My dad, when I was two, leaned me over a Niagra Falls overlook at night. It was an experiment to see if I would remember. Fifty years later, I can still see the rainbow streaks and feel the sheer panic. Thanks Dad.
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Low-stress version:
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I grew up in a place that did have tornadoes but not frequently, like one every four or five years in a large geographic area so the odds you’d ever be affected by one were near zero. My worry was mostly that I’d go to sleep and a tornado would come down and kill us without us ever knowing what happened. At some point I found out about nuclear war and I didn’t really need to be afraid of tornadoes anymore.
Yes! I think I worked in one for about six months before I realized how much it was driving me nuts. I feel so undefended.
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No, I always exist. It’s the outside world that has ceased to exist.
I have wished myself into the cornfield. Or into the weird fraternity hazing ritual for cars, as it were.
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Are there any known cases of managers shifting the organisation to open-plan offices and using panoptican offices themselves? In all the examples I’ve experienced, management were adamant that their own productivity was maximised by a private space.
Since I work in the civil service this was all centrally dictated and management was mostly caught up in the same practices, but of course this just makes things worse. Have to go talk to your boss about an HR issue? Book a boardroom!
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Babies are one thing, but I would highly recommend that you DO NOT under any circumstances put a 80lb doberman in a car that is going through a car wash.
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Okay, you can’t just say that and NOT give a story…
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Ok, so baby Boris was a sweet sweet lapdog from the day he was a young pupper, full follow through to an adult scary looking dobie, curious and a full fledged member of our pack that enjoyed his breast plate being scratched more than anything on earth.
One spring day in 1997, while the pollen has made a misery for my sinus, we took Boris on a car ride. A ride he would not soon forget.
After finishing our errands, mom thought that she’d splurge on a car wash after the fill-up in her Toyota Celica convertible, with Boris in the back seat, excited as ever.
She punched in the numbers for an otherwise oblivious car of young animals.
As the car caught on the pulley system, we were entering a hell, i will never forget. Boris would become a bringer of the end of the Celica. The jerk of the first tug alarmed Boris, and he sat deep behind the passenger seat, silent. We rolled on to the sprayers, gently applying tri-foam color to the windows. Boris was not impressed.
Once the power fingers began to abuse the sides of the car, Boris began to howl and weep. It would only get worse for all of us.
The rotary roof cleaner rolled over the trunk with such intensity Boris began to jump, and cower terrified by the monster attacking us. To this day I think he was worried that we all were going to die.
As the drum hit the canvas roof, Boris could not take any more. He expressed himself everywhere. A stench you cannot imagine, from a dog who ate a dozen eggs a week, was on the floor, the seats, the console and ourselves. We could not exit the vehicle, for fear of death by auto-wash.
This would continue.
No manner of words or breast plate scratches, would calm the good boy. The drum returned and Boris was not amused.
The drying sequence began, pumping in more air through the hood cabin vent, which only made the cabin a mixture of “Dog Butt Juices” and “Tropical Pineapple”. Boris was keenly aware of what smells just happened and was very concerned for our safety.
Once we rolled out of the wash and tumbled out of the doors gasping for air, Boris followed suit, as any good boy would, and barked, obviously perturbed.
The car was never the same, and neither was the pack.
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