Colleagues To Die For
I feel compelled to relay the contents of a particularly mirthful conversation I had this evening with a fellow Irish-American who, as it turns, is my professional soul-mate, assuming you believe in such things. He was my Travelling Companion ("TC") on that trip to San Diego and La Jolla that resulted in The Perfect Day.
Anyway, the call began with one of our two standard beginnings. I say, in a monotone, "Hello, You've reached my phone in my office, me speaking." He says, "hello? hello? is this the party of the first part?" or sometimes he says, "is me there?" We find this hysterical. Our other standard greeting is for him to holler out, "Pronto!" at the top of his lungs, which is how Italians greet each other. Oddly, he does not speak Italian. But I do, so I holler back, "Qui parla!" also at the top of my lungs. and then we laugh. The first time I responded like that to his fake italian he was blown away ("You actually know what that means!?!?!?" he said, shocked). You get the idea. By the way, this is a grown up we're talking about.
A concise overview summary of the rest of the 45 minute conversation appears in the following bullet points:
- We discussed the length of time since we last saw each (it was April 28) and how we might recognize each other if we were to meet in the future. I explain that I have become a buxom blond and that I have taken to wearing a white lycra speed-skating suit, a pea green sombrero, and a feather boa. He says he now travels with a refrigerator tied around his left foot. We agree these facts are sufficient to help us identify one another at conference tables in the future.
- Conference tables are similar to dinner tables which made us hungry so we quickly moved to the topic of consumables. TC said he was swearing off peach melba permanently, but that we would hold on dearly to rhubarb pie. He said there was nothing as perfect as a piece of rhubarb pie on a summer night. I said I could think of a few things, like a nice cold Vodka & tonic.
- Which lead, naturally, into a discussion about how apparently the entire world was drunk for most of its history due to a dire shortage of potable water. This explains, we observed, why really so very little got accomplished from the Dawn of Time until the Ladies' Temperance Union came along. It also explained the bizarre attire that passed for fashion in much of the Renaissance and Enlightenment. My soul-mate decried the ruffled collars worn by men as "silly" and "useless." We praised the goofy balloony pantaloons, however, because they are quite flattering to certain types of physiques, depending on what one is "looking" for, if you know what I mean. We marveled at the idiocy of wooden shoes in a boggy underwater country such as the Netherlands (wood rots).
- The topic of clothing lead me to announce that our law firms really should institute Fancy Dress Friday. Each lawyer would have to show up each Friday in a costume, preferably a costume representing a Super Hero. I said the lamest partners could be Aquaman. I said I wanted to be Plastic Man. Soul-mate asked what Plastic Man's particular skills were -- I said "Plastic Man can stretch. Like Plastic." Soul-mate noted that plastic does not stretch very well really, when you get right down to it, which made us wonder why stretchy things were called "plastic" in the first place. Kind of like calling wet things dry. Duh.
- Dry things made us think of law firm partners. I discussed (not for the first time) that at my law firm, social skills are a big liability and one is always getting told by dolts to "rein it in, zip it up, tighten the lid, batten it down, roll it up," -- pick your metaphor. This has resulted in heroic efforts on my part to excise all vestiges of personality from my professional demeanour, particularly when in the presence of Superior Beings (i.e., the partners). TC says that at his law firm, they had a running bet going as to how many beers it would take to peel back the layers. Apparently the result of their experiment was "5 beers." After 5 beers, they think I am normal. This temporarily brought us back to "the World Has Always Been Drunk" conversation described in the third bullet point above.
- At this point, TC is in a pet shop of some kind buying large bags of birdseed. Satisfactory explanation of this behavior was not readily forthcoming.
- Upon completion of the birdseed transaction, we turn to the riveting subject of iPods. We both have one. Mine has more songs on it than hi. I ask him if we was aware that there is a hip-hop version of "You Are My Sunshine" out there. He says no. I hum a few bars. We discuss our personal theme songs. Mine alternate between the Muppets, ("It's time to put on make-up! It's time to dress up right! It's time to get things started on the Me Show tonight!") and the Wizard of Oz. I generally sing the Wizard of Oz as I'm heading out the door, ("We're OFF to see the wizard!").
- We observe that there is a song for every moment in life. Which leads to an epiphany that we should write a "Soundtrack for Life" and make a million dollars. Which diverts us briefly into a rousing rendition of the Bare Naked Ladies song "If I had A Million Dollars!" TC then becomes serious and says, "there might be an audience for a Soundtrack for Living. Who would the audience be?" I say, "you. me. other people like you and me. Are there any other people like you and me?" TC quickly and emphatically says, "negative." Evidence of same is conversations described above.
- Our final topic of conversation was my horse. TC actually remembers my schedule, unlike so many useless men of the past, says "It's Wednesday, why aren't you at barn?" I say my horse is out of commission because he went out and had too much of a good time and hurt himself. My horse's main problem is that he is "joyful." Leads to weekend warrior syndrome, etc. TC then confides that he recently saw my horse jogging down the Mall, shirt off, abs rippling, hair blowing in the wind, reeling in the babes left and right. He also saw my horse later that night at the bar at the Capitol Grille, holding court, a little lady on each hoof. He said he had debated not telling me about it because he knew it would be painful to hear. Apparently my horse is a two-timer.
By the way, most of our conversations are like this. Sometimes they are conducted entirely in Esperanto, just to shake things up a bit. We try to limit our Esperanto speaking, however, to situations when we are in a room together examining a witness and we don't want the witness to know what we are saying. Some witnesses conclude that we are insane.
But in fact, we are just Irish. 
posted by Anonymous @ 7:35 PM
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