Magic

I can do magic, at least according to my children. However, some of my powers are more suited to adults.

Here is an example. Bears and worms have very little in common, but my powers allow me to turn them into virtually the exact same thing. I use the power of one single magic word...


GUMMY!

February 29th

Today is Leap Day. Happy Leap Day everyone. Please take advantage of the time to jump over something.

I hate Leap Day. I don't get paid for Leap Day. It's a free day of work for me. Anyone who gets paid a salary should dislike Leap Day. Your annual salary doesn't go up a smidge every four years. But you're still at work all day long. Remember this while you're busy goofing off at work today. Today was a freebie anyway.

Stand-Alone-Stach #5

"Here, take a drink of this." That was German, I don't speak German do I?

I knock back the glass and grimace. Jagermeister. "So smooth," I reply in Polish. Polish, since when do I speak Polish and understand German? Stach what have you done this time?

Judging by our winged out collars and swinging attire it must be the seventies. Since we are speaking German and Polish we must be in Eastern Europe. I swill down another shot of cough syrup and my face reacts accordingly. The German photographer in front of my squeals with delight. "That's it! That's it! We've got a perfect ad campaign idea. So smooth, so perfect."

I spend the next few hours in various poses holding bottles, holding glasses, and swilling Jager while my German counterpart snaps pictures. The next day (late in the day thanks to my hangover), the photographer and I select the best. We rush off to Jager-HQ and pitch an ad campaign. Jager-Powers-That-Be are immediately impressed with our creative idea, our showcase of their swill, and my impressive lip warmer. The invention of the Jager-Face is born, and my picture inspires a series of magazine and billboard adds that will run for the next seven years.

I enjoy my new found Eastern European fame by making guest appearances on Polish state run TV, state run mandatory morale events, and state run radio. I even cut a state run album called Jager, the Stach, and me. I have komrades o'plenty. Looking back it was a pretty awful time. Communist Poland sucks, thanks Stach.

I felt a need to help the Polish people throw off the reigns of collectivism by organizing my own collective group. Inspired by the stern and forthright nature of my Stach they named this first non-government trade union after it, "Stach". A movement was born. Unfortunately in the West a poorly trained translator mistranslated "Stach" into "Solid", so in the US the movement is still erroneously known as "Solidarity".

It all came to a tragic end for me one day when government minders rounded me up, sent me to Siberia, I wrote a 7,000 page book on crime and punishment (only to find out later that someone already beat me to it), and charged seven dollars (SEVEN DOLLARS? for one round?) for the bullet that would be used in my execution.

I give you: The Jager Stach (a.k.a. So Smooth)

Stand-Alone-Stach #4

Ouch, that hurts. Hey, quit slapping me around. Stach what have you gotten me into this time?

1980's, I'm in an area, maybe Madison Square Garden, and the crowd is going nuts, shouting for blood. Some kind of gladiator event is taking place and I'm right in the middle of a ring wearing a speedo. Good Lord, Stach, you've made me a pro-wrestler? The beefcake across from me sprints away, rebounds off the ropes, runs past me, and delivers a crushing close line that drops me to the turf. Man that hurt, I thought this was supposed to be fake. Guess I'm doing it wrong? I gather my wits just in time to notice that beefcake has thrown himself from the top of the ropes in a move that will kill us both. I roll out in the nick of time and the crowd goes nuts. Apparently forethought wasn't part of beefcake's plan, because he made himself semi-unconscious with a 1.2 landing (according to the Romanian judge) or a 6.0 (according to Richter).

Now's my chance. I look around the ring and notice that a folding chair has been conveniently left just outside the ring easily within arm's reach. I grab the chair, give beefcake a donk on the head for good measure, and set up the chair in the middle of the ring. Stach tells me to ham it up a little so I circle the ring, work up the crowd, and turn back to beefcake. His bell is still ringing so I pick him up and settle him in on the chair. Now the Stach and I come up with an amazing wrestling hold that will become my signature move. I call it the "Cobra Claw". Down goes beefcake and a new pro-wrestler is born, Sgt. Slayer.

For the next few years I travel the US on the T&A Wrestling Tour, make a few guest appearances on TV shows, and eventually become one of the most popular figures in the "sport". They even make a He-Man action figure after my likeness (kung-fu grip equipped of course). Unfortunately it all comes to an end when I'm accidentally killed in a wrestling stunt involving a foreign object, the top rope, a steal cage, a midget, a ref that wasn't looking, a "friend" that betrayed me, and a wrestler that returned from the dead.


I give you: Sgt. Slayer Stach

Stand-Alone-Stach #3

The Stach takes control. I open my eyes to the shout "...and, ACTION!" Cautiously I look around and take stock of my new Stach predicament. I appear to be on a movie set of some type. Judging by the hair, collars, gold chains, and cigars it must be the mid-seventies. By the look on everyone's faces I must be expected to do something...just what I'm not sure. From the stage settings I appear to be a very ill dressed pizza delivery boy.

I knock on the door in front of me. It opens and I ask, "Anyone order a pizza?"

The scantly clad women before me answer suggestively without words. From nowhere a funky seventies baseline fills the room. I cannot repeat what happens next. Needless to say this Stach causes a number of little deaths.

I give you: 70's Adult Film Stach

Stand-Alone-Stach #2

Today's Stach took me to exotic Hawaii, circa 1980. These were fast times with swinging beach babes and cool cars. But there was a dark underside. Drug dealing and general criminal mayhem was rampant. An elite police team called Hi-Five, oh...is that the name....wait...something like that...anyway was just canceled...er disbanded, and crime was back. I don't know how to dance Hula, but the stach provided me a job as a Private Investigator under the name, Colt PI. In no time at all I find a rich benefactor who likes my idea of non-lethal vigilante justice and my ability to ferret out a seemingly endless supply of attractive women who, by no fault of their own, are caught in impossibly complicated situations. I take up residence in the benefactor's guest house, swill free beer from an endless beer fridge, and tool around in his Ferrari. Strangely I never meet the rich guy, I just interact with his ambiguously gay butler. For kicks I also pick up a black helicopter pilot sidekick, who doesn't want one of those?

I did this for about eight seasons...er years. I was finally killed in one of my adventures in a freak accident involving taro root, a lei, a beach fire dance, a coconut drink, and another Hawaii cliché I can't remember at the moment. I heard that my high jinks were turned into a TV show where the main character was a prop, dressed in flower shirts, for the real hero of the show...A Stant-Alone-Stach.

I give you: Colt PI Stach

Stand-Alone-Stach #1

My first stach took me back to Wild Western times. I found myself somewhere in frontierland USA. This proved a real problem for me, as I do not know how to farm, ride a horse, or rustle dogies or outlaws.

Fortunately my stach rescued me. I took up gambling and drinking, two things a stach allowes rogues to do. I gained some noteriety as a gambler named Doc and invented Texas Hold'em. Unfortunately I was killed and misidentified shortly after playing the hand pictured.

I give you: Wild West Poker Stach

Stand-Alone-Stach Introduction

I sport a goatee. I've had it for about five years now. Originally I grew it out of necessity, not choice. But now the goatee has grown on me. You can see it in most of my pictures.

What was the necessity, you ask? When we moved to Houston I got a job with an Oil & Gas consulting firm. When these guys pay for our services they expect to see grizzled old consultants that have been around the block and know a few things. They did not like to see a baby faced thirty-something. I was getting blown off in meeting after meeting, so I grew some manly facial hair to fix the problem perceived incompetence. Originally it was a beard. It didn't exactly suit me. Too many chins made it hard to decide where the beard should stop. In the end I had a facial hair that merged with chest hair, and two worlds collided. Crossing these streams should only be done in emergency situations like facing down State Puff. I cut the wooly beast back to a goatee my look was born. It looked sharp and helped at work. Instantly I was treated differently in meetings, got a promotion, and was invited to swank afterword parties. All due to my chin whiskers.

Every year I attend a Mardi Gras ball that requires that I shave the goatee. I like to take advantage of this window to reset the goatee. As an added bonus I take the time to experiment with different looks I wouldn't have the guts to grow and show in public. Unusually this results in some crazy goatee variations. Amazingly the one thing I've never done was a Stand-Alone-Stach.

Only a certain kind of man can sport the Sand-Alone-Stach. You need a number of things working in your favor to pull it off. You need a cooperative wife/girl friend/gal pal, she has to approved of the worm on your lip. You need a cooperative occupation, we can't all be cops, firefighters, or lumberjacks. You need a strong personality, it's no coincidence that Hitler and Stalin are known for the hair on their lips. Maybe you don't need to murder millions of people, but you still need to pull it off.

This year I shaved the goatee down to a Stand-Alone-Stach. It was amazing. Liberating. Magical. I never realized how much a mustache would allow you to do. Worlds of opportunity open before me. Clean shaven guys, can pretty much only be the good guy. Goatee folks can only be thugs or evil twins from alternate dimensions. But mustaches can do anything. The world was laid bare before me.

To paint a picture of opportunity for you, my readers, I went through a weeklong transformation, experiencing a new persona every day. We chronicled these adventures for your amusement. I will post a new Stand-Alone-Stach picture every day (or so depending on my ability to leave my newfound persona behind) for a week.

Feel free to vote on your favorite. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Stand-Alone-Stach of the Day.

We Are All South Carolinians Now

So I'm sitting at my computer trying to do a little work this morning. Normal morning, normal work, nothing special today. As I'm tooling through my day, I notice The Misses has sent me an e-mail. Then another...then another...then, you get it. Here's the thing about The Misses and her work day e-mail's, she sends them in batch. Her job keeps her busy. She manages to squeeze some personal time to do a little family management, and sends e-mails out in batch. But she also likes replies in batch. This allows her to feel like I'm on top of whatever just landed on my lap and she can get back to her real work of saving lives while I'm mired in Kling-Family minutia.

Today's Honey-Do e-mail, contained something Monty Python would consider "completely different". A seemingly random e-mail was forwarded from Amazon.com in order to let me know I may owe some state taxes to South Carolina. Huh? Did we live in SC sometime last year? Do we live there now? Did we visit the Palmetto State? Did we even set a toe in the lesser Caroline? No to all the above. So what it this all about? Time to do some Interweb research.

Home of the Catfish Stomp is also home to zany internet taxes. Sitting around the South Carolina state capitol building, smoking North Carolina tobacco cigars and sipping Kentucky whiskey, the legislature has discovered interweb shopping is bleeding the state dry. By golly something needs to be done. We can't have people who don't live in our state, or make things in our state, go around giving things to people in our state without good South Carolinians getting a piece of the action. Yep that's right. Apparently if you buy something in another state and use it in SC (or in my case give it as a gift), you owe SC some tax money. They call it a South Carolina Use Tax. There you go.

It took about thirty minutes of my life to get someone on the phone to explain this to me. Surely they don't mean to levee this tax on non-residents. Yep the do, Brian you need to pay us some taxes. Next I needed to create an account on the SC tax assessors web site. This took forever; they wanted the regular user ID and password (with 2 numbers?), then they wanted four security questions, then they wanted my SSN and birth name, then they wanted to know where and when I was born, then they wanted my current address, then they wanted the address that the product would be used, then they wanted to know the month of the purchase (why?), then they wanted the a picture of my mother's-mother's garter belt...what that one was a different site, skip it. You get the idea. It took a long time to actually get to the what-do-I-owe part of this process. Finally I get to the place where I can calculate taxes. One dollar, eighty-nine cents.

That's it? A buck eighty-nine? All this for less than two dollars? It reminded me of the kid from Better Off Dead, "Two dollars".

Sorry to all my friends in SC, you will never get another present from me. If you want me to continue to celebrate Christmas or birthday's, or Bar Mitzvah you need to get a post office box or a shipping address in Georgia.

Musing

Why do two slot toasters direct you to use a particular slot when only toasting one piece of bread? Both wires still get hot. Both holder/popper things slide down. Why only one side?

And why is it that even though I don't believe the label on the toaster, I've never tried putting the bread in the other slot, just to see if it would work?

I must be a follower.

The Fall Guy

I called the boys to get ready for school today. They were messing around on the computer wasting time before we had to leave. Both were sitting in the same chair staring blankly at their game, harassing one another like good brothers.

"Get your shoes on," I bellowed.

Number One Son clicked off the computer game, stood up, and walked away. Number Two Son stood on the chair, put a foot on the armrest, and launched himself into the air. The chair swiveled, and stole his momentum. The only thing that moved was his launch foot...in the wrong direction. Number Two Son was left hanging in the air, with no where to go until gravity realized his predicament and pulled him down.

It's amazing how long you can just hang there, it seemed like an hour. It was enough time for him to realize this wasn't going to end well, look at me, verify that I wasn't pleased with his dismount choice, and come up with an answer before I could bark at him. He also had enough hang time to learn about Newton's Laws one and three, and the importance of securing a braced launching point before jumping. Finally gravity woke up, at the last moment he learned that once you are in the air, there is no way to change course; even if there is a desk in your way.

SMACK. Head meet desk. But luckily for Number Two he had already worked on his excuse and this accident only played into his hands. He rolled on the ground, rubbed his head and popped up at my feet. The lump was already sticking up.

"Part of the job!" he yelled as he scooted out of the room.

He b-lined for the stairs, ran up to the fourth, spun around and launched himself into the air again. This time he had learned to use the railing for a guide. With one hand he guided the fall and executed a perfect 10 point landing (according to the Romanian judge).

"I'm working on my stunt man moves." Number Two says offhandedly. Meanwhile his hand runs up and gingerly checks the damaged forehead. "Bumps come with the business, I guess."

From the other side of the room Number One Son has been watching the whole affair unfold. "Only when they do it wrong," he replies. "I'm just going to stay in school. Unless a book falls off a shelf, my head will be pretty safe, and as for stairs, that's what elevators are for."

Pinewood Derby

This past weekend was the first Pinewood Derby for my boys. That might not sound like exciting fodder for a blog post, but my kids found a way to make it interesting. Sometimes they provide little insights on how their evolving minds work. As a parent I like to believe I’m somehow responsible for the good stuff and find a way to blame The Misses or the In-Laws for the bad. I don’t know who to blame for this one.

A little background on the Pinewood Derby. If you are/were/know a Cub Scout you’ve lived this already. A non-satirical description can be found on Wikipedia here, but that’s just not my style. Ahhh, Pinewood Derby, where to start? Well it’s one of the biggest events of the Cub Scout year. The Cubbies have three events, an annual banquet, an annual (or semi-annual) camping trip, and the Pinewood Derby. So the Cub Scout PR machine builds this up in the minds of little scouts to be the Superbowl of Scouting. The event itself is pretty fun, and pretty simple in concept. Each scout enters a “car” of their own creation. These cars are placed on a track with four lanes about 30 feet long. The first 1/3 of the track is a 45 degree angle. Gravity provides the energy and momentum carries the cars to the finish line. Simple as pie. Not so fast.

The thing was invented sometime in the ‘30’s, and not a bit has changed since then. The Cub Scouts provide each eager scout “all” the provisions they will need (yeah right). In the kit, scouts find a block of wood (I assume it to be pine, just because of the Derby name. But Joseph the Carpenter I am not. If it were ash, palm, or balsa, I’d have no way to know), four wheels and four nails for attaching said wheels to said wood. Simple as pie. Not so fast.

Now remember this even has a big build up. What self respecting scout would slap four wheels on a chunk of wood and parade it in front of his peers? No, no, no. You see something has to be done to make these cars unique. Maybe some paint? Maybe a cut here or there? A little sanding perhaps? Once upon a time in the 30’s seven year olds were encouraged to break out their jackknives, whittle down a block of wood, and learn valuable lessons in aerodynamics, friction, and first aid. But those days are gone.

Today’s Pinewood Derby cars come in only two classes. The cars that Daddy built, and the cars Daddy refused to build. Seven year-olds should be nowhere near today’s jigsaws, electric sanders, and soldering irons, but the cars that arrive on Derby Day, have had a heaping helping of all the above. Superbowl, how can they not? The Derby turns out a test of how well parents can build the perfect racing car with just enough imperfection to allow for plausible deniability. Most of this deniability comes in the form of a seven-year-old’s-paintjob.

As a parent I have worked out for myself a number of guiding principles. Some of those principals came into play for the Derby. As much as possible I believe in non-intervention. Failure and pain will provide much better life lessons than a fatherly lecture, with the added bonus of my not having to lift a finger. Everyone’s a winner (although technically the kids a losers in the short run). Another principal is let the kiddies own their projects. This gives them an outlet to think through problems, come up with answers, and allows a sense of pride in the final outcome (even when the final outcome sucks-balls compared to the NASA engineered competition). This also has the added bonus of my not having to lift a finger. And I always like to remind myself (and test the theory) that if any of this not-helping gets too tough, bourbon will put me back into the proper frame of mind.

So a few weeks ago, my kids got their Derby kits, opened the boxes and wondered what this was all about. I explained the rules like this, “You make a car by slapping those wheels on the block of wood. You get to shape the wood how you want (I’ll cut it for you – I had to cave in and help somewhere, so I figured I’d help with the part that guaranteed no one [but me] looses a digit), paint it how you want, and decorate it how you want. Once that’s done all the Scouts will get together and race the cars on a track. Four will enter, one will leave, losing cars will be set on fire, or blown up with cherry-bombs, or launched into space via catapult. The winning cars will continue to race one another until there is only one car left standing on the ashes and broken dreams of his fellow scouts. Then Mad Max will buzz the arena in his flying machine and set all the children free while Tina Turner sings Tiny Dancer and...something else happens, anyway it’ll all be cool.” Wow, they were hooked now. Or so I thought. Number Two wasn’t so sure about this.

“So what do we get?” asked Number Two Son.

Get? Hmmm, life skills, if you want to be a carpenter or aerospace engineer, life lessons if you need to be taught not to be a carpenter or aerospace engineer; the enjoyment of pitting your woodworking skills against your fellow Scout, or his dad the guy who invented deep directional drilling. There has to be a better sell than that, I checked the Scout Pack’s literature. “A trophy for 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place.” I replied. Now he perked up. Apparently that stuff about Thunderdome, didn’t move him. I guess he figured he could do that on his own. But the idea of gold lacquered plastic sent an Obama speech thrill down his leg.

“Are those the only trophies? Just for the first three finishes?” Number Two Son said after some thought.

Again I had to do some research. “Let’s see. Ah, nope. It seems you get a trophy for some fan favorites in different categories. Best scout theme, Best military theme, Most creative, some other categories I don’t remember. All the scouts will get to vote, and the winner in each category gets a trophy. Oh, and something else, looks like the ‘Most Fuel Efficient’ gets a trophy too.”

“What’s ‘Most Fuel Efficient’ mean?”

“Slowest. Last place.”

“Oh. That’s stupid, why didn’t they just say that?”

My boy.

After learning the rules, the Boys ran off to design their creations and develop a plan. I walked to the wet bar to work on my own plan. Each kid came back with a design scribbled on the side of the wooden block. “This is how we want it cut.” A day later they had cars in hand, and learned sanding wood sucks. “Stay in school, if you don’t like sanding things.” I’m an excellent shaper of young minds. Of course I could have introduced them to the electric sander in the garage (sanding wood sucks for Dad’s as much as kids. We just know how to drive to HomeDepot and power tool our way to laziness), but I didn’t. I’m an excellent shaper of young minds.

Number One Son went for the straight forward Pinewood Derby car. Neat design, made faster by a cool paint job. Every nine-year-old knows 90% of speed derived from the paint. Red obviously being the fastest color, violet the slowest. Even before they learn about Roy G. Biv, children have an inert understanding about the universe around them. And of course, the colors can be augmented by speed educing shapes, flame stickers, and stripes. The only reason the Bandit could out run Beaufort T. Justice was the giant thunderbird thing on the hood. Pinewood Derby rolls down these logic tracks all the way to Boy Scout junction.

Number Two Son presented me with something I’ve never seen before. Like me, both of the boys are Out-of-the-Box thinkers. We live within the rules, and rarely break them. But if you’re creative enough you’ll find there is a lot of room in the rule box. Especially for those who make it a point to take rules to their literal extreme. Something you should know about Number Two Son, he’s competitive. This boy wants to win, and he often does. He’s a natural physical talent at almost everything he tries. Lead scorer on the basketball team, pitcher for his Tee Ball baseball team, after watching me chip golf balls in the empty lot he gave me pointers on my back swing. True story when he was four he once played forward and goalie for his soccer team…AT THE SAME TIME. The kid is everything at sports that I was not. He’s a natural at everything, and a natural at winning, and kinda my hero. When he plays, he expects to find a way to win. Number Two Son is that kid that’s good at everything and doesn’t realize it. He plays with his peers and his brother’s peers and doesn’t notice the difference he’s a natural leader. So it surprised me when he presented me with his car, his “add-ons”, and his plan.

Number Two Son, had painted and bedazzled his car in expected six-year-old fashion with fireballs, “fast” paint, pin stripes and patriotic flags, but he had a secret weapon. Number Two provided me with a plastic monkey wearing a parachute. It was the kind of toy children throw in the air and watch slowly return to Earth. Then they find stairs and drop it off the top and watch it slowly return to Earth. Then they get ladders climb the roof to the fourth story of the tallest house in the neighborhood, drop it off the top and watch it slowly return to Earth. If they don’t break a leg falling off the roof they climb to the top of the tallest tree in the land drop it off and watch it slowly return to Earth and call the fire department to get them down, but bring that parachute monkey back up with you.

“I need to attach this monkey to the top of the car. After that I have a few more modifications,” Number Two Son instructed me.

“You know this parachute is going to slow it down.”

“Yep, that’s the idea. I’m trying to win this thing, Dad.”

“???”

“This is how I see this Derby-thing going. There are like a hundred kids out there. All of them are competing for three slots, 1st, 2nd, and 3rd. That’s a lot of competition. And I’ve never done this before so I don’t even know what the track looks like or how to make cars fast or anything about anything. I don’t have a chance against Webelos. Now I could come up with some neat decorations and try for a prize in the categories. But I’m sure lots of kids thought of that too. Besides there’s no way to know how people will vote. That’s just too risky. So the way I see it, no one likes to come in last. Hardly anyone will COMPETE for last place. Even if someone does it’s going to be like one or two other kids. There’s no way I’ll lose to one or two kids. With this parachute my car will be super-slow. I want a trophy, I want to win. Besides, no one will know why I have a trophy, it COULD be for 1st, who can tell? Let’s attach this monkey and find some sand paper. If I sand down a tire, I can get a flat tire too. Those are always slow.”

He’s kinda my hero.

Welcome Back Cott-Kling-er

I'm going to take a shot at reviving the blog. Back by semi-popular demand. At least a hundred...er...dozen...er...couple of you said you'd like to spend five minutes listening to my disembodied voice in your head while you were putting off more important things. What is the Interweb for if not procrastination? And who better to procrastinate with than Brian the lying-story-teller? No one, that's why you're here.

I did a little research on the blog topic during my hiatus. In the off season (off years?) I spoke to a number of professional bloggers. Turns out I had this whole thing wrong. I thought the key to blogging was to be interesting, wrong. I thought the posts had to be articulate, wrong again. And I thought the posts had to be long...strike three. Turns out the key to blogging is consistency. I'm not good at that. I do the other three better.

Seasoned bloggers have given sage Interweb advice. So I will follow sage Interweb advice. Keep your eyes out for a couple or three posts a week. I won't vouch for the length, content, or quality of the posts, but I'm told that doesn't matter anyway. If you do happen to read one of these posts, feel free to offer comments in the aptly labeled comments section. Professionals have told me that's important. If I had been paying attention I would have asked "Why?", but I wasn't paying attention so I didn't. Sorry. Maybe if you know the answer you can post it in the comments section.

Last week I told The Misses I was thinking about breathing life back into this thing. "Why now?", she said. I was hoping for "GOODIE", "HURRAY", or "That makes me HOT". Nope, I got "Why now?". And I wasn't sure how to answer. At the time I hadn't reflected on it so, I wasn't sure why now either. Just seemed right, but why? I think there are a combination of reasons.

For one thing the kids are getting a little older. That means they don't require 100% of our time anymore and there is a glimmer of free time that will need to be filled. Also, now that they do things besides roll around, burp and poop on me, they are into cooler stuff, and that might be fodder for one of those stories I'm now required to post.

Another reason has started to reveal itself lately. Apparently interesting things happen to me. I wasn't so sure this was true. Recently a close friend of mine started dating a new gal. This gal is hanging around drinking all my beer and getting to know her new beau's pals (that's me). So we find ourselves swilling booze and reliving old stories. Some of those are funny. Wheels turning (slowly) in my head said this might be fodder for some of those stories I'm now required to post.

So I'm back. And now you know why. Welcome back to those of you who have returned, and plain old welcome to those of you who have showed up for the first time. I hope we can all have a little fun, and kill a little time. If you're employer doesn't block the site, feel free check steal work hours and read this. There shouldn't be any "Not Safe for Work" posts as long as the boss isn't reading over your shoulder.

You can see I've already blew the rules on the first day back. This is interesting, articulate, and long. I'll try and stop that in the future.