Who'll take my place when I'm gone? Six more columns I've been meaning to write
The season of commencement is upon us: my diploma came by email last month. (Those online correspondence course grad parties are pretty wild, conducted by webcam.) "As I mentioned to you a few weeks ago," wrote the friendly editor, "we are approaching the term limit for your Sunday columns. Sorry. I'm looking for a new group to start in July." I immediately suggested he consider my esteemed colleague, Ryan Blynch, but I don't think he ever followed through. I also offered up a fine list of talented friends from across the spectrum of opinion: two Lutherans, a Catholic and an agnostic, blue, red and ultra-red.
So, who will take my place when I'm gone? Every transition includes that question. Those kids in the classes after yours, they don't know what the school REALLY is about. Your successor in a job will never be as good as you, or if she is, it's because she doesn't carry the same burdens you had in that position. The hardest part is discovering that your successor's starting pay is equal to the pay you strove for years to reach. Hopefully, the expectations for the job are now at the level to which you elevated them.
So too with this pleasant little essay space. Fortunately, I can save the next columnist a world of hurt, since I have dozens of ideas already on the spike and ready to write. Now, with only a few minutes of work, anyone can assume the persona of a sunshiny, happy family man, an ambitious self-employed consultant, a self-absorbed sci-fi nerd. Here's what I had planned for the next half year. Change some names, eliminate the sloppy syntax and slang, and you're good to go.
Names are destiny. All about the burden of carrying a bad name through life. If you're a puppet named Lambchop, you've got to know that your days are numbered. If you're a football coach, and your nickname is "Bum" Phillips, why wouldn't you ask people to call you "Champ" Phillips instead? Name your children well, in case they're called to serve on the Supreme Court. Can you imagine being introduced as "The Right Honorable Chief Justice Diablo Johnson?" Of course not; that's why you need to give your kids solid names of saints and cities, like Benedict Tacoma Smith.
What you know that ain't so. I was new in town, single, not very skilled at meeting girls. Every day I drove past a building that seemed to hold all sorts of promise for a lonely guy. Imagine the disappointment when I learned the Kenosha Visiting Nurses Association was not a dormitory for young women from out of town on temporary assignment. Always check the facts.
Getting in touch with my feminine side. My fashion sense as a single man lacked a critical sense of judgment. Example: I bought some eyeglasses at a big discounter, choosing the cheapest frames that would support my massive correction. Flash forward a few years, when my future wife agreed to help me purchase a new pair with stronger lenses. Inspecting the old pair, she noticed the model name etched in the temples: "Jenny." Like a plot line out of "Seinfeld," I'd unknowingly been wearing women's glasses for three years.
How to look like a total cad. I was ready to propose marriage. On a business trip to San Francisco, I was met at the airport by a girlfriend from the deep past, by then married and about three weeks from delivering her first child. Wanting her advice on engagement rings, we visited a jewelry store in the diamond district. "And how long have you been together?" asked the clerk conversationally. "Oh, we're not together," came the reply, "At least, not any more. This ring's not for HER." The look on his face as he looked at my extremely pregnant old friend was priceless.
My concert rider. Van Halen's contract with performance venues specifies that their dressing rooms should be stocked with bowls of M&Ms with all brown candies removed. I've decided there are a few things I'm going to insist that people do for me in the future. For example, no one may photograph me unless I've showered within the last two hours; otherwise, my hair is just too weird.
New and improved usually isn't. Some things never need to be changed, and would be ruined if they were. Imagine the consequences of really deep cleaning the the grill at The Spot. Boom! Sixty years of culinary greatness down the drain. Or consider Wrigley's New and Improved Spearmint Gum; after one hundred years, they just now finally got it right? Doubt it. Don't change Betty Crocker's face either, or she'll end up like the leering demonic face of the leprechaun on the Lucky Charms box. Leave well enough alone.
See? Your next six columns take care of themselves. Check back with me in January, and I'll help round out the first year for you; probably another rant on English usage, bad manners, and why can't they keep a good Star Trek series on the air. (Or I might write all these myself on my blog: www.btlynch.com ) I started four years ago with "How I stopped worrying and learned to love Kenosha." Little did I realize I was following in the footsteps of many local columnists. We must like it here. Stay on that topic, and you can do this forever.
So, who will take my place when I'm gone? Every transition includes that question. Those kids in the classes after yours, they don't know what the school REALLY is about. Your successor in a job will never be as good as you, or if she is, it's because she doesn't carry the same burdens you had in that position. The hardest part is discovering that your successor's starting pay is equal to the pay you strove for years to reach. Hopefully, the expectations for the job are now at the level to which you elevated them.
So too with this pleasant little essay space. Fortunately, I can save the next columnist a world of hurt, since I have dozens of ideas already on the spike and ready to write. Now, with only a few minutes of work, anyone can assume the persona of a sunshiny, happy family man, an ambitious self-employed consultant, a self-absorbed sci-fi nerd. Here's what I had planned for the next half year. Change some names, eliminate the sloppy syntax and slang, and you're good to go.
Names are destiny. All about the burden of carrying a bad name through life. If you're a puppet named Lambchop, you've got to know that your days are numbered. If you're a football coach, and your nickname is "Bum" Phillips, why wouldn't you ask people to call you "Champ" Phillips instead? Name your children well, in case they're called to serve on the Supreme Court. Can you imagine being introduced as "The Right Honorable Chief Justice Diablo Johnson?" Of course not; that's why you need to give your kids solid names of saints and cities, like Benedict Tacoma Smith.
What you know that ain't so. I was new in town, single, not very skilled at meeting girls. Every day I drove past a building that seemed to hold all sorts of promise for a lonely guy. Imagine the disappointment when I learned the Kenosha Visiting Nurses Association was not a dormitory for young women from out of town on temporary assignment. Always check the facts.
Getting in touch with my feminine side. My fashion sense as a single man lacked a critical sense of judgment. Example: I bought some eyeglasses at a big discounter, choosing the cheapest frames that would support my massive correction. Flash forward a few years, when my future wife agreed to help me purchase a new pair with stronger lenses. Inspecting the old pair, she noticed the model name etched in the temples: "Jenny." Like a plot line out of "Seinfeld," I'd unknowingly been wearing women's glasses for three years.
How to look like a total cad. I was ready to propose marriage. On a business trip to San Francisco, I was met at the airport by a girlfriend from the deep past, by then married and about three weeks from delivering her first child. Wanting her advice on engagement rings, we visited a jewelry store in the diamond district. "And how long have you been together?" asked the clerk conversationally. "Oh, we're not together," came the reply, "At least, not any more. This ring's not for HER." The look on his face as he looked at my extremely pregnant old friend was priceless.
My concert rider. Van Halen's contract with performance venues specifies that their dressing rooms should be stocked with bowls of M&Ms with all brown candies removed. I've decided there are a few things I'm going to insist that people do for me in the future. For example, no one may photograph me unless I've showered within the last two hours; otherwise, my hair is just too weird.
New and improved usually isn't. Some things never need to be changed, and would be ruined if they were. Imagine the consequences of really deep cleaning the the grill at The Spot. Boom! Sixty years of culinary greatness down the drain. Or consider Wrigley's New and Improved Spearmint Gum; after one hundred years, they just now finally got it right? Doubt it. Don't change Betty Crocker's face either, or she'll end up like the leering demonic face of the leprechaun on the Lucky Charms box. Leave well enough alone.
See? Your next six columns take care of themselves. Check back with me in January, and I'll help round out the first year for you; probably another rant on English usage, bad manners, and why can't they keep a good Star Trek series on the air. (Or I might write all these myself on my blog: www.btlynch.com ) I started four years ago with "How I stopped worrying and learned to love Kenosha." Little did I realize I was following in the footsteps of many local columnists. We must like it here. Stay on that topic, and you can do this forever.