We can’t scan these, the barcodes can’t be read because they’re reduced from tabloid to letter. Why are you sending us these reduced documents?

Our printer won’t print tabloid, those documents must be scanned, they are time sensitive. You are printing them the wrong size.

No, the size is automatically determined. There’s something wrong with your printer. You need to get it fixed.

This is time sensitive you must scan these.

We cannot scan them. It’s not our responsibility to maintain that printer. You need to get it fixed.

The printer company says it’s not the printer and the software guys say it’s not the software.

Have you checked the paper trays?

This has been going on for more than a week, no one wants to pick up the ball and figure it out and no one in the office where it’s occurring can figure out the problem.

Yes, of course, there’s paper in all the trays.

The problem get’s escalated up one side and down the other and an expert is dispatched to the remote office to investigate.

We will modify our process and put in a cumbersome workaround to ensure your time sensitive work gets handled.

The problem has been solved. Someone reconfigured the tabloid paper tray to fit letter size.

As we say in Minnesota, “Uff da!”

The natural law of human spacing was violated today in the whirlpool. I mentioned previously that the back corner of the pool, away from the steps, was the preferred spot. I was the second person in, the guy before me had not taken the best spot, but the one in the middle of the back wall. The next one down from the prime corner.

Now normally, when you’re the second guy in, you, out of courtesy, take the opposite corner, allowing your nieghbor the most possible space. But I elected to take the outside corner opposite the steps, the next best spot because of the crossing jets in the corner. Somethng primal would not allow me to take the ideal spot right next to the only other occupant. The third person arrives and takes the other outside corner. Two more gents arrive and things got really interesting. How would they space themselves when there was no obvious choice to keep the spacing as even as possible. They both sat on the inside wall on the other side of the first guy, the one in the middle. No words have been spoken. The prime spot is still empty.

Earlier as I was just coming into the locker room, listening to Hendrix on the iPod, in an endorphin daze, walking fast and too close to the lockers. A young guy comes barrelling out from one of the rows of lockers on a dead collision course with me. I stop in my tracks and he does a quick course adjustment the causes us to miss by about an inch. His quick feet and balance had to have come from lots of practice slipping picks, just like my ability to stop on a dime. I may not have the legs anymore, but I’ve still got reactions.

On another note. Let’s hear it for the people of Iraq, turning out to vote in huge numbers in spite of threats of violence. That gives me hope.

Another club story.

Last night I was doing a tennis drill with a woman instructor and only one other player, also a woman.

Everytime I tried to run I was farting uncontrollably.

There was a haze hanging in the bubble by the time we were done.

I understand that you can’t bring cameras into the locker room. I see some great shots. Like tonight. In the whirlpool. I’m in the prime location, wall side corner opposite the stairs. You get the best view for people watching and the best double crossover water jets so you can work on a knee and a neck the same time. Or just enjoy getting blasted by hot water from two directions.

I’m looking down the length of the pool. The walls inside the pool are a dark smallish red tile. A pale thin man in his early thirties is standing up, bending over in attempt to get a knee or ankle or something exposed to the jets. He’s pretty much bald except for long stringy hair on the sides. Across from him on my right against the wall a man, maybe forty, well built with bronze skin and a large tatoo of praying hands on his chest. Jet black hair. Peaking around the arch formed by the pale man’s back is the head of his five year old son. The son has a strong resemblance to the father. But has a bristling crew cut. A trick of the palid florescent lighting and the reflection of the red bricks turns the part of his face in shadows an eerie gray-green. The top left (my left) of his forehead catches the light and is pink.

What a picture.

I have a theory that if you don’t flinch, don’t hunch your shoulders and face the cold like it doesn’t even faze you, it’s easier to put up with. Don’t let it beat you, don’t show weakness. I was operating on that theory a couple of nights ago when I was coming out of the club after a workout. It’s easier when you’ve worked up some body heat and have a good dose of endorphins going for you. Yes, I told myself, I’m a hardy Minnesotan and this -35 windchill doesn’t bother me.

I’m also a Minnesotan who’s eyesight is not what it used to be. I scanned the parking lot for my aging accord and thought I’d spotted it. I strode toward it feeling like Lief Erickson exploring Greenland. It didn’t take me long to figure out that it wasn’t my car. You know what that means. That means I’d, as usual, forgotten just where it was that I parked my car. I stood in the middle of the parking lot in that crystaline air slowly turning to scan the lot.

“Shit, it’s really cold.” No sign of it. I started walking down the row. Which SUV or giant pickup was it hiding behind. “Wow, burned a lot of calories in that workout. I’m not generating much body heat now.”
Have you ever gotten an ice cream headache from just standing outside. I’d been out for about three minutes now. “Dang, I think my eyeballs are going to freeze.”

“What if I slip and fall? I could die out here.

Shit it’s going to be embarrassing to go back into the club. I hope I don’t have to get the kid at the desk to go look for it!

Wait what’s that, that stubby tail end of an early nineties Accord Wagon. Thank you Lord.

The keys…where did I put the keys. Got to find the keys before my hands stop functioning.”

My breath was starting to form icicles on my facial hair. I was shivering.

“Shit, that’s the wrong key. Please let it start. Thatababy!!” The little four popper starts right up. A smart guy would have waited for the defrosters to clear the front and back windows, but there was a couple of inches that I could see through in front and hell, I had mirrors. Let’s get out of here.

Highway 100 looks like it could be on the dark side of the moon in weather like this.

It’s -4 in Minneapolis today. Fortunately my boss is out in Denver so I’m parking in her indoor spot. I used to have my own space in the garage, but suddenly you can’t swing a dead cat around here without hitting a director, so I’m back to parking outdoors. Oh, well, I’m a man of the people.

As I sat at El Loro eating enchiladas poblano at lunch I was horrified, well amused, to see a young woman walking into the place wearing sandals. And I’m not talking Birkenstocks with wool socks here, I’m talking high rise platform flip flops and no socks!

I think Darwin will be stepping in soon.

Another gray day. Ice and snow and sleet coming in for the day and then tomorrow the temp is supposed to fall through the floor. I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when.
Made the drive tolerable this morning by listening to Tito Puentes on the iPod. Nothing like a little Afro-Cuban six eight time to spice up a cold damp January morning.

Someone in another office was looking for a piece of art that didn’t arrive the way it was supposed to. I checked into it and pointed him to where he could find it, with a brief explanation of the glitch in the system that caused the problem.

The little pissant sends back an email telling me all the ways that we violated procedure, implying that they would never violate procedure (they’re the worst) and that my explanation of how it happened was impossible. Like I’m not the one whose discovered this glitch and fixed about a hundred times.

I feel like getting on a plane and kicking some ass.

It’s not too bad today, but it’s supposed to get hellishly cold (oxymoron?) later this week. Like ICBM’s of Cold War nightmares, a Siberian cold front has come over the pole and is headed right for us. Thursday’s high is predicted as 0. That’s F. Come Thursday when exposed skin freezes almost instantly and your breath ices up on your lower lips, your eyeballs start to hurt because they’re starting to freeze, you will see many men walking around without hats. Probably, I’ll be one of them. I have a black felt Bavarian mountaineers hat that I picked up in Germany. It’s very warm. I had it on as I was walking out the door this morning. My wife snickered, “Tell me your not really wearing that.”

“I am.”

“Well, goodbye, Geekboy.”

I took it off. I’m a slave to fashion.

Understand me, I’m no Randy Moss apologist. But you should know this. It’s a tradition amung those ever so classy Packer fans to moon the opposing team bus as it’s pulling away from Lambeau after the game. So tit for tat I say. If you can’t take it, don’t dish it out.

And you have to love the fact that he burned their best pass defender with his ankle so badly sprained I could have probably out run him.