Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Has ol’ Robbo mentioned here before his firmly-held belief that Tuesday is the worst day of the week? Well it is, simply due to the fact that it has absolutely nothing going for it. Monday, for all its awfulness, is at least a bridgehead. Wednesday is, of course, Hump…DAAAAAAY. Thursday is down hill and Friday speaks for itself. Tuesday is nothing more than a freakin’ hole in the week.
Anyhoo, to fill that hole, a few stray thoughts:
♦ Before I forget it, and in connection with the Wednesday link above, I have to say that ol’ Robbo is continually impressed with the consistent brilliance of Geico’s teevee advertising (which I see through watching my beloved Nats play on MASN). Campaign after campaign after campaign – from cavemen to geckos to bad ideas – whoever comes up with this stuff is truly gifted. It’s one thing to get an occasional home run, but these people hit for the freakin’ cycle. And speaking of which, for some reason ol’ Robbo finds their latest amusing enough to repost here:
(Full disclosure, by the bye, ol’ Robbo is not a Geico customer or paid shill. We’re USAA through the Old Gentleman’s military stint and quite content with it.)
♦ And speaking of ol’ Robbo’s beloved Nats, they just dropped their fourth straight to an out-of-it NL East team playing for nothing but pride tonight. I know the odds of us not clinching the pennant at this point are in the SMOD 2016 range, but come on, guys!
♦ Speaking of sports, last Sunday ol’ Robbo was asked by one of his Mass buddies who doesn’t pay much attention to the current so-called “culture” to explain the whole NFL national anthem kerfluffle. Whelp, I was able to give her a brief description just based on what I see on the Innertoobs, but the fact of the matter is that ol’ Robbo really hasn’t watched pro football at all since Dan Marino retired in 1999. This was partly because the ‘Fins were the only team I ever followed and they have gone to hell since then, and partly because NFL Sunday afternoon advertising is raunchy enough that I didn’t want the gels seeing it. Overall, I don’t think I’ve really missed very much.
♦ It would be extremely foolish of ol’ Robbo to comment on the state of the Presidential race at this point, at least so far as endorsements go. But one thing strikes me as peculiar: Normally, my corner of NoVA and my commuter route into the Imperial City are, by this point, wall-to-wall with yard signs and bumper stickers. This year? Almost nada. Just about the only signs I see in the immediate neighborhood of Port Swiller Manor are for the local incumbent House member. Make of that what you will.
♦ Good thoughts would be appreciated: The next two days ol’ Robbo is being forced to go on “retreat” with his office colleagues. Usually, I’m pretty good at being able to dodge work-related functions, but I gather there’s no getting out of this one barring accidental amputation of a limb or kidnapping by Boko Haram. Sigh. In my experience, “retreats” are both boring and dangerous, and the only thing to do is to keep one’s head down, one’s mouth shut, and one’s most political smile firmly nailed to one’s face.
♦ Speaking of face, ol’ Robbo is trying out a new prescription set of gas-permiable hard contact lenses this week. (My venture into disposable soft lenses proved an abject failure.) They seem to work reasonably well for my near-sightedness. The trouble is that they also bring my far-sightedness into, er, very sharp focus: wearing them, I can’t make out much within a four or five foot radius without a pair of store-bought 2X reading glasses. I’m having trouble here understanding why I go to the bother of contacts in the first place.
♦ Relatedly, while getting fitted for the new contacts, I also got a prescription for a new pair of glasses. My current pair is about four years old and I’ve had nothing but grief about them (in terms of aesthetics) from Mrs. R. This time, I got the Missus to come down to the Hour-Eyes with me. “Here,” I said, “You pick out the frames!” And she did. Despicable pre-emptive surrender? Or ingenious seizure of the high ground? Your answer may very well depend on your marital status. (Hint: “Yes, dear” can be a double-edged weapon.)
Whelp, I suppose that’s enough hole-in-the-week plugging for now. Pass the port to the left as you take it in, if you please.
UPDATE: Day One of Robbo’s retreat featured the predictable “team-building challenges” and a lot of middle-management level blether from an HR consultant (what a racket that is!) about effective communications with different personality types. Forehead? Meet table! As a colleague of mine put it sotto voce, “Here’s an idea: You’re all grownups…Act like it.”
UPDATE DEUX: Nats’ Magic Number now down to, er, deux.