Cleveland, Your Room Awaits You

Being civic-minded as usual, I cringed a little when I read this story about the San Francisco airport opening a yoga room. Why?! I cried. Why didn't my city, Cleveland, think of this first? Why Oh Why?! I cried. Why didn't I think of this for my city first? Not a yoga room per se for Cleveland's airport, but a room, any kind of a room, that screams Cleveland to the world's travelers as appropriately (within the bounds of family-values propriety) as a yoga room screams Frisco. Now I'm sure every city's airport will follow suit and construct a "signature" room. We could have been the first Cleveland.

Or could we have? Is there a theme room for Cleveland's airport that could succinctly express just what Cleveland is all about? I think there is. Several, at least, being such a diverse, heritage-rich city (Lord knows, based on the last time I was at the airport, there are enough empty gates there to house a bevy of Cleveland-themed rooms). Just off the top of my ever-spinning head, here are some ideas for CLE's own themed-room, offered gratis, as a proud native son.

• A Cholesterol Room: Nothing fancy, just some old couches, a TV with fair reception, a keg of Schmidt's, and plenty of bowls of snack foods, cheesy dips, brats, etc.
• A Take-a-Hubcap/Leave-a-Hubcap Room: A paean to the city's ubiquitous and man-sized potholes.
• A Fire Room: Nothing but a raging fire inside, to celebrate the city's fiery infamy when, within a few years, the city's river caught on fire, as did the mayor's hair.
• A Hater's Room: Maybe not politically correct, but what do we care? A room filled with effigies of all the folks we used to love but learned to hate at a moment's notice--LeBron, Art Modell, Albert Belle et al.--and those we never cared much about in the first place but seem to hate more and more all the time--John Elway, Michael Jordan, anyone from Pittsburgh.
•  A Dennis Kucinich Room: Who knows, maybe Sean Penn and Shirley MacLaine will hang out there.

No, no, I've got it. THE room to sum up Cleveland: Signs throughout the terminal direct you to a room where paradise, redemption, and salvation await you. Just around the corner, down that hall, to the left then jog right. You're almost there. See it up ahead, the room with the door opened on sunlight, soothing breezes, the whiff of fine cuisine and spirits, right in here ... and boom, the door shuts permanently in your face just as you're about to walk in. That's Cleveland. Get to work, CLE.

This Blog Closed Today For A Private Party

Don't you just hate seeing that sign when you go to a favorite restaurant or bar? Sorry, but I got caught up in a long, blog-like email. Be back tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. In the meantime, try the drive-thru down the street.

Eye Eye

Can I ask you a question? Is the question, "Can I ask you a question?" not one of the most leading, instantly nerve-wracking questions there is? Doesn't it just scream I'm curious about something I know you don't wanna talk about? Isn't asking the question a bit like practicing dialing the number for a phone call you're nervous about (yes, I've done that)? Isn't it a bit like asking someone if you can sucker punch them, right before sucker punching them? Forget the ha ha response to the question of "You just did" and walking away. When you graduate from the 4th grade you can really ponder the baggage that goes along with the question "Can I ask you a question?" Obviously it's a question the questioner hesitates to ask, one he or she thinks might be too prying or too annoying or too something for the answerer to answer comfortably. Right? Don't you kind of cringe and immediately start battening down psychic hatches when somebody comes up to you and asks, "Can I ask you a question?" Your mind races to come up with plausible responses to the question, "Where are the bodies buried?"

And so it was the other day when in the middle of doing The Job, Co-Worker asked me, "Can I ask you a question?" Paranoia immediately struck deep, as it always does when I'm asked that question. I checked my fly. I quickly glanced down to make sure I was wearing exactly one, no more or less, pair of matching shoes. I activated the stand-by button on my mantra chant, "No comment. There will be no comment at this time." I did my best to maintain my usual cool and braced myself for being asked if the piece of lettuce stuck between my teeth was some kind of fashion statement, or if I was aware I had a 50% Off sticker stuck on my butt.

(Now having said all this, and before revealing the question that needed to be prefaced with an introductory question, let me state that Co-Worker is one of the most polite human beings I know, truly. He is not one to not only ask if he can throw a sucker punch, but he is not one to actually wish to, contemplate, or indeed truly sucker punch anyone. As it can get pretty busy and distracting while doing The Job, in retrospect I honestly believe Co-Worker was just being polite as ever when he asked me if could ask me a question; there was no intent on his part to actively induce a paranoia attack in me. This should all be clear when I get around to revealing what his question was, which, given the entire context [which said Co-Worker didn't provide as a prelude to his question {the actual question, not the pre-question question} which, not providing the context, is the source of all this bafflement, but which, ironically, makes the whole story pretty funny and worth--trust me--telling you about], really isn't as odd as it first seemed. Anyway, my point is to absolve Co-Worker of any blame for using the pre-question question as anything but a polite request for my time.)

So, in the middle of doing The Job in our own separate ways and not having had any immediate previous conversation, Co-Worker asks, after asking if he can ask me a question, let's not forget, "So how did Marty Feldman actually die?"

Marty Feldman, ladies and gentlemen. Crazy-eyed actor. Died December 2, 1982, of a heart attack, though read further about how six packs of cigarettes a day, a surprise guest, and a shared food-poisoned knife might have been involved. (Okay, full disclosure here--yesterday I wrote about a two hour, very funny post about all of this, but somehow before publishing it I lost the last hour and a half of work; what you've read so far is what was salvaged; I'm having trouble re-creating it all, so trust me, what follows is not nearly as good as what's floating around the ether, never to see the light of day again; we beat on, boats against the current).

I must admit, even though my vast knowledge of arcane nonsense is fairly well-known and thus I receive a lot of bizarre questions (including a drunken post-midnight call from a friend in Chicago calling to confirm that the Book of Lists once ranked Cleveland as a windier city than Chicago) as a sheer out of the blue, devoid of context question, the Marty Feldman question now tops the list as the strangest, beating out the nearly thirty-year-old question from a deep slumbering college roommate who woke up long enough to squint down at me from his lofted bed to ask, "Did you ever get the feeling Henry Fonda was about to walk in?" After quickly checking the door and considering the possibilities of Henry Fonda making an appearance at my fraternity, I turned back to tell him no, but by then he had rolled over and was snoring again.

What, do I look like a card-carrying member of the Marty Feldman Fan Club? What is it about me that when people get a crazy question in their mind they think, Oh, I bet Dan will know the answer, though before asking him I should ask him if it's okay to ask him a question first? Turns out Co-Worker was assessing the worth of a Marty Feldman DVD at the time, so his question wasn't that much of a non sequitur, but still. Though I might just add here that my immediate response, while my mind was going WTF, was, "I'm not sure, I think it was a heart attack." Grace under pressure, folks. That's me.

Now although the sainted George Noory always claims, somewhat eerily, that "there are no coincidences," I'd sure like to know what pattern, what significance for my life put me in position the very next day to answer another Youngun Co-Worker's question that led to another eye-related, long-forgotten (or never even known, as was the case) celebrity reference. Said Youngun Co-Worker pointed to the Bette on a Bette Davis book and asked me, "It's pronounced Betty, right?" "Yes it is," I helpfully and non-judgmentally answered (a fair enough question coming from a mere 20-something), but I couldn't help adding, "She of the famous eyes." "Hunh?" Youngun Co-Worker replied with a twisted face (no sweat, by now I'm used to twisted-face hunh replies to half of my utterings). "You know," I prodded, warming up the singing pipes, "'She got Bette Davis Eyes' by Kim Carnes." I must admit, her reply of, "What the hell are you singing about?" was a new one for me.

How old am I? Older every day. Because not only did said Youngun Co-Worker profess no knowledge of Kim Carnes (wiki refers her to as "the female Rod Stewart" for her husky voice, so, Rod-bashing other Youngun Co-Worker, investigate no further) and her ubiquitous 1981 smash (nine, 9 weeks at No. 1, second biggest single of the entire 1980s next to Olivia Newton-John's "Physical") "Bette Davis Eyes," but two other Youngun Co-Workers professed/confessed to similar ignorance. True, all three delightful and very intelligent Co-Workers were not yet born in 1981, but one might assume with I Love the 80s saturation and everything else that they might have heard the song by now. Sorry, Kim, fame is fleeting; my sympathies. Needless to say, though, when talk turns to any TV show of the last twenty years, let alone last night, I'm helplessly clueless; one man's Kim Carnes is another's Snooki, I guess.

Can I ask you one final question, though? Aren't you jealous that I co-work with so many friendly, inspiring, and fun Co-Workers?

Fore

Of course I'm prejudicial. And you're not? At least I have a system, a method to my mad prejudices. When faced with meeting a person, I quickly apply my elevator test: What would it be like to be stuck indefinitely in an elevator with this person? Might I commit murder in the first fifteen minutes? When meeting two people, I apply the Simon & Garfunkel test: Which one's Paul, which is Artie? Things, as you can imagine, develop from there. Three people, it's the Love Triangle question: Which one's bound to be the odd one out--that's my new compadre. Five people, I envision a basketball team and gravitate naturally toward the point guard. Six on up it's a crapshoot; I usually find myself bonding with either the cutest, the richest-seeming, or, most effectively, the one who is most likely to listen to the most Bob. Criticize my methods, sure, but I've got the best friends in the world; you can't argue with success.

But you notice that I skipped a group of four people. Yes, that one's a bit trickier. Whereas the other tests are usually pretty quick and intuitive, a foursome (for whatever reason) calls for a lengthier examination, one based on hard empirical evidence. I can't help it, I've got caddie blood in me, probably because my most impressionable years (age 13-22) were spent looping it, hauling golf bags and chasing carts and catering to the whims of golfers of all stripes. A lifetime education indeed. Thus, when confronted with meeting four people at once, I take my time and envision caddying for them over the course of four (one hopes) or maybe even six (forget it, I'll go it alone, folks) hours.

And so, confronted (an apt word, I believe) with the four remaining Republican candidates for the Presidency (full disclosure--not that I'm likely to vote for any of them, especially when I would never vote for two of them), I've decided to make my caddie test of them public, in the hope, as always, that my words do not necessarily merely persuade, but truly enlighten.

The most difficult job for a caddie is the two-walker, two-rider foursome. You lug two bags and tend to every need of the walkers while still having to keep eyes on the two riders, spotting their golfballs' travels, raking everybody's sandtrap mess, reading putts, cleaning balls, fetching clubs, pampering one and all. An ADHD nightmare, especially if the sun's blazing hot and the breeze is on strike.

Romney and Santorum are the walkers while Newt and RonPaul (some kind of weird amalgamation of RuPaul and Pope John Paul II I keep seeing there) ride. The first introduction for a caddie to the next four plus hours of his life, even before meeting the golfers, is the load--the bags he will carry, which often is all he needs to know about how the day is going to go. Romney's bag is sleek, relatively light, and very manageable. Santorum's is too big with a too small strap that will dig into your shoulder all day. The clubs are of the department store variety and are separated in the bag by individual "tubes"--not a good sign. Add to that the extendable ball-retriever that can't be quite unextended so that it sticks out of the bag like a giraffe amongst horses and the short little golf towel, emblazoned with the logo of some Kiwanis outing from seven years ago, attached to the bag with a metal hoop which will dig into your thigh all day, and already you're cursing this guy.

Get to the first tee for the introductions. Romney, dressed nattily, introduces himself to you right away and asks your name, and you know he won't forget it and will call you by it throughout the round. Santorum just says hi and proceeds to duck into the bag and spend five minutes sifting through dozens of balls to come up with two decent ones (never the same make) to stuff into his pocket. You naturally uncover his driver and hand it to him and he politely says, "No, I can't hit that. I tee off with my five iron, usually." You immediately want to kill him, to save yourself from five hours of torture, but there's something kind of tolerable about him, a small guy out playing with the big guys, an underdog in this foursome, that makes you think, based on past experience, that he might be the only one you like by the 18th green, and the only one to come through with a decent tip. So you leave the jury out on him and stroll over to the cart to meet those duffers and see if there's any way you can ingratiate yourself with them from the start.

RonPaul acts like you don't exist, in fact like nobody exists, and you wonder how he got into this foursome to begin with. His bag is old (a Burton, I believe) and crammed with even older clubs, a genuine "niblick" and woods, actual woods. He's dressed decently, if not fashionably. As you start cleaning off Newt's very old-mud-encrusted clubs (there must be seventeen of them in the bag, you estimate, and are thankful his large, garish, six-toned bag is sitting on the cart and not your shoulder), he introduces himself by farting loudly as he waddles off the seat and, with no further salutation, tells you to clean up the three Top-Flites he hands you absently. His shorts are too short and his purple golf shirt has sweat stains on it and looks impossible to tuck in short of giving the guy a cardiac arrest.

Romney, the de facto chief of this foursome, expertly spins his tee to determine partners and honors. When RonPaul dribbles his first shot, Romney graciously tells him to take a Mulligan. Santorum's five iron dives wickedly right off the tee; his Mulligan merely slices into the rough 150 yards out and he seems deeply relieved as you reach for the club; "No, I use this until I'm up around the green." A definite hack, you realize, but at least he'll be easy to deal with, you think. Romney looks like a real golfer right away as he tees up his ball, takes a couple practice swings, goes through an efficient and well-grooved pre-shot routine, and laces his drive straight down the middle well over 250 yards. Well alright, you think. You look hopefully up at the clouds as Newt limbers up, exposing his ample white belly. "Shit," he mutters as his first shot dribbles barely past the ladies tee; by the time he gets to "-it" of the shit he's got another ball out of his pocket and teed up again. "Crap," he says a little louder as his Mulligan pops up to the right and knocks around a half dozen branches before meekly bouncing back up the cart path. As he puts another ball on the tee, Santorum seems a little offended. "Are we playing 'hit 'til you're happy'?" "This isn't a Mulligan," Newt announces. "The third is called a Callista." He promptly strokes it right into the creek running along the left side of the fairway. "Damn wind. I'll drop from up there," he announces as he shoves his driver back into his bag and dives into a pocket in search of more balls.

As an experienced looper, you can almost predict the entire round just from the doings on the first tee. Santorum blithely walks the right rough with his five iron, requiring little assistance until he finally gets close to the green, where you hand him this "trusty" chipper and then his putt-putt putter. You double check him as he stands on the green looking back over the hole and visibly recounts his strokes; he's always honest when reporting his sevens and eights and occasional fives. RonPaul's short game is pretty impressive, saving him countless bogeys and a few pars. Your only interaction with him is on the 13th green when you pick up his pitching wedge for him. "Thank you," he kind of whispers and heads back to the cart. Romney's easy. He's usually in the fairway and actively seeks your valued input. After telling him to hit the seven instead of the eight on the third hole because it's more uphill than it looks and the wind's picking up, he sticks it to within four feet, smiles, and says, "Good call." From then on he relies on your club selection and reads. He magnanimously gives not so short putts, though Newt quickly takes advantage of this and gives himself all his third putts. Callistas abound for Newt and he's constantly talking about how the layout of the course could be better, what kind of grass the greens should be, and how they need to move that bunker over there--the one he never offers to rake. He calls you "son" all the time and leaves two or three clubs per hole on the green for you to retrieve. Needless to say, the rule about staying on the cart path and walking to your ball doesn't apply to him. By the turn you've lost track of your mental math adding up the differences between his actual strokes and the "gimme a five" he boldly announces after picking up his ball. Afterwards you try to remember if he ever holed out.

After the round RonPaul quietly hands you a twenty and says, "Thank you." Santorum, seemingly proud that he almost broke 100, pats you on the back awkwardly and gives you all the loose change from his pocket and fails to notice the absence of his ball retriever which, on general purposes, you tossed in the pond behind the 14th green. "My favorite hole, the 19th," Newt announces as he walks right past your ostentatiously outstretched hand; lucky for you, he left behind in the cart the third package of Oreos he bought from the beer cart girl. So at least you've got that going for you, which is nice. Romney thanks you by name and shakes your hand vigorously as he hands you a crisp fifty. Nice guy, you think, but you get the feeling he's just going through the motions, as he has all day.

Turn The Page On Page-A-Days

How far behind are you? Have you given up yet? The New Year is almost three weeks old already, so these questions are very pertinent. Resolutions? Hell no, I'm not talking about New Year's resolutions. If your New Year's resolutions aren't long-ago-broken and forgotten by now, you either didn't aim high enough or you're a much-too-together person to ever waste time reading this blog. I'm talking about the biggest Christmas present scam ever, the most useless and unused but always sold in droves item--the ubiquitous page-a-day calendar. Read those questions again now: How far behind are you? It's still January 4th, isn't it? Have you given up yet? It's buried under two weeks of desk crap, isn't it? And those are merely the questions for you Type-A people. For you Type-B people, the only question is, are you ever going to open it and tear off at least one page, just to, you know, validate the gift in some way?

I got to thinking about page-a-day calendars (pad-cals) because some poor fool was still looking for one today. Look folks, if you really need a calendar in today's high-tech world and you haven't gotten around to getting yourself one by January 19th, there's a whole lot of shit you need to get together in your life before you go calendar hunting.

Now I'm as all-around guilty as I'm sure all of you are--I have given and received my fair share of pad-cals in my time. Let me just say, blanketly, to those I've given, I'm sorry. To those who gave me a pad-cal, thank you, the thought really counted, and I appreciate your generosity.

But let's be honest, they're a waste of paper and money. Not time, really, because who ever spends even the ten seconds necessary to rip off the previous day's page and read the present day's tidbit? Coincidentally, I'm thinking that January 19th was the furthest I ever got ripping off each day's page. Anybody out there ever make it to March? Didn't think so. And then there's the sad guilt of ripping off, en masse, like two and half months' worth of pages just to bring yourself literally up to date. You know that clump of pages, don't you? I will say they make good scratch/memo paper, though. Still, I defy anyone alive to swear on the playground's proverbial "stack of Bibles" (does God differentiate lies? "Well, you only swore a lie on one Bible, so, what the heck, in you go. But you, now, you swore that lie on a genuine stack of Bibles, sixteen, if memory serves Me well. It's Downstairs for you, kiddo. Might want to take off that sweater.") that he or she has made it through an entire year assiduously tearing off one page per day every day (and not right away peeking ahead to one's birthday to see what that special tidbit is) for 365/6 consecutive days (just don't do it--the swearing that you did do this--in my presence because, frankly, you're not the type of person I want to know). That said, to prove my point about no one in the history of pad-cals ever actually making it through the year tearing off a page a day, I will offer any maker of pad-cals free publicity (as long as you provide the web-cam equipped with automatic time-date stamp) for an entire year. Send me your calendar and the above-mentioned computer hardware, and next year I will post video of me reading and ripping a page a day (which makes me think--do these pad-cal manufacturers even bother to write copy on days for the second half of the year? they must know no one ever gets half that far).

Now I'm not totally condemning pad-cals here (as I said, they make for handy scratch paper). I remember fondly a Quote-a-Day one I received and a Weird Word-a-Day one. Great stuff, but really, how can anyone expect anyone else to keep up with the daily chore? (There is probably some poor secretary out there who is chastised daily for not keeping the boss's pad-cal up to date.) I just think enough's enough. With the Internet and smart phones and everything, do we really need these pad-cals anymore? Yes they're quaint, but, I believe, quaint is just another word for what the hell is this thing still around for?

Alas, I'm afraid they're here to stay. Such an easy gift, such an easy thing to wrap. But come on, no more. Why the fruitcake still gets kicked around as the go-to default Christmas joke, the present no one wants and everyone gets (and really, when was the last time you saw, let alone received, a fruitcake?) is beyond me when pad-cals seem to be everywhere. You heard it here first, folks: Page-a-Day Calendars are the new Fruitcakes (I can only hope you readers have short memories, because I think I just doomed myself to receiving nothing but pad-cals for Christmas next year).

But, but, there is one pad-cal that makes sense, and is probably the only pad-cal that hasn't yet been produced--The Anal Retentive Page-a-Day Calendar. Now that one makes sense and might actually be an appropriate gift for the AR person on your gift list. Can't you just see it? Each page would have a message like this: "Is this the correct date? Did you tear off yesterday's page yet?" On Fridays it could read, "It's Friday. You might want to tear off today as well as Saturday's and Sunday's so that when you return to work on Monday, your calendar will be just right." Just a thought. It's your's for the taking, pad-cal industry. I admire you bastards.

Our First Inductee: Dagwood Bumstead

I found twenty-seven cents in an old pair of jeans the other day when I was cleaning out my kitchen cupboards (a long and ultimately not funny at all story), and for once not dashing off to the nearest bubblegum machine, I decided to "do something" with this unexpected windfall. As I mulled my options, the word philanthropist kept popping up in my consciousness. I felt the urgent need to endow something. Thus, after a not-enough-donuts-and-too-much-talk-about-Green Initiatives-from-that-gadfly-Troy meeting with spitoutyourgum's Board of Trustees, it was decided that we would create a Hall of Fame, mainly because there just aren't enough of them around these days. And so, today I am proud to announce the opening of the American Fictional Character Hall of Fame (AFCHoF, pronounced how it reads).

The idea is a genius one, if I may boast. Since the idea is to honor fictional characters (American only; the Board is vehemently anti-globalization as I found out), there is no need to erect an actual Hall or hold elaborate induction ceremonies because nothing is really real, right? It's all fiction. Ergo, the initial $.27 endowment should last forever. Which is all not to slight the idea or the great American fictional characters that will be honored with enshrinement; it's just nice to have such a gleaming monument to America's imagination without any overhead costs.

The list of characters who will, I'm sure, be inducted to the AFCHoF in time is long and glorious. But where to start? The rules of induction stipulate that only one character be inducted at a time, to prevent Inductee Class Envy (ICE). Which fictional character will be able to bear the burden of being the AFCHoF's initial inductee? That question plagued me for a few torturous minutes (I mean, how is it possible to rate and rank the cultural influence of such stalwarts as Huck Finn, Rick Blaine, Ishmael, Hester Prynne, The Dude, and Carla Tortelli?) before I was able to come up with a most deserving, and, I believe, in the spirit of all-men-are-created-equal America, a most representative American fictional character: take a bow, Dagwood Bumstead, for you are the inaugural inductee to the AFCHoF!

The Blondie comic strip, created in 1930 by the estimable Chic Young and now written by his son Dean, was one I must admit I had long merely tolerated on my comics page, reading it only when I was bored or wasting time and decided to read all of the comics, instead of just my favorites (oh, where have you gone, Herman, The Far Side, Calvin & Hobbes, Foxtrot?). But as I've grown wiser (sic?), I've come to not only enjoy Blondie daily (sans italics, a man can dream, can't he?) but to look forward to its joie de vivre, its insouciance, its downright Zen-like effect on me. Most of this comes from Dagwood who, despite the title of the strip, is now pretty much the focus. If Dagwood isn't the embodiment of the good old American Male, I don't who is. He seems to want nothing out of life but naps, a hassle-free job, a good couch, a great sandwich, and the love of a wonderful family. And although these aspirations are nearly always thwarted in some way, he still ends up relatively happy and content. Like the aforementioned Huck and Ishmael, Dagwood possesses an uncanny ability to adapt, survive, and endure, with humor, good will, and a great deal of hard-earned wisdom. I can think of many characters--real and fictional--who are a lot less qualified to stand as role models in daily life, and few better. Dagwood, you're an inspiration, even though you're merely a figment of someone's imagination. Congratulations on your induction to the AFCHoF. It is well deserved.

Sesquipedalian or Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobe, Which Are You?

Co-Worker was in my way the other day, which frequently happens when you're a frantic little drone always scurrying to the next task like I am. Fine, I'm not so little and as far as I know, only mice and nuns scurry. I'm stocky and I kind of tugboat my way to the next task. The point is, Co-Worker was standing with her back to me right in my path. As usual, in such a situation, I applied the WWSFoAD test: What Would Saint Francis of Assisi Do? Unfortunately, as usual, the answer was "go feed some birds," which would have been pleasant but not while on the clock, so I went to Plan B and its ice-breaker question: If I start a fight with this person, can I emerge unscathed? Well, that was a fifty-fifty proposition, but with the box cutters she was holding, I made the split second decision to cease and desist all potential bellicosity. So, like much of life itself, I just waited, if perhaps a little too close to her and breathing a little too loudly. Soon she turned and saw that she was blocking my path and quickly moved and apologized. I told her no problem and that I hadn't wanted to disturb her contemplative mood. That's when things got combative.

"Ooohhh, contemplative," she sing-songed, as if we were eight and on a playground, not adults in the hallowed workplace. "You just love using big words, don't you?" This is why I mainly drink decaf. If I had the slightest little juiced-up buzz going in situations like this, in which I tend to find myself quite often, blood would spill. Scrutinize her words and tell me there aren't at least half a dozen jumping off points for verbal, if not physical, fisticuffs. Any inquisitive (accusatory) sentence with the "You just love ... don't you?" construction screams donnybrook, no? And, big how? A word merely containing a lot of letters or a word that, God forbid, might make people actually use the greatest secular bible (outside of the rules of golf) known to humankind, the dictionary? Classifying the word "contemplative" as a big word fails on both accounts, I believe, and only serves as further proof of our (humankind's) rapid descent to inarticulacy, illiteracy, and idiocy. Thirteen letters is a nice round, medium-sized word. Contemplative, "given to or characterized by contemplation; a person devoted to contemplation," is hardly an obscure, difficult word, if one takes some time to think about it. And that insidious "just." No, Co-Worker, I don't "just" love using big words, I revel in, delight in, and celebrate--gleefully and willingly, proudly and gluttonously--employing erudite, eclectic, and even esoteric words. I feast on language's panoply and invite all (co-workers, too, troglodyte or not) to indulge likewise. What's the fun of going to an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord (buffet) (and how come you never see any s'mores at a smorgasbord?) and electing to eat only a salad with like two garnishes and no dressing? I am not an animal; I am a sentient, intelligent human being--I utilize an elephantine cornucopia of words.

(As an aside, it was in this specific moment that I experienced satori re my relationship with Co-Worker. In the split second of comprehending her loaded question, I saw completely the inseparable gulf that divides us. She adores Reel Big Fish, I worship Bob Dylan; she is a baker, I consume baked goods; she loves manning (sic) the portable phone at work, I despise it. Now I'm sure, like that thing that takes two separate pictures of people and merges them into one hideous Frankenstein, there is an app out there that could find common ground for the two of us between RBF and Dylan, baker and eater, phonephile and phonephobe, but at that moment I refused to believe there could be any common ground between a "big word" lover and a hater; go ahead, Mr. Venn, have at it. This all made me sad, because despite our obvious differences, Co-Worker and I--up unto this point--had achieved a tacit, delicate detente that had enabled us to co-work quite well, even convivially, I might suggest. But this, this contretemps, nay this wrangle, would brook no brooking. We had reached the Rubicon of our cooperative co-working.)

But, dammit, I had been drinking decaf so I couldn't pick a fight with her then and there, and I couldn't say all of this because the perfect riposte, a sentence consisting of but three words, one a contraction (I'm), one a one-letter, never-to-be-mistaken-for-a-"big"-word (a), and one the killer, the put-you-in-your-place biggest word of all big words (um, um, um) had gotten side-tracked on its journey from my brain to my tongue: I couldn't remember how to pronounce that one great, I'll-show-you word. And so, my only response to her finger-pointing, mocking accusation that I just loved to use big words was a paltry, "I've got work to do." I then scurried--it's true, for the first time in my life--I--channeling an inner nun I knew not I possessed--scurried off to find a dictionary where I could find that nuclear bomb of a word and its correct pronunciation: 

sesquipedalian [ses-kwi-pi-dey-lee-uhn, -deyl-yuhn]. I am not an animal! I am a ses-kwi-pi-dey-lee-uhn! Sesquipedalian: a person who uses long words; a long word. Admittedly, not in the moment, my rushing back to inform her that I am a sesquipedalian did not carry the same heft that an immediate response would have had, but, like any Cleveland sports fan, I'll take any victory, as small and merely moral as it might be. It was then, as Mick Jagger says, surprise surprise: I discovered that Co-Worker is quite possibly, against her most fervent wishes perhaps, a closet sesquipedalian. Because, with the aid of a computer, she taught me a new word, a truly big word, a word I had never even heard of, a word (naturally) I couldn't have even dreamt of in my most noxious nightmares: Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia, the fear of long words. Wikipedia lists it as a "fictional or jocular" phobia. Fictional I would like to believe, but I guess if there are sesquipedalians, the laws of physics or something or other demand that there be hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobes as well. Jocular, definitely--such -phobes are to be laughed at.

And so, in the best Hegelian, resolution-out-of-conflict way, Co-Worker and I have reached a deeper, more complete detente. We talk openly and deliciously of a Reel Big Fish-Dylan collaboration; we fantasize about bacon chocolate cinnamon scones; we playfully toss that cordless phone back and forth. She is coming to terms with being a sesquipedalian, and I have a new "big" word to love--hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia (with, in the true yin yan fashion of this whole experience, a meaning I despise). All of this, obviously, makes me think of that oft-seen image of frail, sinful human beings marching in line up the sky into a cloud on the Day of Judgment. I'm pretty sure, now, after this experience, that up in the cloud there's a sign that reads "Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobes to the Left, Sesquipedalians to the Right." I know which side I'm on, you?