How "Mo" Can You Go?

The holidays are quickly approaching, and you can see changes happening all around you. It's not just the color of the leaves, or the stores selling Halloween candy underneath Christmas decorations. I have found that this time of year is intriguing because it cause people to change the way they think.

The holidays are often a break from the usual stresses our lives, as we fond new thing to stress about: Thanksgiving dinners, Christmas present lists, "use or lose" vacation time, the evacuation of immediate family members who end up living in your basement due to mandatory hurricane evacuations (hi mom), and facial hair.

Yes, I said facial hair.

For the last two years, I have participated in Movember, a ritual where men grow creepy moustaches (referred to as a "Mo" by those in the cause) in an attempt to raise general awareness for men's health (the social issue, not the magazine).

Each year, I am faced with the same question: what kind of moustache to grow? Last year, I went with an abbreviated handlebar Mo. Nothing too biker-ish, but just enough of a curve around the mouth to show that it was intentional.

It didn't end well.

I ended up looking like an out-of-work Russian spy. I also didn't do a very good job of raising awareness, but that was also before I started this blog!

Part of the problem is also that I'm not as much of an activist as I used to be.

This is a bit ironic, since I used to live in Boulder, Colorado and now live in Washington, DC. By all accounts, I should have grown from a petty tree-hugger to a full-blown lobbyist by now! Still, there aren't too many causes for which I go out of my way. Movember is one of the few.

I'm sure part of the reason is because the event allows me to skirt social mores, and grow a Mo that would be way too creepy for my office at any other time of year. The camaraderie is also a perk, as I have many Mo Bros around me to commiserate with, as we all progress from the scratchy, pathetic phase, to the full-on awkward phase, and finally on to the fully-groomed Amber Alert phase. All of us except Ben, that is (sorry, bro).


Got a little Movember in you?

The unfortunate part of Movember, besides the fact that I decided to grow a Captain Morgan Mo this year (see right), is that I need your help to make a difference this year.

I've committed to grow this monstrosity on my face for the month of November. My hope is that by changing my appearance, I can raise awareness for men’s health, and use that awareness to raise funds for important prostate and testicular cancer initiatives.

Please help me out by making a donation. The size of the donation isn’t important, every little bit helps Movember continue its funding of world-class programs.

Here's why I've chosen this cause as worthy of sacrificing my dashing good-looks for an entire month:

• 1 in 6 men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer in their lifetime
• This year 242,000 new cases of prostate cancer will be diagnosed
• This year 8,290 men will be diagnosed with testicular cancer

If you’d like to help change these statistics, please donate online at: http://mobro.co/LeeRobbins

 

For more details, take a look at the Programs We Fund section on the Movember website.

 

Thanks in advance for supporting my efforts to change the face of men's health.

 

TTFN,

-Lee

 

Chapter Six

     Celia came hobbling around the corner to see her fiancee Nick standing at the large windows in their living room next to a statuesque blond woman. They both had their back to her and the woman was holding a bottle of wine.

     “You. Bastard.” Celia could barely get the words out around the rage that was bubbling up inside of her.

     Both of the people standing in her living room spun around. Nick’s expression flashed from surprise to something else that Celia could not quite get. She may have recognized, had she not been glaring at the blond woman. The tall, strikingly beautiful, blond woman. Her long hair pulled half up and spilling down her shoulders. She was wearing khakis and a cream colored top that was sleeveless and showed off her toned, tan arms. Celia would have hated her even if she had not been standing in her apartment. With her fiancee. About to drink wine and try on silk lingerie.

     “Celia! You’re home early!” Nick recovered and started towards her.

     The words were innocuous. They were exactly what she expected her hear. But not with that tone. That tone of surprise mixed with that other thing. The back of Celia’s mind was trying to tell her what it was. But she was too busy trying to burn the blond woman to cinders with her eyes. Dimly, she heard Nick exclaim something inane about her foot being bandaged up. She did not bother to look at him.

     “Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you?” Celia asked, cutting off Nick.

     She saw his face go slack in the corner of her eye. He had finally read her expression. “Celia, I didn’t expect you for another couple of hours.”

     “Well that’s obvious.” The blond woman still had not moved. She was looking at Celia with a curious, slightly guilty expression.

     “I should go.” The blond woman said. She started to walk to the door.

     “No. Stay. You two were obviously planning one last fling before I got back. I’m sorry I interrupted.”

     Nick’s jaw dropped. But the blond woman’s face did not so much as twitch.

     “Celia, I don’t think you quite understan..” He started to say.

     Celia broke off her glare at the blond woman and turned to her fiancee finally. She saw the shock and guilt on his face, and in his stance. His defensive posture infuriated her as much as finding them here together. Her hand flew up and she pointed in his face. “I always knew it. I always knew you were a pig. How long has this been going on? How long did it take before you had her here in my bed? What did she seduce you? You always were weak, Nick. I knew you were weak. Weak and pathetic. We only started dating because I knew that I could control the relationship.”

     Nick looked stricken. The blood drained from his face. He opened his mouth and closed it like a fish. The blond woman had walked past them as Cecelia started to speak but stopped at her words. Celia could not see her, but could sense her presence behind her as she continued.

     “Nothing to say? Just going to stand there? At least be man enough to admit it. Admit that you have been cheating on me. Admit what I always knew, that you are a slimy pathetic boy pretending to be a man.” Tears were welling up in Nick’s eyes now. “Oh, are you going to cry? Such a little girl. I can’t believe I let you into my house, let alone my bed.”

     “With that be all, Mister Nelson?” Came the question from behind her.

     Celia’s eyes went even wider. “A hooker? You brought a hooker into my house? I knew she was too pretty for you. Better than you deserved.” She was shouting at the top of her lungs.

     “Actually, I’m an event planner. Nick was working with me to plan his proposal. To you. Tonight.”

     The words were quiet, but the effect was overwhelming. Celia felt the fire in her belly doused in the blink of an eye. She was just left with a buzzing noise in her ears. Before her eyes, Nick went from pale and shaking, on the verge of tears, to red faced and angry. He stood taller and set his jaw. “That will be all, Miss Turner. Thank you for your help.”

     “Oh, God, Nicky.” Celia whispered into the deafening silence. The room was spinning. She felt like she was going to be sick. “Oh God.”

     The front door closed, but Celia did not hear it. All she heard was the buzzing like a host of cicadas in her ears. For an eternity, she stood, swaying and looking into Nick’s eyes. Those sweet, gentle brown eyes. He was a good man. Soft spoken and taciturn. So unlike her father. But in that moment, so much like him. A small part of her knew that she was deflecting. She was buying time. But no matter how long they stood there, she did not see the one thing she wanted in his eyes.

     There was no forgiveness.

     “Nicky, I’m so sorry. It’s the pills. I’m on these pain pills…” Again she felt the world spinning. She wanted to sit down, but she could do nothing but stare into Nick’s eyes. The silence stretched between them for seconds, minutes, days, years. Neither of them moves.

     Celia opened her mouth again to speak, but didn’t.

     After an eternity, Nick shook his head once and walked out the door. Celia succumbed to her spinning head and collapsed to her dark, tasteful, hardwood floor.

Chapter Five

     Cecelia slowy opened her eyes, and felt a stab of pain shooting through her head like a bolt of lightning. She grabbed for a pillow and buried her head underneath it.

     Where did this pillow come from?

     Cecelia felt a wave of fear wash over her. She didn't know where she was; only that she was in a bed. Slowly, she opened one eye and tried to get her bearings. Cecelia quickly realized that she was in her hotel room. She breathed a sigh of relief, but was shocked when she realized that she was lying in bed completely naked. What on earth had happened last night?

     Cecelia closed her eyes and tried to remember what had happened, how she got back to the hotel, anything. The last thing she remembered was drinking and flirting with Patrick at the bar, then the two of them went back to the hotel together.

     Back to the hotel.

     Together.

     "Shit." whispered Cecelia to herself. She had no idea what had happened that night, but she had some theories. She needed to get dressed and find Patrick.

     As Cecelia climbed out of bed and stood up, her injured foot protested with a wave of aches. She would have to be careful not to reinjure herself, but the most important thing right now was finding that son-of-a-bitch, Patrick.

     Cecelia dressed and hurried downstairs to the pool area. Just as she had hoped, she saw Patrick setting up chaise lounges by the bar. She walked over to him, and when he saw her he smiled and began to wave.

     SLAP! The sound echoed across the pool area, as Cecelia slapped Patrick across his face so hard that he stumbled backwards.

     "What the hell is wrong with you, Celia?" yelled Patrick.

     "Me?" shouted Cecelia, "What the hell is wrong with you, you low-life fuck?"

     Patrick stood there, holding his throbbing cheek in his hand while Cecelia continued shouting at him.

     "You think I'm just another spring break piece of ass that you can screw and ditch before moving onto the next catch of the day?" shouted Cecelia.

     "Celia, I can see that you're very angry," said Patrick, "but I honestly don't know what I did to you."

     "First of all, it's Dr. Shanahan." said Cecelia, "And secondly, I don't know what you did either, because apparently you took off as soon as you were done. I woke up naked with out so much as a fucking note saying thanks for the lay and have a nice life!"

     "Look Cel, er, Dr. Shanahan, I couldn't tell you if you woke up naked or dressed up like Little Richard." said Patrick as he backed away slowly. "All I know is that after you puked in my car, I dropped you off in front of the lobby entrance, and you headed up to your room"

     Cecelia glared at Patrick.

     "Alone." added Patrick.

     Cecelia turned around and rubbed her temples as she tried to think. Could Patrick be right about the previous night? She struggled to remember anything about the end of the evening, but her memory would not reveal anything.

     "I threw up?" asked Cecelia as she turned around.

     "Oh yeah." said Patrick. "And then some. I didn't get the car completely cleaned until this morning. The only thing that made me feel better is that you didn't escape the friendly fire."

     "That bad?" asked Cecelia.

     "It was everywhere; Your clothes, Your hair." said Patrick. "You made quite a spectacle of yourself."

     "I guess that explains why I woke up naked." said Cecelia. "Clean, but naked."

     Patrick just nodded and stared at Cecelia.

     "I'm sorry." said Cecelia. "I guess I just.. When I woke up, I... Nevermind. I'm sorry, very sorry."

     "No problem... Dr. Shanahan." replied Patrick as he went back to straightening the chaise lounges.

     Cecelia looked towards the hotel lobby, and saw the large clock hanging above the concierge desk. It was almost 10 o'clock.

     "Shit." muttered Cecelia. She had slept in and was going to miss her flight home if she didn't get a move on.

     Cecelia hobbled up to her room and started throwing her clothing into her suitcase. She quickly got dressed and put on some makeup, and then made a dash for the elevator. Soon, she was cruising down Interstate 195 towards Miami International Airport.

     Cecelia was navigating the security line when her cell phone rang. It was her boyfriend, Nick.

     "Hey Nicky!" said Cecelia as she answered.

     "Hi Sweetie!" said Nick, "How was the conference?"

     "Boring, but I survived" said Cecelia.

     "Did you at least get a chance to make it to the beach?" asked Nick.

     "Yeah," said Cecelia looking down at her foot, "but it wasn't that great."

     "Bummer." said Nick. "Everything looking good with your flight?"

     "Yup." said Cecelia, "Still on-schedule."

     "Great!" said Nick, "See you tonight?"

     "Yup." said Cecelia, "See you tonight!"

     "Love you, Sweetie!" said Nick.

     "Love you too, Nicky" said Cecelia as she hung up the phone.

     Cecelia cleared security and headed to her gate. When she got there and looked at the departure screens, she noticed that the earlier flight to Boston was delayed and had not left yet. Cecelia walked over to the earlier flight's gate and saw passengers milling about. The sign showed a departure time of 11:30 am, which was twenty minutes away. The flight had still not left.

     Cecelia walked up to the podium where a gate agent was shuffling paperwork.

     "Pardon me," said Cecelia, "Is this flight full?"

     "No ma'am." replied the gate agent.

     "I'm ticketed on the 1:00 pm flight to Logan." said Cecelia as she handed the gate agent her boarding pass, "Can I standby for this flight?"

     "Let me see what I can do." said the gate agent.

     Twenty minutes later Cecelia boarded the earlier flight, and settled into her cramped coach class seat for her trip back to Boston.

     Cecelia tried to spend the flight reviewing some materials from the conference, but she couldn't concentrate. Her mind kept wandering back to the previous night. Of all the places to run into someone from Boston, it would have to be at her hotel! He was kind of cute though, tanned and laid-back; so different from the rat-racers that inhabited downtown Boston.

     Cecelia wondered what would have happened had she not gotten sick. How far could things have gone between her and Patrick? Most importantly, what the heck was she thinking going drinking with him in the first place?

     That last question snapped Cecelia back to the present. As the plane descended into Boston, She tried to wipe the memories of her evening with Patrick from her mind. It was nothing after all. She was blowing off some steam after a boring conference and just happened to let a local show her around town. What was the harm in that?

     By the time Cecelia walked in the front door of her Back Bay apartment, it was already late in the afternoon. She had already decided that the day was shot, and that her best plan would be to spend the evening relaxing and resting her swollen foot. She walked into the foyer of her apartment and stopped cold in her tracks.

     The lights in her apartment were on, and Nick's wallet and car keys were sitting on the table. Next to the keys was a pair of women's lace underwear, a couple of wine glasses, and a silk scarf. She could also hear noises coming from the back of the apartment.

     "Shit." Cecelia thought to herself, "What the hell was Nick doing home from work this early, and whose lingerie was sitting on the table?"

     Cecelia stormed towards the back of the apartment and into the bedroom, determined to get some answers.

The Jargon Generation Gap

Forbes recently published an interesting article on the worst frequently used buzzwords in the business world. Since I'm a consultant, and my clients actually pay me to help them use many of these buzzwords, I thought that reading the article would be a whimsical experience. As fate would have it, I was guilty of using many, if not all, of these words ad-nauseum.

Looking at this compendium of meaningless jargon made me wonder if I have always spoken this way. I can distinctly remember a time when I did not let jargon and lingo overtake my communication style. Sure, there were occasional pop culture references, and a dash of academic pomp (when I was a film major in college, my big go-to buzzwords were “castration anxiety” and “doppelganger” - I used these when speaking about movies, of course), but nothing all-consuming.

In my professional life, these buzzwords have become so common that nobody even notices them anymore. In fact, nobody seems to notice how easy it is to talk in corporate settings without actually saying anything. Nonetheless, I thought it might be worthwhile, or at least amusing to review some of the buzzwords that have been squatting in my repertoire for the last several years, and reflect on how their connotations have changed.

"Gold Plating"
   Now (As a Consultant): To over-do the embellishments on a report or presentation.
   Then (Back in College): What the cheerleaders from University of Nebraska had on their teeth.

"Buy-In"  
   Now: What I try to get from important people during unimportant meetings.
   Then: What you did at the beginning of a hand of Poker.

"S.W.A.T. Team"
   Now: A team assembled to solve a business problem quickly (see Tiger Team).
   Then: Who you prayed would NOT show up at your kegger.

"Drinking the Kool-Aid"
   Now: What you do after listening to a motivational talk with executives.
   Then: What you did after getting a red solo cup and going over to the trash can filled with jungle juice.

"Tiger Team"
   Now: See S.W.A.T. team.
   Then: The University of Missouri (or LSU, if you're in the SEC).

"Best Practice"
   Now: A process or methodology for achieving a business goal that is generally accepted as being the most effective or mature.
   Then: A marching band rehearsal that was followed by a kegger (see Drinking the Kool-Aid).

"Ducks in a Row"
    Now: Being prepared for all possible contingencies.
    Then: The University of Oregon defensive line.

"Ecosystem"
   Now: A group of related processes and/or technologies that combine to deliver a specific outcome
   Then: What the Greenpeace solicitors used to try and talk to you about after they had cornered you in the Quad when you were either: 1) broke, 2) late for class, or 3) just didn't care.

"Take offline"
   Now: To postpone a conversation until it can be held in privacy.
   Then: What I tried to avoid doing when I fixed servers for a living.

"Boil the Ocean"
   Now: To try and do too much at once.
   Then: Seriously? Who the heck ever used this stupid term back in college?

I may be wiser and more experienced than I was when I was 21 years old, but after looking at these terms, one thing stands out very clearly to me: if my 21-year old self ever heard the way I speak now, he'd laugh his ass off at me.

And for the record, I do not condone underage drinking. However, I do condone marching bands.

Go Buffs!
-Lee

Invitation to Lee's blog

Some months ago, my good friend Lee and I started talking about writing. Then we started actually writing and meeting together to talk about our writings (and in the fine tradition of our writing forebears, to drink.) A few short weeks into this experiment, Lee announced (again in fine writing tradition), "I started a blog!" To which I replied,"That's awesome!"

But in my heart it was a lie. I didn't think it was awesome. I thought it was hateful. Why? Because of my own jealousy, and a crippling fear of writing anything that would be actually read by the masses (and by "masses", I mean anyone who does not share my last name). But, I am a good friend, or at least I can fake being a good friend. So I asked him what it was about and he told me "it's about grammar!" Which I thought was really smart and creative.

It burned at me like acid. 

So I did what any writer would do. I drank. And then I started my own blog. It was a tour de force. It was the brilliant witticism and history of your humble author. It was genius and awesome and other great adjectives!

Where is the link? You ask, all aflutter. Where can you find this pearl behind price?

You can't. 

You can't because while I wrote a dozen posts, I never published them. I will likely never publish them. All for the same reason as above; the crippling fear that what I put out to the world will be crap.

As some very few of you know, I published a book last year (shameless plug). It was self published; partially because I did not really know how to get it published through traditional channels, but mostly because I did not want to go through the rejection that is inherent in the publishing process. After it was written, edited, reviewed, and ready to go, it took me months to work up the courage to put it out there. A shot or three of Jameson was subsequently needed to actually "Like" the book and its associated iPhone app on Facebook. (The app was made for me by the talented and indefatigable Nick Schneble.)

So this long rambling diatribe leads me back to a few weeks ago. I had been pressuring Lee to coauthor something with me. A screenplay, a novel, a recipe, anything! And finally he succumbed and agreed to write a short story. "No more than 20,000 words, Ben!" he said to me. I hastily agreed and immediately began coming up with ideas... Ideas for epic novels that spanned a series of books and movies. After picking a much simpler concept; we separated with the idea of writing it a chapter at a time back and forth. 

Then, I had a brilliant idea. Post it in real time on his blog! What he thought was me trying to help him get some posts going and make time for his writing was really much more diabolical.

Let me let you in on my secret agenda, dear reader: it is to use Lee's blog to write a blog, without the pressure of writing a blog! MWA HAHA! 

And now you see. All my plans have come to fruition. Lee himself invited me to write a post and gave me a prompt! "Write about gardening,” he said. If only he knew that this innocuous sentence would be his downfall, surely he would retract it. Or at least remove my privileges as a publisher to the site. Instead he sits at home, unaware of the dire fate that has already befallen his beloved "Bitter Grammar". Sipping his mimosa and nibbling his foie gras (full disclosure: I really have no idea what the man eats for breakfast).

Wait, no! YOU GOT ME MONOLOGUING!

Now he knows my evil plans! Dear reader, you must keep my secret. For, were he to find out, everything would be undone. All would be lost. In exchange for your silence, I promise to explain the mystical art of "Gardening".

Yet, I hesitate to go into it. Mainly because the subject is something that I find pedantic. While I understand the concepts involved, writing the specifics are outside of my wheelhouse (at least currently). Let's face it, I'm a newb, an amateur at best. My real skill set lies primarily in Xbox, whiskey and security consulting. Sure, I could write a nice post with several citations on the connotation of the terms "Gardening" and "Architecture" as they pertain to writing, just like I was trained to do in grad school. 

Or I could write about how I write. 

I think I will choose the latter. (As an aside, am I the only person who has to constantly think when someone uses "latter" and "former"? I know it is a relatively simple skill, but for some reason I find myself guessing about half the time on it.) 

So how do I write? The short answer is "poorly". 

The slightly longer answer is "better than I used to, but not as good as I would like".

Writing is a weird thing. The act of creating from nothing is bloody exhausting. But, just like being a parent, there are a million minor skills that come into play when you are a "writer". My daughter is 3 weeks and 2 days old. I have had to learn how to change a diaper, burp her, handle her crying, bounce her in my arms, install a car seat, set up a Pack 'N Play, mix a bottle, and about a million other minor things. All of these combine to form the skill of being a Dad.

Writing is similar. You have to know how to set up a plot, location, characters, motivations, interactions, build tension, conduct conversations that don't sound stilted and ridiculous, build back stories, vary your sentence structure, give the reader the tropes they expect while also not making your work too derivative, and so on. 

All of these things and others mix together in a strange alchemical brew to make “Good Writing.” What I have learned is, much like with my daughter, I am good at somethings, and awful at others. So the trick becomes identifying the weaknesses and working on them. Which sucks. Because, while I enjoy writing, I do not enjoy negative feedback, and I really only like writing the “fun parts." I don't want to work on explaining the surroundings so that the reader does not feel lost. I know where the hell the characters are! You should keep up!

But I have also learned that one of the most valuable thing you can have as a writing, besides alcohol and a very patient spouse, is a trusted adviser who understands writing enough to help you find your strengths and weaknesses, and work to even out your craft. Not to mention, doing all that without crushing your delicate artist soul. Because  the one thing I've learned about audiences is this: everyone's a critic.

So what is a young and terrified writer to do? The answer is simple: just write. Preferably on someone else's blog!

Oh, and just to tidy up the loose ends, "Architects" are writers who outline their stories before writing their rough drafts, and "Gardeners" are writers who write their rough drafts without planning or outlining them out. If you are really interested, let me know in the comments below and I will write up a real post explaining them.

Until then, have a happy and safe 4th of July!

- Ben

Chapter Four

     Patrick smiled and waved at the bartender, Mickey, as he helped Celia to her seat at the bar. Dempsey's was already in full swing with the happy hour crowd and its usual mix of regulars and tourists. Mickey waved back, his smile widening at the sight of Cecelia, still in a her bikini bottoms but with an unzipped hoodie that Patrick had dug out of his trunk. Her foot was bandaged, but very few men were looking at her feet.

     "Paddy! Good to see you, the usual?" like any good bartender, Mickey knew all of his regulars. "and for your lovely friend?"

     "Stoli, rocks." She said easing into the barstool.

     "Sure thing, Miss. Coming right up." Mickey responded and started pouring.

     Patrick sat down beside Cecelia. "looks like the Celts are still up." he offered up lamely.

     "I can see the score, thanks." She was focused on the large flat screen TV behind the bar.

     Patrick felt off his game. He had thought bringing Cecelia here would lead to the normal evening with a tourist girl. He would buy a couple drinks, talk about the local sites, maybe plan out a trip or two, and then take the girl back to his place. Which was conveniently close by.

     Mickey came back a moment later with their drinks and shook his head at Patrick. Normally Patrick would have already moved alone to another prospect at this point, but he had already invested a lot of time in this one. And driving her to the hospital should count for something!

     "Damn!" Cecelia shouted at the TV as the Heat scored and tied up the game. "Pick up your game!" She picked up her drink and downed it in a single shot.

     Patrick felt his eyebrows shoot up and he traded glances with Mickey. Maybe the night was looking up. He motioned for another round and sipped at his drink. "this place has really killer wings." he said. "Would you like to try some?"

     Cecelia cursed again at the TV and spared him a glance, "Yeah, sure." She said.

     Patrick waved at Mickey who just nodded in reply and wrote up the order. Here we go. Patrick thought. He was starting to feel more comfortable. "So how long are you in town for?" he asked.

     Cecelia did not respond. Patrick awkwardly waited a minute until it was clear she was not going to say anything and tried again. "I said, how long-"

     "That's the line?" Cecelia cut him off.

     "Excuse me?"

     "I've been waiting all day for the line that you use on all the tourist girls. I'm assuming you have an entire game plan. You seem like the type. And the best you have is ‘How long are you in town for?’" Cecelia had not looked away from the screen.

     "And what type is that?" Patrick felt his ears start to redden.

     Cecelia's only response was a sidelong glance at him with an arched eyebrow.

     Before he could respond, Mickey came back with a plate of wings and another vodka for Cecelia. Once again, she pounded it back and waved for another, barely taking her eyes from the TV screen.

     Patrick gaped at her and took a large swig of his drink. While he sat there trying to think of a new tack, he started eating the wings. Dempseys had the spiciest wings in town. He usually ordered a pitcher of beer to help cool his mouth off, but Cecelia was downing the wings without even the ranch sauce to take the edge off.

     While he was sitting trying to think of something to say, Cecelia reached up and pulled her hair down. It was longer than he had expected. It fell in messy waves past her shoulders and she shook it out. She glanced over and caught him looking at her. A knowing smile played across her lips.

     The action threw Patrick even further off his game.

     During a commercial break, Cecelia turned to the bartender and asked, "Restroom?"

     Mickey pointed to a corner and Cecelia limped off to use it.

     While she was gone, Mickey paused in pouring a drink to flash an apologetic smile at Patrick. "Hey bud, you can't win them all."

     "The night isn't over yet." Patrick said but his heart wasn't in it. This woman was playing him like a fiddle and he knew it. It was fast reaching the point where he wanted to just take her back to the hotel and go to bed.

     Mickey just smiled again and shook his head. He wandered down the bar to serve another patron and left Patrick alone.

     "I suppose I should say, thank you." Came the voice from behind him.

     Patrick turned to see Cecelia without the hoodie standing in just her turquoise bikini and arms folded across her chest.

     "Uh, don't mention it." He stammered. He felt ridiculous.

     Cecelia bit her lower lip and seemed to think for a minute. She shrugged slightly and sat down next to him again. "One more round, please." She asked politely.

     When Mickey poured the vodka, she gave him a large smile and leaned forward on the bar pushing up her cleavage. "Thanks!" She said brightly.

     Patrick thought he heard her slurring the 's' at the end of the word.

     "You should probably slow it down a bit." He said. "You've had quite a day."

     "You should probably grow a pair and catch up. I thought you said you were from Massachusetts." Cecelia started digging into the wings.

     Patrick was starting to feel more comfortable. Drunk tourist trying to blow off steam was right in his wheel house. Even still... "Why don't we switch to water for a bit?" he asked and signaled to Mickey.

     "Thanks, Dad." Cecelia said and downed her drink.

     Mickey came back and started to pour another Stoli, but Patrick stopped him. "Thanks anyway, Mick, but I think we are going to call it for the evening. Let's go, Celia."

     "He calls me, Celia, isn't that cute? Just a few hours ago it was 'Yes, Doctor,' and 'No, Doctor." Cecelia started laughing and swaying in her seat.

     "Sure, thing, Paddy. I'll put all this on your tab." Mickey said. "It was nice meeting you, Miss."

     "I'm a doctor you know." Cecelia said back to him. "I'm very well respected. I work all the time and I never have any fun."

     Patrick was pulling her slowly away from the bar.

     "Would you like to have fun, Patrick? I can be lots of fun." Cecelia was leaning heavily on him as they walked through the bar.

     "I’m sure you do, Celia. Why don’t we go back to the hotel?" Patrick asked her as he helped her into his car.

     “That sounds like a great idea!” said Cecilia as Patrick pulled his car back into traffic.

Chapter Three

     The nurse wheeled Cecelia through the busy Emergency Room. Patrick lingered a couple of steps behind, doing his best to look like he belonged in the procession. Once they arrived in one of the private triage rooms in the back of the ER, Cecelia climbed out of the wheelchair and lifted herself gingerly onto the bed.
     "Just make yourself at home!" said the nurse as he headed for the door, "the doctor will be with you soon."
     Patrick paced around the room, examining the sterile surroundings. He tried his best to avoid the critical glare of the grumpy doctor, as he tried to figure out a way to cut the tension in the room. Obviously, his charm was not going to be much help. Thankfully, there was a TV mounted against the wall in the corner of the room.
     "Nice place." said Patrick as he walked over to the side of the bed, "At least we have some privacy..."
     Patrick leaned in over the side of the bed, tracing his hand along the edge of the railing. He leaned in close to Cecelia's face, and paused for a moment as a confused look glinted in her eyes. Before Cecelia could realize what was happening, Patrick scooped up the remote control that was lying on the bed, plopped down on a chair in the corner, and turned on the TV.
     "Excellent!" said Patrick as a basketball game flickered onto the TV screen. "Classy hospital. They have ESPN."
     The Miami Heat were playing the Boston Celtics in downtown Miami that night, and Patrick waited for the score to be displayed. He saw that Boston was up by eight points, and decided to change the channel before Cecelia got bored. He started flipping through the channels, looking for something that she might like.
     "What the hell is wrong with you?" Cecelia shouted.
     "Pardon?" asked Patrick.
     "Put the game back on!" demanded Cecelia.
     "Oh, sorry." said Patrick as he changed the station. "I didn't realize you were a Heat fan."
     "I'm not." said Cecelia.
     "You like the Celts?" asked Patrick, "Seriously?"
     "Of course I do," said Cecelia, "I'm from Boston."
     "Huh." muttered Patrick, surprised. "Me too. I grew up in Newton."
     "Roxbury." said Cecelia.
     "How about that?" said Patrick as he turned up the volume on the basketball game. "Let me guess, you played center in Med school?"
      "You're real witty for such a dumbass." replied Cecelia. "And for the record, I played guard."
      Patrick stared at Cecelia, confused.
      "My father was a high school basketball coach for 25 years." continued Cecelia, "He taught me to play when I was little. I used to go to all of his games. My mother worked, so I spent most of my childhood in the gym or on the playground under a hoop.
     Cecelia sat on the bed, and continued telling her story. She never took her eyes off of the television screen. Patrick sat and listened to the doctor telling her personal history to a complete stranger.
     "I played basketball all through high school and got a basketball scholarship to Syracuse." said Cecelia.
     "So why did you give it up?" asked Patrick.
     "What do you mean, give it up?" asked Cecelia.
     "You didn't want to go pro?" asked Patrick.
     "Are you kidding?" shouted Cecelia, "Do you have any idea what the salaries are for rookies in the WNBA?"
     Patrick stared at Cecelia blankly.
     "I'll spell it out for you." said Cecelia. "The opportunities for women athletes are still pretty sparse when you get to the pros. Sure, you can go out for the U.S. Olympic team and try to get some endorsement deals, but I didn't want that life."
     "So how does a brawny basketball player become a doctor?" asked Patrick.
     "Brawny?" asked Cecelia.
     "Kidding." said Patrick. He grinned and waited for Cecelia to continue the story.
     My father got badly hurt during my junior year, lost his balance during a practice scrimmage. Tore his knee cartilage all to hell." said Cecelia. "The doctors told him he would have  to have knee reconstruction surgery, but he didn't like the idea and procrastinated for two years. I saw the pain that he was in before the surgery, and I was amazed at the difference after he had the surgery and healed up. He was like a different person. That's when I decided to go into sports medicine."
     "So that's what you do now?" asked Patrick.
     "Nah, once I got to college, I realized how much I hated being around career athletes. When I got to med school, I realized that I wanted to specialize in Orthopedics, so I could help people like my father."
     "Yeah, seems like a good way to meet older men" said Patrick.
     Cecelia shot Patrick a glare, and he almost saw a smile cross her lips. Before Cecelia could think of something to say, the doctor walked into the triage room.
     "Good evening, Dr. Shanahan." said the doctor. "I'm Dr. Hernandez. Let's see if we can get your foot stitched up now, shall we?"
     Cecelia and Patrick waited while the doctors took care of Cecelia's foot. It took another half-hour for them to clean and examine the wound, then stitch it up and dress it properly. Cecelia and Patrick sat there, watching the basketball game as the doctors did their work. By the time Cecelia was discharged, it was already early evening.
     Patrick helped Cecelia walk out of the hospital. She could walk by herself, but she had a very noticeable limp. He held her by the elbow as she waddled back to the car. Patrick helped Cecelia into the car, then got in and turned the engine on.
     "Well, Dr. Shanahan," said Patrick, "I'll be happy to take you anywhere you'd like to go, but my shift ended about an hour ago, and I don't know about you, but I'm kind of hungry."
     Cecelia nodded her head nonchalantly.
     "There's a bar up the street that has really good seafood." said Patrick. "It's a local joint, a bit of a dive, but the owner is from Boston, and they always have the games on when the Celts play. We could get some dinner and catch the end of the game if you like"
     "Sure," said Cecelia, "Lord knows I could use a drink right now."
     Patrick pulled out of the parking lot and started heading down the busy boulevard.
     "And please call me Celia. Between the hospital and everyone calling me Dr. Shanahan, I feel like I'm back at work" said Cecelia.
    "I wouldn't worry about that." said Patrick, grinning. "I heard people say that Dempsey's Bar reminds them of lots of places, but I've never heard anyone say that it reminds them of work."

Lawn Envy

The last few weeks have been pretty crazy at work; lots of ten hour days and emails flying back and forth. To make matters worse, the weather here in the DC area has produced skyrocketing pollen levels. I can't tell you if this perfect storm of stress and pollen was coincidence or karmic retribution, but either way, it resulted in a predictable outcome: I got sick.

Despite lots of self-imposed guilt, I ended up working from home for several days last month, while I was attempting to fight a pernicious springtime bug. Aside from getting a lot of attention from my two cats, I was able to spend most of my days either working quietly, or trying to rest and recuperate. Having already succumbed to one of the hazards of my neighborhood (tree pollen), my decision to work from home exposed to another neighborhood hazard: door-to-door solicitors.

The act of soliciting door-to-door has always confused me. On the surface, it makes sense. I understand the law of averages, and I know that if you knock on enough doors, eventually you will find someone who is willing to buy whatever it is that you are selling. However, I never understood the marketing strategy of peddling home improvement services door-to-door.  The way I see it, if you are a contractor or some other tradesman and you do quality work, the business will follow. If you have enough time to go door-to-door and solicit business, it probably means that you do not have work lined up right now.

In my experience (and by experience, I mean doing business with a lot of crappy contractors over the years), if you are a tradesman and you are out of work, there is probably a reason for it! Going door-to-door and advertising your availability just perpetuates that image, at least that's the way I see it.  The moral of the story is that I never buy any home improvement services from anybody who is soliciting door-to-door. If I don't have a personal reference from someone I know and trust about the quality of your work, you will never get any business from me (no matter how many flyers you tape to my door). The only people I will hire to work on my home are the ones who have already been tested, preferably on someone else's home!

Still, I occasionally get duped into answering the door by contractors who are canvassing our neighborhood. Last month was such an occasion. I was working quietly at my kitchen table, when I heard a knock on my front door. I opened the door, and immediately regretted that decision; on my front stoop was a smiling salesman wearing a Scott's Lawn Service polo shirt.

     "Good afternoon, sir!" the salesman said. "I'm from Scott's lawn service and I noticed that you have a bit of a clover problem in your lawn."

      "Thanks, but I'm not interested in lawn service, and I'm actually quite busy right now." I replied as I closed the front door.

As I sat down again at my kitchen table, the ridiculousness of the salesman's argument dawned on me. I have been on the receiving end of many sales pitches, but I can't remember many of them that called out my flaws in such a direct way. After all, the basic argument that the Scott's salesman was making was this: Your lawn is ugly, and you're too stupid to fix it yourself, so give me money to do it for you.

As a consultant, I'm quite familiar with all the justifications for outsourcing, yet, I've rarely approached my corporate clients with the chutzpah that the lawn guy had. Can you imagine what that would look like?

     Client: "So what can I do for you, Lee?"

     Lee: "Your business is a mess, and since you're in charge, I would guess it's your fault."

     Client: "Excuse me?"

      Lee: "It's simple. You're too stupid to fix your problem. I'm smarter than you. Pay me lots of money and I'll fix it for you."

As you can imagine, this would not go over very well. In fact, most consultants will not even call you wrong to your face. They'll spin the problem, and use jargon to offer a solution, like providing "value adds" or freeing up resources to focus on "core competencies." They'll usually use the word "leverage" as a verb. A lot.

The reason most consultants are well practiced spin doctors, is that most people don't like having their own flaws pointed out. If you are feeling defensive about what someone said to you, who cares if they said what they meant? It doesn't matter, because you're not listening. You're too pissed off!

This is one situation where I recommend a departure from my cardinal rule: saying what you mean when someone has just told you that you are worthless is NOT a good idea!

I know that my lawn isn't going to end up on a magazine cover anytime soon, but it doesn't bother me. My lawn is not perfect, but to be fair, I've got bigger things to worry about than some rogue clovers! Yet, maybe the consulting metaphor is too specific. Perhaps I should use a more typical comparison.

How about this instead...

Imagine yourself waking through the local shopping mall. You pass a hair salon and a stylist shouts over to you:

     "Hey! Your haircut sucks. It makes you look ugly. Let me help you with that!"

Hmm. That didn't feel very nice. But it's okay, because there's a sale at your favorite clothing store. A sales associate greets you at the door with big smile:

     "Wow. Your clothes are really out of style. If you don't update your wardrobe with this season's latest fashions, nobody will love you."

Wow. That's some strange customer service, isn't it? But no need to worry, because the food court is up ahead. Maybe a snack will make you feel better. In fact, that place ahead is giving out free samples:

     "Hey buddy! You can't cook, and even if you could, nobody would want to eat it. Want to try some greasy chicken on a toothpick?"

Suddenly, your appetite is gone. Maybe you should just get out of here as fast as possible. You run past a line of stores...

An electronics store:

     "You have no talent, and will spend your whole life on your couch. A bigger TV will make you feel better about your pathetic existence."

A shoe store:

     "Do you have poor self-image? Because, you should. I mean, look at you! You need to get in shape, but first buy these running shoes!"

A gadget store:

     "Your career is totally pathetic. If you had a miniature remote-controlled helicopter, you could imagine that you have an exciting job, instead of being a big disappointment. And it runs on AA batteries!"

One of those e-Cigarette kiosks:

      "Sure, this product is stupid, and this job is lame, but I'm only 18. At least I have the rest of my life ahead of me!"

Okay, that last guy was probably just bitter about working at an e-Cigarette kiosk, but nonetheless, those people didn't do a very good job making you want to buy what they were selling did they?

Didn't think so.

Makes you think twice about criticizing someone's lawn, doesn't it?

Happy shopping!
-Lee

P.S. If you're reading this, Mr. Scott's lawn service guy, stop taping your damned flyers to my door!!!

Narrator de Force

We are two chapters into our little short story experiment, and I am rather pleased to report that I have had an epiphany of sorts this week!

Just to provide a little background on my paradigm shift, Ben and I have been writing together for a little while now. When I say together, I don't mean that we have co-written any works (other than some technical reports and occasional improv routines back when we worked together at a telecommunications company that shall not be named), but rather that we collaborated on some of our personal writing projects. Ben and I had a routine of getting together on Friday nights to share and critique each other's novels.

During that time, I've read through several of his projects in one form or another. When I read Ben's stories, I always noticed how different his style and tone was compared to mine. I couldn't tell you how, nor could I put my finger on why, but I could always tell that what I was reading came from Ben.

When I started writing our short story, I didn't give much thought to how I would use style, tone and other mechanics in my chapter. In that regard, I'm definitely firmly entrenched in the "Gardener" camp (but I'll let Ben write a post that explains what that means!). Still, I knocked out my chapter and waited eagerly to see what Ben would do with the characters I had conjured.

When I finally got to read Ben's chapter, the differences between his writing style and mine became much clearer, thanks to the common subject matter that we shared. Pretty soon I was able to figure out what was different between the chapters: Ben and I have very different narrators!

When most people think of narrators, they imagine an old fatherly voice that provides the voice overs for fairy tales. However, all stories have narrators. They may be a character in the story, or more often, they are an abstract observer of the story. Still, the "voice" of the narrator provides a lot of the story's personality. In the case of our story, I realized that Ben's narrator has a very conversational voice, whereas mine is much more formal. This got me to thinking: where does a narrator's voice come from? Is it a reflection of how we communicate? A projection of how we see and synthesize the world?

In the end, I decided that the easiest explanation is that the voice of a writer's narrator is probably a very good facsimile of their internal monologue (I guess that means I can finally start making money by talking to myself). I also assume that most people have internal monologues, after all, if you didn't have an internal monologue, how could you replay the argument you just lost and try to figure out what you SHOULD have said? Still, I would also venture that most people that do not regularly engage in creative writing are seldom faced with an external representation of their own internal monologue. Making your internal monologue external is actually very hard to do in life. Yet, it is very easy to do as a writer (in fact, I'm doing it right now).

This begs the question for you, dear reader: Do you actually know what your internal monologue sounds like? If not, how do you think it would sound if it told a story to someone other than yourself? Is your internal monologue conversational and prosaic, like Ben's? Or is it formal and analytical, like mine? I've said in the past that we all have a responsibility to say what we mean, and that infers that we are saying it to someone else. ..

But how much thought and care do you put into how you communicate with yourself?

Feel free to post some comments with your thoughts, but beware: you may find yourself analyzing your internal monologue, with your internal monologue, albeit in an externalized form.

Yeah. That just happened. We've gone Meta!

I hope you all have a great Memorial Day Holiday!
-Lee

Chapter Two

     Patrick got into the driver’s seat of the car after carefully help Cecelia into the passenger’s. She was scowling and muttering something under her breath. By her expression and posture, she was obviously in a great deal of pain.
     He considered asking if there was anything else he could do for her, but he had already received quite an earful for trying to help her into the car. The acerbic young woman seemed to want simultaneously to be coddled and left alone. Well, he had been working at the hotel for several years, so he knew how to handle a difficult guest.

     It was unfortunate, though. When he had received the call from the bartender he had been fairly certain that it was a simple twisted ankle, or mild scrape. He had been pleasantly surprised at seeing the pretty young woman in a bikini. Until she had opened her mouth.

     “It should only be a few minutes to Jackson Memorial hospital, Mis- er Doctor. I’m sure they will have you fixed up in no time.” Patrick said brightly. He pulled the sedan out into traffic and headed towards the on-ramp for 95 North.     

     “You’re taking 95? At this time of day?” It was the first words that Cecilia had spoken to him since she had allowed him to help her into the car.     

     “Yes, Doctor, the hospital is only a few minute up 95. It’s the fastest way.” Years of experience allowed Patrick to keep the frustration out of his voice. Though this was not how interactions with women usually went for him. He had moved to Miami to go to college and ended up spending all of his time getting laid or at the beach, or sometimes both to succeed as a student. Eventually he dropped out and started working for the hotel. The pay was decent, the hours were great, he got to work on his tan, and the tourists were always looking for some local fun.

      He almost cursed when he pulled onto 95 and ground to a halt. His ears started to burn as he felt Cecelia’s, No, Doctor Shanahan’s he corrected himself, eyes on him. He did not need to look over to see that she was glaring at him.

      Cecelia started rummaging through her bag and pulled out a smart phone. After a few seconds she pointed imperiously at the next exit. “Get off here and turn left.” She said without looking at him.

      Patrick inhaled deeply and managed to keep from sighing. He knew this area, and the ‘least-time’ route that Google swore by was known to every local as well. It would be just as jam packed as 95, but not as direct. He considered arguing and decided to just let it go. The customer is always right! He reminded himself.

      Just as he had expected the road was just as jam packed, but it seemed to be moving slightly better than 95. After just a few minutes he pulled up at the Emergency Room and got out to help her out of the passenger side. As he walked around the car, Patrick caught a glimpse of Cecelia through the windshield. In that moment, the frown fell away from her face and he saw something else. He thought he saw fear. That moment made him realize how scared and alone she must feel.

      “Here we are, Doctor. I’ll just have the valet park the car and stay with you until we get you fixed up.” Patrick said, opening the door and giving her a hand.

      “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I have far more time in hospitals than you ever will. And I am perfectly capable of overseeing my own care.” Cecelia said as she leaned on him and limped into the ER.

      “I understand, Ma’am, but it’s company policy. I could lose my job if I don’t stay.” Patrick was bending the truth more than a little.

      “I don’t care about your job. But, if you insist on staying, go get me the admittance forms.” Cecelia said.

      Patrick handed the keys over to the valet and turned to help her to a seat. Cecelia had already hobbled over to one on her own. Patrick shook his head and went to see the triage nurse. The bored looking, middle-aged nurse sat behind the counter in faded blue scrubs and handed Patrick a clip board without looking at him. “Fill out the top section and return it to the triage station.” She said waving in the general direction of another bored looking male nurse in blue scrubs nurse.

      “Uh, ok, thanks!” Patrick flashed his most charming smile, which the nurse did not see, and took the paperwork back to Cecelia who started working through it with practiced ease. They sat in silence for several minutes while she worked and he fidgeted. When she finished she handed him the clipboard without a word.

      Patrick was starting to regret his decision to stay with Cecelia, but he was committed now. He walked up to the nurse who was at the triage station and handed him the clipboard. The nurse glanced at Patrick and started going through the clipboard.

      “Are you Cecelia Shanahan?” He asked, raising an eyebrow to Patrick.

      “No, she’s over there.” Patrick said, pointing.

      The nurse’s brightened visibly when he saw the young woman in a bikini. “Injured foot, huh? I should probably go speak with her directly."

      “Yeah, sure, pal. That’s a good idea, she’s really a sweet girl.” Patrick was relieved to have Cecelia’s sharp tongue shred someone else for a change.

      Less than five minutes later, they were wheeling Cecelia out of the waiting room. Her foot was wrapped in an icepack and gauze. Her sarong had already been disposed of. The triage nurse was pushing her wheelchair, which was not his job, but he had already determined it would be less work than arguing with the lady. Now he just wanted to hand her off and get away from her.

      He sat in the waiting room and leafed through a three month old issue of People magazine. He was prepared for a long wait. His cellphone buzzed at him, the caller ID showed it was the hotel. He answered it quietly, “Hello?”

      “Patrick, it’s Jimmy.” Said the bartender who had first tried to help Cecelia. “Carolyn’s wondering when you are going to be back to work. Have you dropped off the uhh guest yet?”

      “Yeah, she asked me to stay and wait here. It should not be long.” Patrick replied with a smile.

      “She asked you to stay. Right. Look, Patrick, I get it, she’s hot and all. But what’s your angle here? The long game? There are other girls here at the bar that are just as good looking, and way way sweeter.” Jimmy asked.

      “Where’s your sense of customer service?” Patrick asked with mock outrage. “This poor woman hurt her foot and needs our help. Besides I’m here to help avoid a lawsuit.”

      “Uh huh. Well I’ll tell Carolyn. But be prepared to get a phone call from her.” Jimmy said and hung up with his characteristic abruptness.

      Patrick felt his smile widen as he put his phone back in his pocket. He stood and walked back to the entry desk. This time the bored nurse looked at him and straightened a little in her chair.

      “Excuse me, Miss.” Patrick said trying his most charming smile on her again. This time it worked. “But can you tell me where I can get a cup of coffee please? And let me know how you take yours, of course.”

      The nurse blushed slightly and her left hand, the one carrying a wedding band, dropped below the desk as she smiled back and pointed with her right hand. “That way, down the hall and to the right. And I take it black with some sugar.”

      “Of course you do. Thanks.” Patrick said with a nod. He turned and walked to the coffee shop. He could use the caffeine. But he needed that confidence booster from the nurse back there.

Chapter One

     Cecelia walked through the lobby of the convention center, dodging islands of chatting academics as she followed the signs for the parking garage.
     "Dr. Shanahan!" cried a voice behind her. Cecelia turned around to see who was going to ruin her plan for a stealthy exit from that morning's meetings.
     "Hi Miles," said Cecelia to her colleague. Miles was a fellow in orthopedic surgery at Boston Medical Center, and Cecelia was his boss.
     "Are you going to the reception this afternoon?" asked Miles.
     "What reception?" asked Cecelia.
     "The one that Boston University is sponsoring." said Miles. "There's a consortium that will be presenting some research on the use of new polymers in artificial joints."
     "Sounds riveting." said Cecelia.
     "Yeah, a bit of a snoozer," said Miles, "But I know some of the panelists from BU who are going to be there."
     "So you're just going for the meet and greet?" asked Cecelia.
     "Nope. For the free booze." said Miles with a grin.
     "Thought so." said Cecelia. "I'll pass this time. There's something I have to take care of this afternoon."
     "Okay," said Miles, "Have fun. See you later!" But Cecelia had already turned and was rushing down the hallway.
     "See ya!" shouted Cecelia, as she waved at Miles over her shoulder.

     Cecelia dashed out into the parking garage, and ran over to her rental car. She threw her briefcase in the passenger seat, started the engine, and sped out of the garage. Twenty minutes later, she was pulling up to the porte cochere of the posh hotel on Miami Beach where she was staying. Cecelia handed the car keys to the valet, and cantered through the hotel lobby to elevators. She took the elevator to the fourth floor, then ran down hallway to her room at the end of the hall.
Five minutes later, Cecelia strolled out of her room. Her white button-down blouse, navy skirt, and tan pumps had been replaced by a turquoise bikini and cork sandals, with a navy sarong wrapped around her waist and a canvas tote hanging from her shoulder. Cecelia strolled down the hall to the elevator, went down to the lobby level, then headed straight for the beach.
     Cecelia sighed when she got outside and felt the sun on her face. She only had one rule when she had to go out of town for business trips and conferences: one afternoon was set aside just for her. Since she learned that she was coming to this convention in Miami, she knew exactly what she was going to do on that day: walk on the beach with her feet in the water. It was a silly little diversion, but it was something she could not do back home.
     Setting goals like this was Cecelia's way of convincing herself that she was not a complete workaholic. She also did not want to waste the trip to Florida. She could get plenty of seafood back home in Boston, but getting the chance, let alone having the spare time, to put on a swimsuit and stroll on the beach was very rare.
     Cecelia walked south along the boardwalk, and started wondering who would be attending the reception she was skipping. Almost immediately,she realized that she was thinking about work, and tried to shake the thoughts of the convention from her head. She walked out onto the beach, past a brightly colored lifeguard stand, and stopped about twenty feet from the water. She stared out at the cruise ships passing Key Biscayne, and started thinking about the next day's agenda.
     "Dammit, Celia!" she yelled at herself, "You're supposed to be relaxing!" Suddenly, something flapped in front of Cecelia's face. She jumped back, and as she stumbled to get her footing, she saw a flock of seagulls darting and swirling in the air above her. She started to swear at the birds, but quickly realized how odd that might look to the other people on the beach. Cecelia decided to ignore the birds and walk along the water's edge instead. She threw her sandals into her canvas bag, then skipped down to the water's edge, strolling through the cold, foamy water.
     The cold water between her toes and the sea breeze on her shoulders gave Cecelia goosebumps, and she finally started to relax and forget about work. She smiled as she felt the water splashing around her knees, then she felt a sudden sharp pain in her left foot. Her ankle gave way, and Cecelia fell face first into the wet sand. She grabbed at her ankle, which was shooting with pain, and she felt something warm and slippery. When she brushed the sand from her face and looked at her hand, it was covered with blood.
     Cecelia winced at the intense pain radiating from her leg. She examined her foot, and saw that a fragment of a scallop shell had become deeply impaled into the bottom of her foot. She carefully removed the shell fragment, and tightly wrapped her sarong around her wound. Slowly, she stood up and began limping back toward the hotel. It took almost ten minutes to retrace her step with the soaked sarong weighing down her foot, but Cecelia eventually hobbled across the pool deck and sat down on a stool at the pool bar. A young bartender wearing Bermuda shorts and an aloha shirt walked over and placed a cocktail napkin in front of Cecelia.
     "What can I get you?" the bartender asked.
     "I need some alcohol, please." said Cecelia.
     "That's usually the case around here," said the bartender as he gestured around the pool bar, "hence my earlier question: what can I get you?"
     "I don't need a drink, you idiot!" said Cecelia, "I sliced my foot open on a broken shell! I need rubbing alcohol!" Cecelia unwrapped her tourniquet and showed the bartender her bloody foot"
     "Oh god!" said the bartender when he saw the blood. "Just wait here, I'll call a manager!" Cecelia rolled her eyes and waited while the bartender phoned for help. A couple of minutes later, an older man wearing khaki pants and a dark polo shirt walked over to the bar. He was carrying a bright orange duffel bag and a bag of ice.
     "Hi, Ma'am." said the man in the polo shirt. "I'm Patrick, the shift supervisor. I understand you need some medical help."
     "You think so?" said Cecelia as she showed him her foot.
     "Wow." said Patrick as he looked at the still-oozing puncture wound. "You're going to need a doctor. Are you a guest here?"
     "Yes," answered Cecelia, "room four twelve."
     "Okay," said Patrick, "I'll give you a ride to the emergency room. I just need your name - I'm going to have to file an incident report. Miss...?"
     "Doctor." said Cecelia.
     "Yes," said Patrick, "You need a doctor. Miss...?
     "Jeez, now you're Abbot and he's Costello?" shouted Cecelia as she gestured to the bartender, "My name. It's not Miss, it's Doctor! Dr. Cecelia Shanahan."
     "Oh." said Patrick, "Of course. Dr. Shanahan. Can I help you to the lobby? We have a car there. It's only a short drive to the hospital."
     "Fine." said Cecelia as she grabbed Patrick's arm and limped across the courtyard and through the hotel lobby.

Changing Course

If you have taken a look at my bio page on this blog, you may recall that one of the reasons that I decided to start blogging was to serve as a diversion from writing fiction. That argument still holds true; however, as my job has become more demanding over the last several months, I have found myself with less and less time available to devote to my writing.

While I have struggled with finding the right work/life balance (or perhaps the right living/writing balance), I have been fortunate enough to have a friend to hold me accountable to my lofty goals of someday writing something other than technical reports and sales proposals. The good news is that he and I will try something new to keep the act of writing a regular part of our lives. With that in mid, I'd like to introduce Ben Russell as the newest author on the Bitter Grammar blog.

While I will still try to provide regular updates featuring observations about the humor of miscommunication, Ben and I have decided to use this blog as a platform for an experiment: publishing a collaborative short story. We will alternate writing sections of the story consecutively, and will be posting these sections to this blog. This represents a bit of a departure from my usual discourses on the humor of miscommunication, but I hope it will prove interesting nonetheless. You see, while we may decide to edit and revise this story offline (likely in a dark smoky room somewhere in the future), for the time being, we will do the rough drafts in plain slight of this blog's "many" readers (Hi Mom).
As we post our chapters to the blog, we will provide our comments and feedback online and invite you to do the same. The only rule we will have during this exercise is that Ben and I will not be allowed to undo the decisions of the other writer. Much like the art of theatrical improvisation, this story will be built on a foundation of "yes, and" storytelling. And, just like a non-smoking restaurant that does not provide ashtrays, there are no "buts" allowed."

I have no idea whether this will turn out well or not, but I'm sure of one thing. There are probably a lot of worse things to read than whatever Ben and I manage to come up with!

So, in the words of Monty Python: ...and now for something completely different!

Enjoy!
-Lee

Two wrongs don't make a right, but three lefts do!

How often do you think about parts of speech? Not very often, I'd guess. Yet, I've found myself becoming increasingly aware of them recently. More than aware, actually. Approaching mad, even. It's a bit like when you have tinnitus after a loud concert. The ringing in your ears may not be very loud, but the fact that it won't go away can be maddening (especially if you are trying to go to sleep). As you lie in your bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering if you can figure out what note is ringing in your ear, you may not be angry, but you can sure see it from there!

That is how I have been feeling when I hear people trying to turn nouns into verbs and vice-versa. I actually ran across an amusing article from a fellow CU alum that summed up this habit in a wonderful word: Verbicide. The scary part is that she wrote that article almost 12 years ago! Luckily, she also pointed out this classic Calvin and Hobbes comic that gets right to the core of the issue:

Another name for this act of linguistic barbarism is verbing. However, I have recently found that a lot of people around me are going beyond simple verbing, and are over-complicating words with superfluous suffixes. I call this nasty habit "Wordification," because the name sounds as silly as the people who talk this way in public. At this point, you may be wondering what happened to me that could bring on such a wave of criticism (besides that fact that the word "bitter" is in this blog's name). In truth, there is a story to be told here.

I was sitting in a meeting, when one of my colleagues asked a teammate if he could please "notate" a document. This gave me pause.

Did he just say notate? I thought to myself.

This is a perfect example of Wordification. Let's examine it, shall we?

If you were to look up the definition of notate, you would find that it is a transitive verb that is derived from the word notation. The word notation is the noun form of the word note, which is ALSO a transitive verb. You can think of the progression as this:

Talk about taking the scenic route!

In some ways, this is even worse than plain-vanilla verbing, because you are adding complexity to your words without adding any greater meaning. In the end, we are still using a verb to say what we mean, but the verb we have chosen is based on a noun. My colleague could have just as easily said, "Please note that" and we all would have know what he was talking about. Unfortunately, since this usage of noun-derived verbs is so widespread, it is generally accepted my most people (most of whom probably don't read this blog).

As far as I'm concerned, this is like using the heel of your shoe to hammer nails into a wall. Sure, it usually works out in the end, but it just isn't as harmonious as if you would just use a hammer. That is what hammers are made for, after all. So, why do verbs deserve less courtesy than hammers?

As if this meeting was not already unpleasant enough, I was unfortunate enough to hear another wordificated word a few moments later. Of course, it came from the same wordificator as before. Apparently, there were some questions as to how the document should be (gag) "notated." Can you guess what my colleague suggested next?

He said, "Just gradiate it according to the categories."

Wait. What did he just say? Gradiate? GRADIATE?! C'mon, people...

Since this verbing pattern was becoming painfully obvious to me (the other obvious pattern was that my colleague must have not earned very good gradiates in school), I started to wonder: what makes people feel compelled to use verbs that are derived from nouns, which are derived from verbs? Is it simply that the longer word (due to the suffixes that are appended to the noun) sounds more academic? It was around this point in my internal monologue that I realized that the words were not as important as the context in which they were spoken. Or to put it simply, it wasn't what was being said, but rather who was saying it.

I remember a discussion I once had over lunch when I had just started out in my information technology career. My coworkers and I were discussing the plethora of three-letter acronyms (or TLAs, as they're called in "the biz") that we had to learn.

"Who do you think started the trend of using TLAs?" my coworker asked me.

"IBM." I replied.

Just as that quip was funny to me back when I worked in IT, this story seemed funny to me now because I am a consultant. As I thought about the horrible vocabulary being thrown about the room, I realized that I was being subjected to a never-ending stream of Consulting Grammar. Consulting Grammar isn't as widely-known as Consulting English, a dialect of buzz-words and metaphors that few outside of the top-tier consulting firms would bother wasting their time to learn. Consulting Grammar is more subtle, yet it is extremely pervasive. If you were to ask most management consultants what the most overused buzz-word is, the odds are pretty good that you would find the grand-daddy of wordificated words: Leverage.

I absolutely hate this word.

If you were to look up the word "Lever" (a transitive verb) in your old Merriam-Websters, you would see the following definition: to pry, raise, or move with or as if with a lever.

If you were to look up the noun form of "Leverage," you would find a definition that would make Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom proud:

1: the action of a lever or the mechanical advantage gained by it

2: power, effectiveness

3: the use of credit to enhance one's speculative capacity

Yet, in my world it is the verb form of "Leverage" that gets the most use: to provide (as a corporation) or supplement (as money) with leverage; also: to enhance as if by supplying with financial leverage.

This is quite possibly the most far-reaching example of verbing that I see on a regular basis, and it makes my skin crawl every time. I avoid using "leverage" as a verb, and go out of my way to use it as a noun, if only to confuse people and amuse myself. You could say that I enjoy the leverage it gives me...

So, here is my question for you dear readers: do you think that the habit of verbing and wordification is amplified in certain vocations? Do any of you non-consultants out there notice Consulting Grammar creeping into your lexicons? Feel free to comment with your best (worst?) examples. I'll even reserve judgment if you wordificate your phraseology a little...

Have a good week!
-Lee

Shea it aint so!

Many people don't know it, but I grew up in The Long Island suburbs of New York City. I've met lots of people who claim New York as home - some native, others transplants - but oddly, I never seem to really connect with these people. Someone once told me that if you live in New York City, you'll end up never leaving, because no other city can match the energy of New York. Perhaps that is true, and maybe that's why I don't seem to have too much New Yorker in me. I left New York when I was still pretty young; around age 11. Most eleven year olds from the 'burbs don't go into the city to tie one on. At least, not when I was a kid!

To be more precise, I never really left New York, because I never really knew I was from there; at least not from New York City. Growing up in Nassau County wasn't that different from other suburbs. As a kid, my world revolved around school, friends, and my neighborhood on the North Shore. I didn't even realized that my father actually commuted into the city for work until I was 8 or 9!

The city seemed like an exotic place, far removed from my daily grade school concerns. I visited the city with my parents or classmates on a few occasions, but most of my voyages into the boroughs were to catch a plane to Florida that was leaving from JFK or La Guardia.

Most of our family vacations began at La Guardia airport, and I remember passing by Flushing Meadows on the cab rides into Queens. I remember seeing Shea Stadium sitting near the airport toward the end of the cab ride - this was always much more spectacular at night, when the neon player silhouettes were lit up. In many ways, Shea Stadium is one of the few icons of New York that actually had meaning to me growing up. I didn't go to any Mets games as a kid (baseball didn't really interest me), but I still considered myself a Mets fan. You see, when you were a kid growing up near New York, you are either a Mets fan or a Yankees fan - since I had never even seen Yankee Stadium, the choice seemed very logical!

I had plenty of friends who were legitimate Mets fans. They quoted stats and watched games. I'm sure some of them even went to games at Shea. Still, I could never muster the same level of excitement and intrigue that they did.

I understood the basics of the game. I even learned some names of players that were famous at the time: Daryl Strawberry, Mookie Wilson, Lenny Dykstra, Keith Hernandez. I had Mets baseball caps and baseball cards, and a baseball signed by the 1986 World Series Champions. Still, the game itself never really interested me - not then and not now.

I've since become more attached to other stadiums...

Oddly enough, I remember playing baseball (or softball or something similar) in fourth grade, when a friend of mine got tagged out at second base. I remember one of my friends (I think his name was Brendan) running over and shouting at the second baseman. Brendan was a huge baseball fan (Yankees, unfortunately. Nobody's perfect), and I can still remember him shouting, "Tide goes to the runner! Tide goes to the runner!"

This made no sense to me, but I chalked it up as some strange "baseball-ism" and didn't pursue it further. If you are imagining this scene in your mind's eye, perhaps conjuring up images reminiscent of the Little Rascals or The Sandlot, don't linger there too long, because it's time to fast-forward twenty-four years into the future!

You see, this weekend I was reading the book On Writing, by Steven King. I learned something enlightening today, and it didn't have to do with plot, theme or character.

I learned that Brendan had it all wrong! It's TIE goes to the runner, not tide! As in, if the runner touches base at the same time the baseman catches the ball (that would be the tie part), the runner is safe.

Now it all makes sense! Pity it took twenty-four years to clean up that miscommunication.

Hope you all have a happy Presidents Day!

-Lee