A day to remember

The pale, puny youth blew the hottest breath he could muster into his chilled hands, as he worked dutifully to oil the axles and polish the wheels of the chariots before the start of the races.

It was a cold day and dreary, but the crowds were optimistic that spring was near and with it the official start of racing season. Today's contests would be mere exhibition, but with all the gods in attendance, no racer should take the event lightly.

The Roman chariot racers, though, were all around an unreliable lot (not nearly so dependable as the Greek racers, who all produced weekly top-notch performances, so long as their pubescent male lovers did not require extra attention that day).

Each showed up for his first contest of the day. Thick-chested young men with hearty laughs dared death as they chased each other around tricky turns behind horses running at full sprint.

December, a grizzled competitor with thick beard and back hair to match, growled at the speedy but less experienced May while he drove him into the outer wall of the track. Meanwhile, a cool, expressionless July --- well-tanned and bearing his signature sunglasses --- cruised to the inside track to take the lead.

Similar scenes played out throughout the afternoon, as competitors were defeated and downgraded to the losers' bracket. The Romans gods cheered raucously each time a competitor's chariot spun out of control, and each time eagerly watched to see if he would revive from the ground or lie prostrate to be trampled.

Eventually the hot-tempered August took top prize for the day in a bloody final matchup with December, and all that was left to see was the consolation race among the losers. The gods waited impatiently for the final race, as spectators began to slowly filter out of the seats to head home.

As the pale, puny helper lined up the horses and chariots for the losers-bracket finale, the gods grew restless, noticing that no competitors were in sight to drive the chariots. Race organizers scrambled.

April had gone missing, allegedly nursing a hangover from partying the previous night in the ancient coastal town of Panama City. July was being tended to by the medics for heat exhaustion, and January had gone home to sleep through his seasonal depressed state.

Not a racer remained in sight, save the recently triumphant August, who was still pounding his chest and taunting hecklers in the crowd who accused him of cheating against December.

In desperation, one race organizer whispered to his supervisor, "What about that kid?"

"Who? Which kid?" the supervisor looked around, puzzled.

"There, standing by the chariots," the organizer said.

The supervisor gasped at the idea when he saw whom the organizer had suggested. The organizer shrugged and motioned toward the gods, who silently demanded entertainment from their upper-deck suites.

Reluctantly, the supervisor approached the runt. "You, boy, what is your name?"

The runt looked up, terrified. "Me? Oh, it's February, sir."

"Have you ever driven a chariot, February?" the supervisor asked, leaning into the boy's face with an intimidating glare.

"Well, not officially, sir. But I drive to warm up the horses before the races every week."

"We seem to be a bit short of drivers for the losers bracket," the supervisor said. "Why don't you select a chariot and prepare to race?"

"Oh. Well, I'd be glad to, sir. But you don't think the other racers will be angry with me, do you?"

"I'll deal with them. For now, this crowd is waiting to see one last race."

"Yes, sir," February said with dutiful excitement.

The supervisor turned and walked back to the other organizers. "Poor boy doesn't stand a chance," he muttered. "He'll be killed before the first turn."

February took his stance in one of the vacant chariots and waited while no competition arrived. The organizers continued looking for other racers, until at last the hot-headed champion August stomped his way over to the starting line.

"What? This infant wants to race?" August shouted toward the gods' skybox. "I'll give him a race!" And the champion climbed atop the chariot platform beside February's chariot, leaning over to whisper to his small opponent, "Why don't you take a little headstart, sweetie pie? HA HA HA!"

February squinted against the spewing spittle from his overgrown competitor and shook his head slightly. With that, August aimed his whip and started February's horse off down the track. February stumbled about on the platform, not being prepared for the start, and grabbed the handles to regain his balance.

After giving his opponent a five second headstart, August shouted, "I'm coming for you, my dear," laughed a maniacal laugh toward the gods, and made a throat-slitting motion with his thumb as he whip-started his own horse.

February drove as fast as his beast would run, repeatedly checking over his shoulder for the murderous August. After about 30 seconds, he approached the first turn and looked back to find August had nearly completely closed the gap between them. February whipped the horse and held off his opponent until the start of the next straightaway.

Entering the back straightaway, August pulled even with the boy and again showed him his maniacal laugh, whipping February's horse in the front legs and steering his chariot to ram February into the inner wall.

February's chariot rattled, skidded out of control and tipped over, but managed to settle back upright and facing straight ahead. The boy watched his opponent speeding away, looking over his shoulder with a growl and a prominent display of his middle finger (despite its having no apparent meaning in ancient Rome).

February took a deep breath, leaned forward and whispered something to his horse. The horse stood quietly for a moment, before responding with a defiant "neigh" and raising up on its back legs. The beast hit an immediate full sprint and began to close in again on August and his chariot.

The crowd roared and the gods stood to their feet, trying to comprehend what they were witnessing.

"Ah, just in time," August shouted over his shoulder, as the competitors
entered the last turn nearly even. August growled and steered to ram his young competitor again, but at the precise moment February's horse sped up even faster and escaped the swipe.

"A little more," February shouted to his horse, which was pulling in front of the opponent inch by inch. Just as February passed the front of his opponent's chariot, August drew his whip and struck a lash across the boy's back.

February cried out and nearly crumpled under the pain of the blow. The crowd spotted the attack and responded with loud boos and cheers.

Holding on with the little strength he had left, February sized up the position of his opponent's horse and chariot. "A little more," he shouted again to his horse, and a short moment later added, "Now!"

Upon command, February's horse whipped its hindquarters to the right, steering the chariot sharply into the front legs of the opposing horse, which stumbled, fell and sent its chariot and rider crashing to the earth.

August bounced forward out of his crashing chariot with the heft of an oaf, avoiding a broken neck by the narrowest of margins. His momentary relief ended, however, when he looked back to see the chariot speeding toward him. As he scrambled, he managed to move every body part out of the way except one, which had flopped out from under his racing garb in the midst of the hub-bub and found itself castrated by a spoke of the wheel.

The crowd and the gods leapt in the air and cheered wildly as young February crossed the finish line, defeating the champion himself.

Rays of sunshine burst through the late-winter clouds and lit upon February as he waved happily to his new fans.

The race organizers hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him back and forth in front of the crowd shouting, "Hip hip, hooray."

Pretty girls waved coyly at him from the crowd.

The gods smiled.

August cried angrily in the background, as he searched the dust for his dismembered member.

Victorious-sounding music played.

And when all that requisite celebratory procedure was finished, the gods called young February up to their skybox and rewarded his valor in mindless, bloody entertainment with this time-honored declaration:

"30 days hath November, April, June and September. You, lad, may never grow to be a full 30-day month, much less a 31-day titan such as this you have just defeated. But you shall always be the reliable bridge between cold, depressed January and March's promise of springtime.

"And in honor of your valor here today, you shall receive an extra day, a 29th day that is, once every fourth year --- except not on the 100th year unless that's the 400th, yadda yadda yadda, you can read the fine print for yourself kid."

Congratulations, February. It's your big day.

Oh. They weren't joking?

Fellow Georgia residents and those with close ties to the state might have heard a bit of this news already: some Georgia state legislators have devised the ingenious idea to move the state border a mile north so that the state (and its behemoth capital metro area) will have access to the waters of the Tennessee River.

When the proposal first hit the floor of the General Assembly a couple of weeks ago, the article from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution quoted a number of Tennessee political figures making wisecracks about the idea, warning that a group of Volunteers would ascend Lookout Mountain with their rifles and defend their fair land if need be. The Chattanooga mayor (if I remember the source correctly) compared Georgia Gov. Sonny Perdue to Don Quixote, going on a quest and tilting at windmills, rather than addressing Georgia's water shortage through serious measures such as conservation.

Well, guess what Tennessee? Joke's on you, because Perdue and his pals in the state legislature are absolutely serious.

This snippet of an article from the Atlanta Business Chronicle details the plans of Georgia's leaders, which have been months or maybe years in the making, to build a pipeline from the Tennessee River to the metro Atlanta area. According to the article, a possible path for the pipeline has already been laid out.

The news out today: the Georgia state Senate unanimously passed a resolution proposing that the state border be moved about a mile north --- to the 35th parallel as originally intended before some surveyor screwed it up in 1818.

Of course, that doesn't make it so. The state House will look at a similar resolution. Oh, and then we have to talk to our northern neighbors, Tennessee and North Carolina, to see what they think about the idea.

Hm, I wonder what they'll say?


Georgia: "Gentlemen, I have called this meeting to claim what's rightly mine. Please deed over all property north of the current border extending approximately 1 mile to the 35th parallel."

Tennessee: (snickering) "Yeah, whatever you say champ."

(Tennessee and North Carolina whisper to each other. More snickering)

Georgia: (in stern tone) "What's so funny?"

Tennessee: "Huh? Oh, no, nothing. Nothing's funny."

N.C.: "Nope. Not a thing."

Georgia: (shouting now) "Then why are you laughing?"

Tennessee: "What? We're not..." (bursts into uncontrolled laughter along with N.C.)

(Tennessee and N.C. stand to leave the room.)

Tennessee: (fighting back more laughter and looking at his watch) "I'm sorry. We, uh, we've got a lunch date with Florida. We'll see you later."

Georgia: "Wait just a minute. We're not finished here."

N.C.: "You take care, all right pal?"

(Tennessee and N.C. leave the room)

You know, that's just one of many possible scenarios.

And eventually, if Georgia is serious enough about the idea, the state leaders will probably get the U.S. Congress and/or the federal courts involved.

So, we'll see what happens I guess. Who knows? If Gov. Perdue gets tapped as a vice presidential candidate (as some terrifying news reports have speculated) and then the elephants win back the White House, this plan could really have legs.

Personally, I hope not. For one thing, it seems a little like a cop-out for Atlanta in terms of managing its limited water supply. Plus, I've grown fond of the idea of metro Atlanta now having a real, tangible roadblock to slow its growth before it swallows up all of northern Georgia.

That's not to mention the fact that the Tennessee politician's remarks about ascending Lookout Mountain with rifles also might not have been a joke.

Faking it

Perverts. I'm not writing about that kind of faking it.

I'm referring to the way I felt on Monday and Tuesday, when I dressed up in a nice business suit (actually two different suits, one for each day) and drove to a high-dollar hotel and conference center for an investor conference.

I do this periodically, in different cities, different hotel/conference centers and with different investment themes (although constantly rotating through the same three suits). In case you're wondering, I attend these conferences as part of my job as a financial journalist, not just for fun.

But no matter where it is or which suit I'm wearing, I always get the distinct sense that I am entirely out of place and wonder how long it will take for someone else to notice. I keep expecting someone to walk up and say, "Excuse me. Who are you and why are you here?"

Of course they don't do that, partly because I'm in a suit like the rest of them and partly because I'm wearing the same style name tag from the same conference registration table as the rest of them.

I just can't shake the sense that I'm faking it --- surrounded by white guys in suits who seem genuinely fascinated by the particular investment theme, and perhaps even convinced that their participation in this investment world serves some greater good in society.

I share neither sentiment, beyond a general intellectual curiosity that prevents me from being bored to the verge of suicide, and of course the understanding that my livelihood requires me to pay close attention to the subject matter at hand and talk with as many of these suits as possible. Actually, that general curiosity usually manages to make my mildly interested in the topic.

We eat dainty pastries with sliced up melon and berries for breakfast and make polite, mindless conversation over lunch. At the end of it all, we're invited to "network" over cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.

Ugh. I'm usually too exhausted by this point to exercise any of my networking abilities, which are in rather short supply even at full strength.

Most likely, these feelings are the result of my quasi-blue collar upbringing. I never knew anyone wealthy growing up. I certainly didn't know any investment bankers or CEOs. And call me stereotypical, but I'm pretty sure most of the investment bankers and CEOs I mingled among earlier this week would have turned their noses pretty high if they walked past the kinds of people I spent my time with as a child and teenager.

I just can't seem to feel at home in this crowd. Beyond the stuck-up snob stereotype, I've got no good reason to dislike them. They generally come across as friendly and accommodating, even the CEOs when I'm asking them questions they would rather not answer.

I guess I just prefer 'salt of the earth,' working class personalities over 'money makes the world go round' attitudes. And I worry a little that if I spend too much time around the latter type then I'll lose my ability to relate to the former.

Ah well, ultimately I do think people are people, and we're not all that different deep down --- in our desires, hopes, needs and so on. Thus, I get by, even when forced to hang out with filthy rich old white guys.

That concludes today's session of self-psychoanalysis. I owe myself $100.

My most productive weekday (hint: I wrote this on Monday)

Just saw an article reporting that about 60% of surveyed senior executives said Tuesday was their most productive day of the week. (This comes from a Robert Half International survey of 150 senior executives.)

It's a curious tendency, and I've noticed it in my own work habits: we tend to be more productive on certain days of the week and even at certain hours of the day. For me, I'm no damn good in the morning. Especially Monday morning --- hence, I'm writing a blog post.

The survey suggests that the top execs of major corporations tend not to get much done on Mondays either. They're catching up on e-mails after a weekend off, plus they have many of their routine meetings on Monday. (Are they suggesting meetings detract from productivity? I am stunned.)

In the survey, Fridays are the least productive day. I think I differ on that one. Sometimes I'm off in my own world Friday, not interested in work. But other weeks, I've finally gotten on a roll by Friday and I'm cranking out my best work. Or at least I'm working quickly to try to get done by a decent hour and begin the weekend.

On average, my most productive day could fall anywhere between Tuesday and Thursday. But the real moral of the story here is, essentially, Mondays suck and we really should just not go to work those days.

Come on, who's with me? Four-day work weeks? I think I'd be tempted to trade in five eight-hour work days for four ten-hour days per week. I don't usually accomplish anything after work hours through the week anyway.

Thus concludes my stalling from work. Luckily (I guess) I've got to head to a conference in Atlanta today, so I'll be forced to get something done.

To compensate for a total lack of cleverness in this morning's writing, I direct you to this article on the subject from The Onion:

Study Finds Working at Work Improves Productivity