something or other and occasionally dying, of which I was not informed. I can tell you this in an authoritative manner about the afficionados of this pursuit: they are running around my hotel lobby wearing ball caps and backpacks and acting squirrely and engaging me in smart-alecky conversation in a way that shows they do not accord me the proper respect due my age and station. Kids these days. Then again, I am half in the bag and not wearing socks.

I’ve just noticed that the PA in the lobby is playing a Muzak version of “I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You.” This is clearly an attempt to drive the gamer kids to bed. Or me. Either way, it’s working.

As for Kansas City “”The City of Fountains””, you’ve heard the phrase, “If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes”? Surely it was coined here. In the space of an hour today we went from clear skies to lowering skies to glowering skies to the hardest downpour I’ve seen in years to clear skies again. At the end of the seminar I had every intention of walking out to find a barbecue restaurant recommended to me by the airport shuttle driver, but after this afternoon’s display, I was afraid to set foot outside. Luckily, downtown KC has one of those modern utopian skywalk systems which allows you to traverse from hotel lobby to sterile, bullshit mall to hotel lobby “the mall is owned by Hallmark, for heaven’s sake” without ever setting foot on the pavement or mixing with the hoi polloi. I had to venture the last half-mile actually out of doors, but soon found myself at the BBQ joint in question. It turned out to be a big, slick yuppie hellhole, with a waiting list. When I went into the men’s room and heard the theme from “Sex and the City”, I quickly turned on my heel and left.

This turned out to be a good thing, because I then went to the other restaurant suggested by the shuttle driver, the Hereford House, the dumpiness of the outside of which cannot begin to hint at the wonders to be found within. There I had what is basically my perfect meal: a martini to start, a tossed salad with blue cheese, a medium-rare steak with herb-garlic butter and mashed potatoes, and a Talisker single malt scotch to finish. The meal reaffirmed my conviction that I really was meant to be an advertising exec in New York. In the ’50s.

One of the nicest things about having a job is not having to interview anymore. I chronicled my annoyances with the job search process pretty extensively while I was in it, and I’m very happy to be out of it. I’m also happy that my current employers didn’t ask me any of the stupid b.s. questions that I had heard from so many other HR types, including my all-time favorite, “What would you say is your biggest fault?, which as I believe I pointed out at the time may have cost me two jobs in a month.

I’m thinking about all of this because Jean has a phone interview this afternoon and asked me to throw some questions at her last night. It took quite a while before I could think of any but the annoying ones, and then I started thinking of amusing variations. Well, amusing to me anyway. Not necessarily to someone who was trying to prepare for an interview.

Where do you see yourself in the next five minutes?

What would you say is your biggest arm?

Think back to a recent conflict with a colleague and describe how you resolved it — using only facial expressions.

Would you describe yourself as a person?

Do you consider yourself a self-starter? Would you be willing to help start others?

What did I mean by that last question?

We want to get to know you as a person, not just as an employee. What are you like in the sack?

What makes you so goddamn special?

snoop dog

According to the Washington Post, Snoop Dogg is getting a divizzle. For those of you who modeled your romantic lives after the example set by Snoop “I’m going to be like a real journalist here and say “born Calvin Broadus” and Shante, this must come as a shock. I wonder if Shante will get to keep the house profiled on MTV Cribs. I continue to watch that show in the vain hope of seeing something as rewarding as Snoop walking into the dining room and announcing, “This is where we get our eat on at”

IQuizzle Tizzle:

Snoop Dogg and Shante have three children: Cordell, Corde and Cori. If they were to have another child, what would his or her name be?

a” Corill
b” Cordeli
c” Cardillo
d” Cov
e” Co

I’m no theologian, but I’m pretty sure that if there is a God, He or She does not drive a Pontiac Grand Am.

Ouch.

Last week we had a company outing to see the Durham Bulls play Klinger’s favorite team, the Toledo Mud Hens. It was a perfect night for a ball game, and I like the new ballpark, although it does lack the considerable character of the old Durham Athletic Park “the “DAP”, and by character I mean smelly toilets.

I’ve never been a huge baseball fan, but I did have a Baseball Week sometime in the early ’90s. I left my office in Durham one summer evening and for some reason decided to drive to the DAP. It was a weeknight and I got a seat right behind the plate, had a hot dog and a beer or three and had a perfectly pleasant time. The next night as I was leaving work I couldn’t think of a single reason not to do it again. Of course, after the second night that meant I had to be there for every night of the home stand against Kinston, and I was. I think the Bulls won, or possibly lost.

Oh, hey. When did Wool E. Bull start tear-assing around the diamond in a little car? Between that and shooting rolled-up t-shirts into the crowd with a cannon in the shape of a hot dog, that looks like a pretty cool job. Except for having to wear the costume, which probably gets pretty hot. Hmm. I guess without the costume, you’d get in a lot of trouble driving around on the field and shooting things at people.

Special thanks and a tip of the Plooble hat to Jerry who discovered that the “E in Wool E. Bull officially stands for “education” That would have been my second guess, after “Ewww, does anybody smell wet mascot? I’m sure thousands of kids over the years have been encouraged to stay in school knowing that the middle name of the giant frightening thing that forcibly hugged them at the ball game is “education” Just like A.B. Cardinal has no doubt kept scores of kids off the booze.

It was kind of a slow game, and around the seventh inning our attention waned considerably. We noticed when the players at bat step out to the plate, the sound system plays a little snippet of a song, presumably chosen by the player. “The only one anyone in my group can remember is “Crazy Train”” This naturally led me, Jean and Jerry to discuss what our at-bat theme song would be. Jerry chose “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon and Jean wants “Loser” I think I’d pick “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” You?