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Recent News... Just for Pope Gregory... |
2005-04-12 - 10:40 p.m. A matter of font I followed a large truck to work today. While stuck behind them in Beltway traffic I had ample time to observe the company name, proudly blazoned on the mudflaps, �FUCHS Lubricants.� With a name one constant away from Eddie Murphy�s favorite word, especially when it�s followed by the term lubricant, the logo is easily misread. You think someone would�ve advised the company to choose a font without the pitch and shape that places an indent midway up the side of the �H�, lending the appearance of a K. I thought about being that someone. Where the hell have you been Theo? I spent three days in an overcrowded, windowless room, joining my teammates in defending our design in front of an independent review panel. Three ten-hours days of sitting in metal folding chairs, while juggling laptop and papers with no table, trying to concentrate on all the material. Let�s put it this way: If I were a dog, the SPCA would�ve defended me against the conditions. I tell you, I have never been to an engineering review that was actually comfortable for the participants and audience. We did very well, glowing marks on our progress, which I called my mother to brag about on Friday. Hey, she was a schoolteacher; I was a good student. I�m conditioned to show her my report card. Actually, I called my mother because the forsythia was blooming at last. I have a scar down the back of my head thanks to her love of forsythia. When I was a teenager, I�d taken Smokey, one of the horses, out riding just around Easter. (No, not the horse that had a questionable relationship with Mom�s pet goat. And not the thoroughbred. The other horse, an Arabian-mutt cross.) The house just down the hollar road, right where the pavement turned to gravel, had a beautiful forsythia hedge along the yard. I was late for Sunday dinner, and the shortcut back home took me out of the pasture down the alley we used to load cattle for market and out onto the road just next the blooming yellow bush. Flowers should get me out of trouble for being late. Dismounting, I break off enough branches for a bouquet. Smokey�s snorting impatiently, knowing the house and dinner are just around the bend. I put my foot in the stirrup and Smokey bolts before I swing aboard, dragging me neatly down the last thirty feet of gravel and *bang* onto the pavement, before I roll loose. Smokey beats me home, thundering through the yard riderless and scaring my grandmother, who runs panting into the house to share the terror with my mother. Meanwhile, I�m stomping up the road swearing and brushing off the gravel dust. The forsythia bouquet was completely intact and undamaged. I didn�t notice the blood running down the back of my neck until I reached the foot of driveway, where my entire family was piling into vehicles to come look for me. (Just a reminder to parents � head wounds bleed profusely causing the situation to look worse than it is. Don�t panic.) I run my fingers through my hair, trying to brush up before I reach the house. Now, I am covered in dust, I have road rash from being drug by a horse, one hand covered is covered in blood when I stomp up to my mother and hand her the beautiful yellow bouquet. My grandmother is hyperventilating, my mother is panicked, and I just want to peel the gravel out of my hands and eat something. A spat ensues about whether I have to go for stitches, which is settled by mom calling our G.P.�s sensible nurse, who points out you don�t need stitches when you have long hair. You can tie the wound shut with a few strands. I just want mom to truly appreciate the damned forsythia. Many children get their mother flowers, but I�m the only one I know that�s actually shed blood in the cause. So, I call my mother every spring when the forsythia starts blossoming. � and then, like all Southern stories, it had a tangent in the middle. Where was I? Right. Last week was completely absorbed by an engineering review, followed by taking Friday off. Ah, blissful Friday off. A day at the Container Store followed by a massage. I love the Container Store, probably because I am a control freak, but I always hear George Carlin�s comedy skit about �Stuff� play in my head. That's all you need in life, a little place for your stuff. That's all your house is: a place to keep your stuff. If you didn't have so much stuff, you wouldn't need a house. You could just walk around all the time.- G. Carlin, copyright. Then, in a fit of virtue (or an attack of spring), two closets and the garage were cleaned. Ten bags of trash piled up. Gen was corrupted into spending money with me at Target. Roland spent the weekend complaining I�d fallen under Cosette�s evil influence - If we haven�t opened than in over a year, just throw it away. � � � 
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