I realize my writing will never win a Pulitzer prize.  Or any other kind of prize.  But I don’t care.  I’m not sure anything can top what happened last week after I wrote the bit about the Wienermobile.  I received a comment (now attached to that post) from a very special source:

The Wienermobile!

Yes, friends, I have corresponded with the Wienermobile (or more accurately, a caretaker thereof).  Turns out that there is (of course) a blog dedicated to the traveling adventures of the various Wienermobiles.  When I entered information about the Wienermobile photo in my blog, apparently my blog software notified the Wienermobile blog that I was making reference to the Wienermobile, so somebody checked my blog out and left a comment.  I realize this interaction has more to do with software package features than me having any kind of meaningful association with the Wienermobile, but I don’t care.  I may never get interviewed by Larry King, but my blog has been acknowledged by the Wienermobile.  Can Mark Twain say the same?  (No.  For many reasons).

As if that weren’t exciting enough, today was the day of my bi-monthly haircut.  After the excitement of moving the part in my hair from the center to the side in 1990, all has been quiet along the haircut front.  Sure, my forehead’s getting slightly larger and a few gray hairs are infiltrating, but all in all it’s been an unremarkable couple of decades haircut-wise.  Until recently.

The lady who cuts my hair has begun trimming my eyebrows.  This didn’t happen in college.  Having eyebrows raging out of control makes me feel like (and thus want to act like) this guy:

Oscar

To make matters worse, I was never a big Oscar the Grouch fan as a child, even though I loved Sesame Street.  I am a Bert guy.  He’s more of a cynic than a grouch.  Plus, being rather angular, I resemble Bert more than Oscar physically, at least when my eyebrow(s) are trimmed.

But more interesting than the haircut (which I know is fascinating enough) is what I saw afterward.  Next door to the barbershop is one of those “Instant Cash Advance” places.  I think what you do there is write them a check for, say, $115 and they give you $100 cash and promise not to process the check for maybe a week.  At least that’s how I assume those places work.  But what was really interesting was the sign on the door of this establishment:

“No cash kept onsite”

Now that’s a revelation.  They don’t keep cash at a business whose only product is, well, cash.  “Cash” is in the name of the store.  I’m just flush with questions about this.

1.  Have any would-be customers seen that sign and departed to go to a cash advance place that does keep cash around?

2.  Is this sign a simple ruse to ward off robbers who aren’t smart enough to realize there MUST be cash inside a cash advance store?  If so, do the proprietors really think somebody that unaware would even read the sign in the first place?

3. Maybe we are to assume the sign applies to non-business hours.  Robbers should not bother breaking it at night because no cash will be found. They should just jump the poor guy who locks the door because, obviously, he must be carrying all the cash off the premises.

4. Or maybe part of the appeal of these places is that you have to go on a scavenger hunt to obtain your cash.  For example, if you write them the check for $115 they will tell you to go to a drive-thru window of a specified restaurant and show the clerk a photo of yourself with, say, a Wal-Mart greeter.  Having thus established your bona fides the clerk will tell you the name of an obscure Russian novel in the local library where you can find your $100 cash.  Prosperity and fun wrapped into one transaction, with no cash onsite.

I thought about going in to ask about the sign, but was just too uneasy about the ambiguity to even set foot in there.  As Oscar would say, I decided to scram.

I’ve been out of college for almost 17 years now.  About halfway through that time period I made a dramatic career change.  I moved from a Fortune 500 employer to a completely different Fortune 500 employer.  The buildings are almost three miles away from each other, so as you can imagine this caused a major disruption in my life.

Not really.  But it was a pretty big change compared to something smaller like, say, changing managers.  I swap managers like Topps baseball cards.

Today I experienced a change pretty high on the relative career change scale.  I got a new office.

Now this wasn’t one of those “movin’ on up” Jeffersons-esque moments where I got a big corner office wrapped in windows.  Basically I moved from a small windowless square with a door on the left to an eerily similar windowless square with a door on the right.  And when I say “eerily similar” I mean exactly the same except for the door.  I am on a different floor because that’s where my new department is located.

My old office arrangement (i.e. where I put the desk) could be described as a masterpiece of engineering efficiency.  Thus, with the new opposite door I simply laid out my new digs as a mirror image of the old digs.

This may have been a mistake.

When I need a Kleenex I reach to the left, but the Kleenex box is now on the right.  When I need the phone I reach to the right but it is now on the left.  I feel like I’m in an episode of The Twilight Zone (or at least how I imagine The Twilight Zone considering that I have never watched it).  I should also mention that the “Twilight Zone” would be an excellent nickname for a defensive scheme in college basketball (somebody page Dick Vitale).

This afternoon in my slightly discombobulated state I made a trip to the new restroom.  I probably should have gone back downstairs where I am still combobulated.  The first thing I noticed in the restroom was a head of shiny, long, brunette hair.  Before I could fully freak out about being in the women’s room, I realized I was actually looking at a man who normally wears his long hair in a pony tail (which apparently hides the remarkably healthy sheen I hadn’t noticed until today).

Still somewhat shaken, on the way back to my office I walked right past the hallway where my new office is and went to the hallway where my old office would be if had magically risen one floor.  Apparently my body is now calibrated to walk a specific number of steps after exiting the bathroom.

I hope to be better oriented by the end of the week.  Or at least to stop answering the Kleenex box.

Laura purchased a shirt that included a tag with the following message:

The occasional slubs and gentle shadings in this fabric should not be regarded as defects.  They are characteristic of the fine yarns which give this fabric its beauty and dramatic texture.

I absolutely love this tag.  First of all, I love this tag because it is the only tag that has inspired me to visit www.dictionary.com.

slub (n):  A soft thick nub in yarn that is either an imperfection or purposely set for a desired effect.

I intend to start working “slub” into as many casual conversations as I can.  Consider the following possible scene from a business meeting:

CO-WORKER:  Hey.  How are you?
MARK: Well, I’m just not sure.
CO-WORKER:  Why?  What’s wrong?
MARK (thoughtfully rubbing shoulder):  I think I may be developing a slub.
CO-WORKER:

The main reason I love this tag is its attitude.  The tag is basically saying:

If you think something is wrong with this shirt it’s only because it was made with QUALITY materials and you’re too UNREFINED to know the difference between a flaw and a feature.  You will wear this shirt and like it or we will come to your house and forcibly transfer it to somebody with sufficient class to appreciate it.

One wonders how many meek shirt-owners are self-consciously wearing slub-riddled clothing because this tag has intimidated them into accepting a shirt with real problems. The tag has inspired me to consider using the following statement as a footnote to all my blog entries:

The occasional factual or grammatical mistakes in this blog should not be regarded as shortcomings on the part of the author.  They are characteristic of the purposeful homespun tone the author takes and are what gives the blog its beauty and dramatic texture.  Just as you cannot understand why Andy Warhol’s painting of a Campbell’s soup can is so great, you are similarly incapable of comprehending the many levels of genius displayed in this work.  If anything contained herein sounds stupid it reflects poorly on you alone.

WELCOME to the brand new blog at The Ark of Mark.  Theoretically, this could eventually be the best blog in the history of the internet.  Or the worst.  I suppose the odds favor it falling somewhere in between.  Let’s have some fun.