Jobber

Jobber, which means ‘an unspecified object,” as “Hand me that jobber over there.” Once I was driving back home to Illinois from Nebraska and I picked up a Native American couple who were hitch-hiking from the side of the road. The woman was a little dull-witted, and the husband wasn’t far behind, but we got on famously because we were able to communicate through the power of music.

At that time I had an old beat-up guitar in the back seat, where the husband sat. Once we got going, he asked me if he could play the guitar. I said sure, and he proceeded to play “Keep on the Sunny Side.” We all joined in, and I flipped on a small tape recorder to catch the concert. We were howling like a bunch of cats but having a ball. After the song was over, I took a drink from my Army surplus canteen, and I offered it to the gentleman. He said, “Sure, hand me that jobber, “ and I was startled because I hadn’t heard anyone say “Jobber” since I was a kid.

https://youtu.be/ZbmQQ4RfzVE

All we need is another buzz term – that was my initial response to this article:

https://www.wsj.com/articles/tired-of-being-told-cheer-up-the-problem-of-toxic-positivity-11635858001?st=y0ud3q4z09rme0i&mod=pcktm_1221&utm_campaign=pockethits&utm_medium=email&utm_source=pocket

Initial reaction, which was immediate:

I hate to see “toxic positivity” accepted because it reminds me of other buzz things, such as “toxic masculinity” and “gaslighting.” They could at least have come up with something that doesn’t sound immediately like a buzz word. Why  my strong reaction? Because as soon as a term is coined and accepted, all the specificity and power goes out of it. The meaning gets all thinned and washed out, or broadened and flattened out, and people don’t really think before they use it. They throw these words at each other, like monkeys throwing poop, and they react like Pavlovian Pups, or people driven by the alligator/crocodile/squirrel or even monkey brain.

But first let’s hear from this guy:

“David Kessler, a grief expert and the author of six books about grief.” We always need those experts, particularly ones who have written six or more books. The article has three such experts – probably the standard guideline for a piece like this. You got the grief expert, then Dr. Dattilo, a clinical psychologist who is being considered for a new Marvell character (I made that up). Dr. Datillo offers the Whack-A-Mole theory of emotional circuitry, which isn’t too bad a concept but perhaps not the best described. Then there’s the psychologist who yaks about gaslighting, but who also says something interesting: “Those emotions are rooted in reality, while toxic positivity is a denial of it.” That’s a good point. I mean what is reality anyway? But still – toxic positivity? That kind of assumes that everybody trying to help you with positive bullshit is out to get you.

Heck, *most* people are ignorant of reality. I hear the monks at the Tibetan Buddhist monasteries get on YouTube occasionally and just laugh their asses off at how divorced from reality the ordinary moron is.

Finally, I thought of people who just flipped out when the pandemic hit: theirs was the opposite of “toxic positivity.” I call it toxic negativity. And I am working on my book!

Tim Bryant – Good day!

BNormal, Illinois
March 12, 2020

This morning as I stopped at the Thornton’s gas station, I happened to notice a couple of young guys walking very slowly in skinny sloppy blue jeans, a decidedly relaxed fit. The first fellow I encountered looked to have all the time in the world to lounge around and to slouch around and to vape, masturbate, and do other silly things with his body like a monkey at the municipal zoo. I personally have no time at all to do most of those silly things anymore, not that I was really any good at any of them.

Then, as I stepped up to the checkout with my purchase, I found myself face to face with another young guy’s butt crack, so to speak. His boxer shorts were about at half-mast, which exposed a good portion of the crack and it was a hairy crack at that. As one well-endowed woman said to me once, “Big boobs aren’t all they’re cracked up to be,” but I would much rather deal with any pair of them than to look at some dopey dude’s buttocks. That’s why some stores in town have signs that say “No shirt, no shoes, pants down – no service.” I finally get it – such sites might drive off the other citizens buying gas, booze, and Lotto tickets.

On another note, which doesn’t seem related but really is: I notice that a lot of people I’ve met recently did not stop working after they retired. Instead they continued to work for one major reason – to afford health care. I happen to have great health care, but I was lucky. The other day I talked with a gal who worked for Brach’s for 30 years. She had some kind of pension, but no health care. So she got a job driving a taxi in order to supplement her retirement income and to pay for health insurance for her and her husband, a disabled trucker with no retirement income at all. In fact, the guy was just useless: all he did was sit on his ass at home. (These are her words, not mine, and she was cracking wise in a wonderful way.) This is not to suggest that useless means less than useless because where there is love, there is room for all asses and arses, including horse’s asses and people who are nothing but the south end of a north-bound horse. Oh wait, they’re the same.

Just so was the situation with yet another Red Top Taxi Cab driver whom I met and enjoyed riding with and talking to. While he was away from home putting in his 12-hour-day, his wife was at home holding down the fort, sitting on her ass, watching TV, and eating. (This is exactly how the guy talked. If you need a ride, ask for Sammy.) I guess that was their retirement plan: he driving, smiling, and cracking wise about Donald Trump; and she sitting, eating, and laughing at the Tube. And thus did they coexist and love and laugh while the great American white world tumbled into flames all around them.

https://youtu.be/7PoUcknjdq4

I was working in Champaign, Illinois, one time, or oncet, as Sam Clemens used to say, and I stopped at a popular donut shop to get a dozen or two donuts to take into work. It was a cold slushy day, and the place was packed with people sitting down and eating donuts and drinking coffee, as well as others lined up for to-go orders.

I gave my order and the gal got them and I handed over $10 or whatever. She handed me back two dollars extra change. Very quickly, I thought two things: (1) “Wow, two extra bucks!” and (2) “Come on, man – do the right thing!” It was exactly like the devil and the angel. But then my life has always been a moral battleground.

I said, “Oh hey, you gave me too much change.” She said, “Did I give you an extra dollar?” I felt bad for her because I didn’t want to make a statement about her ability to make change. But I had to go on, so I said, “No, you gave me two dollars extra.” I was in anguish as I said it.

Suddenly from behind me came a deep voice. “Allow me to introduce myself.” I turned to see a tall older gentleman in a long black coat, looking exactly like The Devil in The Master and Margarita. But it wasn’t The Devil.

“My name is Diogenes,” he said, “and I have finally found my honest man!”

There’s no getting away from characters like this in a university town.

devil or angel

Dear Lainey,

I stopped in Iowa City for the night (Saturday), woke at 5, and had an engaging conversation with a young waitress self-described as “weird” but in actuality very feisty, who had just thrown three big drunk guys out of the restaurant where she worked.

When I went into this place, I first asked for a table that had enough light to read by. Then I asked for the ceiling fans to be shut off, because it was already a cold morning and I didn’t want to drink my coffee in a stiff breeze. Then the cook was playing Dueling Radios with the stuff being piped in for the customers, and Heather (the waitress) told the cook to shut off his or her radio.

As it was nearing the end of the night shift, Heather came over to my booth and leaned against it with a coffee pot dangling from her hand and watched me eat a cinnamon roll the size of a dinner plate.

She was young – about twenty – and she had this very fresh-faced innocence about her. For someone so young, with no real experience of the world, she had some good insight into the key issues of life. For instance, we were talking about the role of the family environment in development, and I held up my finger and said, “There are basically two ways to look at life,” and prepared to give a big speech. She said, “I know: It either makes you or breaks you.” I was taken aback a bit and said, “You put that very succinctly.”

It was time for me to go, then, and I shook her hand and wished her luck. As I went to pay my bill, I saw the cooks through a little open window in the kitchen wall, and they appeared to be finishing up a litany of complaints about Heather: “. . . and not only that, she stood leaning against the booth and talking with that guy for HALF AN HOUR.”

My last words to Heather were “You know, with your potential for sympathy and empathy, you would make a great fortune-teller.” Well, maybe she’ll join the circus. . .

https://youtu.be/yrA78XTl1tg

This weekend has been a low-key one, as it’s been pretty freaking cold and windy out, thus a certain laidbackness has been in play whether I like it or not. In fact, whether I like it or not has been the overall theme.

On Saturday I made a trek to Walgreen’s to pick up a prescription that I had previously gotten closer to home but which got transferred to the new place because the old place had been shut down. Previously there had been no charge for the Rx, but at the new place there was a charge of 60 cents. But what for?

A youngster was behind the register – let’s call him a Millennium just for fun – and I asked what the 60 cents was for. He peered at the receipt and looked something up and said, “Looks like it’s some kind of deductible.” I said, “Well, that’s kind of odd because there was no charge at all at the last place.” He says, “Well, just look at it like this: You saved $47.50 because your insurance covered that.” The implication was I *could* have been charged $47.50, so what the heck was I griping about, fool?” (The kid didn’t seem to be overtly nasty about it, so I threw in the supposed “fool” on my own. Maybe it was a Trigger Point for me, as they say.)

Well, I thought about that, and I figured there some generational thing going on. To us old Boomers it’s somewhat of a big deal – or at least a biggish deal – to all-of-a sudden have to pay SIXTY CENTS more for something that used to be free. Didn’t this kid know that? Well, no, he did not. And you know why? Because this Butthead did not have the Boomer’s perspective. And why not? Because he had the Millennial perspective, which is he was thinking, “How long will I have to keep this stupid, stultifying job where I have to listen to these old boomers jabber about 60 cents?” When I am I gonna get those damn student loans paid off??”

In contrast a fellow Boomer would commiserate and say, “Sixty cents? Jesus Christ, those Big Pharma bastards are *always” trying to get more out of us! Sons a bitches oughta be *shot*!” Now, with a little generational education, those Millennials and other younger generations could interact with the older generations and learn to say. “Son of bitch Big Pharma! etc.” I would gladly hand over sixty cents – maybe even a DOLLAR – to make it a feel-good experience. Until that time, the Millennial ceases to be a human being and instead becomes a Butthead.

You see how that works? As old Bob Zimmerman says, “If you see a neighbor carrying something, help him with his load, and don’t go mistaking Paradise for that home across the road.”

https://youtu.be/2Svltq6LxoI

Be yourself; Everyone else is already taken.

— Oscar Wilde.

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