Thursday, September 30, 2010

All Aboard! Industrial Smokestacks In Space

Could it be that industrialism is not eternal? Will our factories indeed be nothing but burned out cinders? Is there no way we can pass on the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) to future generations?

I made the mistake again of watching the Science Channel on TV. There's times in the day I really like to watch this channel, because I get all kinds of dirt on the Major Industrial Powers (MIP) from their "how they do it" shows. Since I know these clowns couldn't make a paper bag, and then couldn't fight their way out of it if they could, it's obvious these shows are carefully patched together from stop action footage, then sped up.

Be that as it may, a couple days ago, they had one of their other shows, stuff about outer space and all the dangers lurking out there for the Earth. I thought scientists were supposed to be optimistic, "Better Living Through Science" and all that crap! But the scientists on this channel were pessimistic in the extreme, never painting a very rosy picture for the world in the long run. In fact, I haven't seen one yet who thinks the world can go on even another five billion years!

But, for the sake of argument, we're going to accept their figures. And immediately throw up our hands and wonder what it all means for the longevity of industrialism and what we might be able to do about it.

The problem, as sketched out on this show, was that the sun, as a star, has a lifespan. And it's already getting up there in years, with only around five billion years left. At that time, it will expand to a gigantic size and be "a red giant," possibly even expanding as far as the Earth itself. Others are less certain about that, with the possibility that it will simply be an enormous red ball in the sky, filling the sky. Either way, it's bad news. Meaning at the very least, it'll be the end of daylight savings time as we know it.

Well, I don't have to tell you, this whole scenario is the worst thing I could hear. Right when I got the RIM going, right when I finally had something to really live for, right when I was going from victory to victory! There's always some scheming SOB willing to step up and take it all away! But maybe I should calm down, because, after all, five billion years is still a very long time. One billion years is a thousand million years, and just to go one million years would take forever. Then multiply one billion times five. It's scary. But think how fast the last 10 billion years went by...

The good news is they had one optimistic scientist (somehow one escaped the editors) who thought we will have devised a plan and the technology necessary to leave the Earth and go to another planet. It really got me thinking, ever since I saw the show, that we'll have to pack up everything out of our factories and make a run for it. And hopefully the RIM industrialists alive at that time will have the upper hand over any MIP industrialists who might still exist. Because we don't want the MIP's incompetence, shoddy wares, and sky high prices to follow us among the stars!

At this point, friends, I'm going to keep going as though nothing's amiss. I'll make it a vow. But it's still hard to believe, if any of this turns out to be true, that at some point all of this, the world, our factories, and this blog will cease to exist. I didn't think anything would make me quit. But someday there'll be no tomorrow. When that happens, whatever archives I have accumulated will have to suffice for those pioneer industrialists on the new world. It's a downer, but I'm going to use it to motivate me to do my very best in the meantime.

Yesterday, a day after seeing this show, I stepped out to a nice sunny day and went to a local park. I thought the whole thing is very fragile. Yet nothing else in nature seemed to realize the danger. I looked at the leaves of the trees moving in the gentle breeze, the decorative rocks in a nice arrangement, a few birds taking a bath in a fountain, and others flying in tandem across a beautiful blue sky. Crickets and other insects were making their droning noises from the grass and bushes. At first, I thought what anyone in my position would think, what a great spot for a factory this park would be; any industrialist looking out his window here would love the view.

We're going to keep going. That much is certain. Exactly how long we're going to make it, that's anyone's guess. But it's not too early, as far as I'm concerned, for someone to get started on plans for our escape, that residential industrialism, of the people, by the people, and for the people, should not perish from ... wherever it is we end up.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

The Intuitive Industrialist

Intuition is an aspect of our experience that makes us feel like reality can be inside out. We think we have it all figured out, by reason, then a kind of abiding, strange sixth sense is there to give answers and direction instantly and unforeseen by our ordinary range of consciousness.

Or something like that. What I actually know about it -- even though it's probably as much as anyone -- is very little. But I know I depend on it, and treasure it when it's there, to see me through another day.

Hearing, seeing, feeling, tasting, and touching -- we get a lot of pleasure and pain from our ordinary senses, which we know as they're mentally registered in the brain. Intuition's up there somewhere too, feeling more like a friend in the attic who swoops down when you need him, then ducks out of sight after the need passes.

One of the biggest immediate needs is to avoid danger. So I'll always find myself looking all the various directions, scanning the scene and registering it. But it's those glimpses right at the periphery, or those quick insights on a large collection of sensory input, that really impress me most. If you've got it, the best way to use it is not to use it; just let it do its own thing. Too much consciously trying to stimulate it and you're blocked. Unless an actual immediate need arises, especially unforeseen. Then you have to trust yourself, and in the end, nurture intuition the best you can.

But my focus can't be intuition as a general subject. With my role as one of the country's leading residential industrialists, I need to put this vital information out there for the benefit of my industrial compeers. Each of them, from Ted down the street (making vats) to Ike across the road (in the truck business), can learn to trust his intuition in the industrial field. As each man does so, he will have a greater level of confidence that everything's going to work out for the best. And to get out of the way.

In my opinion, they're miles ahead of others who aren't in industry, because I've found that industry itself enhances intuition. That's the way it's been with me. Because it looks like the more scanning you're doing of the scene, the more intuition you have. And with a million and one challenging circumstances in industry, there's always something unforeseen popping up. Forklift problems, spoiled parts, fights in the break room, a fire in the warehouse, a dead mouse in the water softener -- the list of problems we face everyday is endless.

Industry has so many drawbacks -- I'm not meaning to discourage anyone! -- that you always have to be on your guard, open to what the moment might bring. And one source of so many drawbacks has to be our workers. Workers, of course, are our biggest asset, because we couldn't do anything without them. But they're also perhaps our biggest headache, just because they are.

And we have some real lulus! Most of these cretins don't know the slightest thing about any of this. So the industrialist, you see, has to have a lot of intuition, because he needs it to make up for their lack. They have no foresight, no sense of responsibility, and, in so many cases, no intelligence. You have to step them through every little thing because of their terrible incompetence. They don't know a girder from a girdle.

It sounds harsh, but, thankfully, it's not true of everyone. Although we do get a lot of stupid people, mostly guys under 25, as you would guess, who've grown up not knowing a thing. Whenever there's a terrible accident, it's usually one of these dunces involved. They've never had to take responsibility for anything, so if a hundred pound part, say, comes falling out of the upper lines, they're usually the ones who'll get clunked. You never want to say to one of these idiots, "Don't put your hand in this," indicating a dangerous place to put your hand, like a punch press or a box of tightly packed gears, because they'll think you're kidding and do it anyway. The look of grave concern on your face or your profusely sweating brow don't stimulate any sense of consciousness or intuition in them.

But thank God, there's enough irresponsible, drunk folks down on Skidrow having illicit relations every night, because that's what we depend on to keep our reserve of cheap, albeit stupid, labor high. These kids are such idiots, you don't even have to give them a paycheck, just an occasional case of beer and carton of cigarettes -- and maybe a gift certificate to a tattoo parlor at Christmas -- and they'll show up ... when they do. They're tearing around the parking lot in their cars, but you close the gate and get out the cattle prod and eventually you can herd a sufficient number in. Most of them can get enough things done, the really simple stuff, that it's still beneficial to have them around. Of course, having them around is a real double-edged sword. You need all your senses, and that includes intuition, to counter the great danger.

Intuition, then, is something that's hard to describe and define, even for the intelligent industrialist, but it's with us nonetheless. And the more we learn to depend on it -- which usually happens if we're glancing around all the time like a bird leery of predators -- the more it'll be there to help us. Each of us will be more successful industrialists the more intuition we have, and the more we learn to trust it.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Industrialism Changes Your Thinking

If you've got your own factory, and probably most of you do by now, then you know exactly what I'm talking about, that industrialism changes your thinking. I like the picture; I have the bliss of an erupting smokestack in my head, psychologically speaking. All the good things of industrialism influence my daily outlook. Serene.

This would probably be true with anything. I know for me I get into things. Like if I concentrate on anything long enough. Like music. It's probably true for everyone. If you listen to an album 10 or 12 times, you'll be thinking about it in your sleep, humming the tunes, thinking about it until you're blissed out, or sick.

For me, and others I've talked with, the fact that we spend most of our lives looking at conveyor belts, a constant parade of consumer goods in various stages of assembly, parts bins, pallets, etc., means that's what we're thinking of. Every few seconds, even when everything's shut down, I can hear the beeping of trucks and forklifts backing up in my head. We eat, drink, and sleep it, and even let it keep us warm at night. There it goes again, beep beep.

But it does keep me warm at night. I was writing about this very thing recently, how I'm turned off to both women and men in this matter of keeping warm at night. Just to clarify there, I've never been turned on to men, but I would be even less so now if I had been turned on to them at all before. As for women, yes, a few of them have turned my head now and then, but thanks to industrialism, it's mostly then. You see enough lunch ladies with deep voices and hairnets, it does something to you.

Most of the changes in my thinking have been positive. No matter what I'm doing, I'm trying to do it in the most efficient way possible. And part of efficiency is the desire to mass produce. You set up the parts in a particular way, you coordinate how everything has to go together just so, then you assemble the item, repeating the steps until you're done. But it can be hard to turn off. The other day, my mind drifted off in an industrial reverie while I was doing something, and when I came to I had about 75 BLTs on the kitchen counter! And I usually only make two. It's impressive that I could fry 50 pounds of bacon without realizing it.

Then when you have an increase in efficiency, you want to keep refining it, always gaining a second or two here and there, always trying for the extra edge. I find myself speeding up all the time even when it's not necessary to do a good job. I allot myself a certain amount of time and take deadlines very seriously. Seemingly gone are the days when I can really relax and take my time and do a particular thing without the pressure of aiming for greater efficiency. And it can be painful if you nick yourself shaving as often as I do. Industrial speed, like the old ginsu knife guy.

It's also a little disconcerting when you get out of your element, the industrial setting, because, of course, your thinking goes with you. I was at the city library yesterday, trying to relax. I was really there to look through their books about inventors and inventions. I wanted to get a list of everything that had been invented, figuring that anything they didn't mention would be fair game for me.

But then I got a stack of magazines from the rack, put them on the little table next to one of the easy chairs, looked up at the clock, and proceeded to scan through them as fast as possible. I had a feverish pace going. In the end, I left a heap of magazines on the floor five foot deep. I managed to make it through everything from The Advocate to Z Magazine! Pretty good time, too: 8 minutes, 42 seconds! Then I noticed I was the center of attention for everyone in the place.

I liked hanging out there, very quiet except for one thing. I complained to the librarian about all the loud beeping but she swore she didn't hear it. So I just tried to put it out of my head and enjoy myself.

I saw this one guy there -- he caught my attention with his look. He had a real industrial strength leather jacket and jeans. He was dressed up like a guy who never takes his clothes off. They fit him to a T. He had long hair, a beard, looking almost messianic, and was carrying a pack and a guitar. Now here's a guy, I thought, who (maybe) knows how to live. I'm not sure he knows how to live; I'm just guessing. It seemed like he was carrying everything he had. That'd have its bad side, because you need somewhere to put your stuff. But it'd have its good side, in that he obviously goes here and there singing his songs and maybe sleeping under the stars.

It started me thinking: Here I am with a Grandma, a house, a half acre, a tire factory, an electrical generating plant, a warehouse, this blog, my dog, and many other things. But am I blessed? Or is all this a big weight around my neck, holding me down? But now, looking back, of course I'm blessed, now that I'm back in my factory. The beep even fits in here! So, it's dangerous to go to the library, because it, like everything else, can influence your thinking, however, in a negative way.

By the way, when I was sitting by the magazines, the guy with the guitar disappeared behind me and I didn't see him again. I wanted to study him. I wondered where he went and if I might see his guitar stashed behind a stack of books, but I didn't. Then, amazingly, as I was leaving the building, here he came back in! It made me wonder why he even left ... 15 minutes before. Did he need to plug the meter for a parked suitcase? Our eyes almost met, but it didn't happen. I was a little afraid I wouldn't be able to shake him, so that kept me from asking him about his guitar and whether he knew any cool songs.

How about that? Our eyes almost met. Looking back, I should've allowed it. He might've been my industrial double. Just an ordinary guy, who started thinking about going on the road with his guitar, then it got the better of his thought process and now here he is, no other place. But even almost is kind of cool. A road person, a leather jacket guy, a guitar guy, a messianic beard guy, living in his world of the road and scrapping for quarters, probably, in a rare encounter with me, the writer of this famous blog, the philosophical father of the entire Residential Industrial Movement, and who knows what all I might be famous for in the future? I know if I ever run for office, I'll have a few sexual comments to answer for. So I might take the easy way out and become a priest.

But had it happened, he would've looked at me and I would've looked at him. And each might've felt a little sorry for the other. And each might've felt a little envious of the other. And maybe I would've won him over, or maybe he me. Maybe he'd like the security of industrialism keeping him warm at night. And maybe I'd like the feeling of really taking a chance in life, of showing up at libraries with my guitar or piano in whatever town I happened to find myself.

But that's all passed now.

Anyway, I spent last night in a warm bed, and that guy, who knows what kind of night he had? A wild animal nibbling at his beard, then pulling back in and going to sleep. I'd guess I had more comfort, even with the beeping, but he probably had more to write a song about. Being him would change my thinking just as much as anything. Whether I have industrialism or not, my thinking is always going to be different.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Industrialism Keeps Me Warm At Night -- Not Men

It should probably go without saying that given the choice between industrialism keeping me warm at night and men that I would go with industrialism every time. That is 100% true, but I want to make it very plain after some of the comments I got yesterday on my post, "Industrialism Keeps Me Warm At Night -- Not Women."

I wasn't expecting to delve into the subject of the butt ugliness of men today, since I thought that was a given. But, again, with the comments suggesting that I prefer men for keeping warm, as well as the rather obscure charge that I'm a "misogynist," I figured I needed to make my feelings crystal clear. (For those of you not with "the in crowd," according to Webster, a misogynist is a hater of women. That's ridiculous! Some of my closest relatives are women, including Grandma herself.) My point, and I may have been inelegant in my expression, was that I prefer industrialism and hard work for keeping me warm at night, not women. The same thing goes for men.

What is there that is so wonderful, so fascinating, and so warmth-giving, about industrialism? That's a great question. With industrialism, you have machines and tools that are fresh, vibrant, and given to durability and efficiency. You can wield the tools and weld the parts. The machines work in terrific sync with the mind of the worker, being an extension of the man. But with their great power, they'll be spitting out everything from paperclips to vats long after the worker has died at his post and has been replaced by his son. (We turn off the machines for 10 minutes in tribute to the fallen, then the whistle blows and it's back to work.)

In my own factory, I can have a whole team of men manning the stations and I'll stand there and do my part, or, all alone at night, I can go in, start up the line on "super slow," and work on a product all by myself. The machines clink and clank in harmony and the tools are pliant to my hand and demands. It's a thing of beauty, a hint of eternity's bliss. Surely, heaven will be full of enormous factories and tools up the yin yang.

Now, to answer some of my critics, might I prefer men for keeping me warm at night? By no means!

I look at the male form and I'm revolted, to say the least. I prefer the female form, even with the severe criticisms I leveled against it. And since there's basically one thing on the man's body that makes him a man, let's just cut to the chase and address it. But, again, since I don't do blue material, I'm going to have to be a little vague on the terminology I use to describe the male "business."

You've got -- in the "business" region of the male form -- a bit of "business" that you can't miss. It's more or less oblong with more length than girth. It has two general states, the quiescent or detumescent state and the tumescent or hardonescent state. To give the best description of it, just let me say you know the difference when you see it. In the former state, it's shrunken and looks like a wrinkled, boneless finger, aimed downward. In the latter state, it points toward the north star and can fill the room; it's definitely the center of attention when it's most active.*

Now, is this male member attractive or butt ugly? I insist that it is butt ugly. For the excited possessor of it, there can be no greater treasure, that much is true. But for anyone unfortunate enough to be looking on, it is at the very least an annoyance, and at the best embarrassing. You have to think, Is this the best nature could do? To which I would say, Yes. But that's just it; it's a natural appendage with a natural function; it's not meant as an object of detached beauty, although some of these butt ugly men might be more beautiful if it were detached, their hormonal levels being out of whack. They think it's their source of power when all it is is a thing for urinary excretion and the occasional work of procreation. It's not something to keep you warm at night.

In my opinion, the more guys parade them around, the less desirable they'd be as a mate. How much better it'd be if they were fitted with a glass box, attached to a catheter for its most common use, and kept well preserved for the rarer instance of the procreative drive at the key time in their mate's estrous cycle. "Break Glass In Case of Ovulation," or perhaps if she's howling at the moon and can't be stilled any other way.

My opinion, then, is that nature got it right, but man, parading himself, showing up at the park, whipping it out behind every bush, and even trying to get cozy with knotholes in trees, is going too far. It's not that good looking! In fact, it's butt ugly. Keep it to yourself! The rest of us don't want to see it!

Then, all the other aspects of the male form, the head region, the neck, the torso, the legs, the feet, and working back up, the buttocks region itself, are butt ugly. As far as I'm concerned, it's similar to the problems of the female form, with so many extremes of largeness and smallness, and every other possibility of deformity, that the only fully accurate verdict that can be rendered is: BUTT UGLY. It's definitely not what I would like for keeping me warm at night, not by a long shot.

The best alternative, what I've found, and I hope others may discover this for themselves, is the hard but satisfying work of industry. If you're blessed to have your own factory, like so many in the Residential Industrial Movement, you can tinker around with the industrial forms to your heart's content. If you're simply a worker in someone else's facility, you can work on your own warmth issues during your regular shift and maybe on breaks, if they'll allow it.

Whatever your level of involvement in industry, may you stay warm every night, with a warmth you can be proud of in the morning!

*There's a lot more that can be said of the phallus and phallicism, such as the connection with religion and deities. It's a rich but dangerous field of study. Check out this quote:

"In approaching this subject, it behoves me to walk warily. For, to some writers so repulsive that they shirk even its necessary elucidation, it exercises a fascination upon others which is not conducive to sound reasoning. Has not a President of the Anthropological Institute declared that "so soon as a man begins to study phallicism he goes crazy"?

From "Shinto - The Way of the Gods," by W.G. Aston, 1905, p. 186.

Since I don't want to go any crazier than I already am, I shall not say much more about the subject. Instead, I'll find my warmth in industrialism, thank you very much.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Industrialism Keeps Me Warm At Night -- Not Women

There are the pleasures of the flesh, which are very fleeting, and there are the pleasures of life that are much longer lasting, like what you can get from hard work in industry. Working with metal, belts, girders, plastic, rubber, resulting in stacks of finished wares.

It may sound ridiculous to a lot of people -- mostly those infected with embarrassing diseases -- but to some of us it's really the only way to live. Why would I want to trade the standard, uniform, long-lasting output of the best industrial labor, say, for some butt ugly woman who's here today and gone tomorrow? I wouldn't!

I know, calling someone butt ugly sounds a little harsh. But bear with me, that's really the way it is. With even the best looking women, if you look at them a little closer, you see some real butt ugliness. Maybe too much girth, not enough girth, spots on their skin, thin wispy facial hair, much too tan, not enough sun, bug eyes, narrow eyes, squinty eyes, a huge honking nose, maybe one too sharp or too flat, a mouth too small or too big. Or someone who's always licking her teeth or smacking her lips.

Also, you get all these butt ugly ones with big elephant ears, hair that's a mess, hair with too much hairspray, hair that's been in a hairnet all day, hair that's bristly, hair too thick or too thin, or hair that's gray. You start looking and you immediately see wrinkles around the eyes, a furrowed brow, wrinkles around the mouth, sagging skin around the mouth, jowls, a big out of place black hair coming out of the forehead, neck sagging, or neck wrinkles. Then there's too much makeup or not enough.

On thing I always consider butt ugly is too many piercings. Some of them are extremely big, like in the ear lobe. I don't want any ear lobe holes that are big enough to fit a telescope through. Or piercings all the way up the ear, enough holes to hold a dozen birthstones. Or tongue piercings, how hideously butt ugly those are. Nose piercings the same, jewelry sticking out of the lips, nose rings, cheek rings, piercings around the eyes. It's butt ugly. Any piercings are bad, as are tattoos. Tattoos are the worst, like ugly bruises that never heal.

And speaking of the eyes, it's hideously butt ugly to have eyebrows that have been plucked and different fake ones penciled in, or eyebrows that are too thick, so she looks like Stalin or some other walrus character. I'd prefer eyebrows that are natural, haven't been messed with too much, but aren't too thick, too thin, not a forest, not cobwebs. Also, eyes that don't wander, aren't shifty, aren't weak-looking, not one looking straight out and one looking at 2 o'clock, and not crossed like a cross-eyed lion. Everyone's so crazy about Mona Lisa's eyes and smile. She's butt ugly.

It's butt ugly if the neck is too long or too short, too thick, too thin. Let's just avoid all the funkiness of extremes on necks or any other body part. I'm not looking for birth defects, birthmarks, two of anything where there should be one, one of anything where there should be two. Just keep it simple, the way nature intended, like in the old National Geographics. The tribal women walked around naked all day and the guys were smart enough to be off building squirrel traps or missionary pots.

I'm seriously against anything as hideously butt ugly as a woman whose body has problems, moving past the head and neck downward. And there's not really any reason to specifically describe each thing. You know it when you see it. If there's any deformity, any variance from a narrow standard, any sagging, any flabbiness, any hyper-thinness, anything aiming in oddball directions, any freckles, blemishes, wrinkles, differences in size, that makes for a butt ugly imbalance. You can keep it.

I find it extremely butt ugly if there's any kind of difficulties with the arms and fingers. Too narrow, too bony, fidgeting with them, fingernails that have been chewed, fingernails that are too long, fingernails with dirt under them, painted fingernails, fingernails with designs painted on them, fingernails with polish (except a very thin coat of light pink, I like that). Of course, any flab on the back of the arms would be out.

I hesitate to mention the breasts, since that's one of the main things, but a lot of them are butt ugly. And it's the same as above, the size (too big, too small), the shape (distended, pair-shaped), the feel (like five pounds of bricks or five pounds of feathers), the perkiness (too perky, not perky enough), too much separation between them (where you could join them on her back), or too much closeness (where cleavage persists even when fully nude). I'm not looking for Chesty Morgan. And I'm not looking for a body builder with shrinky dinks either.

Let's go quickly to the floor. You have the same problem with feet. They're butt ugly. I'll bet I haven't seen five women in my lifetime with feet that are presentable. They're too big, too wide, too short, or something's wrong with them. Big knobby toes, bony joints, missing the pinky toenail, problems with fungus, odor, dirty, one thing or another, hammertoes. I've heard of men (perverts with odd fetishes) who like to worship women's feet. That's disgusting. These men simply hate themselves so much they find any horrible butt ugly body part appealing.

The legs. A lot of guys say they're leg men. Not me! For the most part, they're butt ugly too. Too short, stumpy, or too long and thin. I'll give it to most women that they shave their legs. That's good, but you have to keep doing it. You rub a leg that hasn't been shaved in an hour and it's already bristly. It's like adopting a porcupine. And could they please not nick themselves so many times? The last thing, one of the last things, I want to do is rub some bristly leg and come up with blood on my fingers or a picked off scab.

Now, going up, we're up to the supposedly good stuff. Which also, frankly, is also butt ugly in so many cases. Since I don't do blue material, I need to tread lightly in this area. Of course the butt is literally butt ugly. There's no real difference between a man's and a woman's butt. The same disgusting crack up the middle. Just once, I'd like to find one that was smooth all the way across. But, since that's never happened, we're left with various grades of butt ugly ones. Too big, that's a huge problem. There's something odd about the curve of a woman that gives them bigger butts. You see big bubble ones, sticking out like bench, I hate those. And of course any woman who has to pad her pants, she's automatically disqualified.

Now, and this is the really blue part, so my vocabulary needs to be very careful. There's the meat of the goodie, as they call it. And I don't know what you think, but these are extremely butt ugly too. Like a couple of prunes sharing the rent, or a bed of oysters gone bad. There's so many flaps and folds, creases and twists, you're left with the mystery of "What's that thing supposed to look like when it's well" Then it's all mixed up in proximity to every other disgusting function of the human body, you have to conclude, "None of this was made for pleasure, just functionality." I'd need a fumigator just to consider it! Imagine the fun dates you could have with the Servicemaster guy going in first.

The human body -- I'm sorry to say -- is simply too butt ugly to deal with! Away with it! Good riddance!

That's why I stick to my work, the reliable work of industry. You have your factory. You're out there with the tools, putting pieces together, welding things, hammering them into place, heating them up with a super refined flame, then cooling them off in ice cold water in a second's time. You have a metal panel, it fits into place. And with a few quick, tight screws, it's all ready to ship.

That's how I want to spend my time. With a full day's work. Working up a sweat doing an honest day's labor ... That's what keeps me warm at night and really satisfies.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Industrialism On A Roll

The economy has been in a downturn, a real lull. That's given all the experts something to mull, as is their role. But there's been at least one player on the national stage with some pull. Everyone else may be on the dole, but residential industrialism has been on a roll.

For a lot of folks, they're in a hole as big as the hull of the U.S.S. Cole, bombed, wasn't it near a foreign atoll? It's been a plague like the boll weevil. Or the dust bowl. Or having your garden eaten by a mole. Or your goat by a troll. The nation's hit a shoal.

But the market's been a bull for the residential industrialists, whose goal has been to avoid such a terrible toll. Everyone else's fortunes may be null, but our warehouse are full. It's been good for the soul. While the rest of the country no one can console, we've been leaping like a foal. And soaring like a gull. But for the others, their tongues always loll. A perpetual funeral.

Politicians this year will be sad and feeling dull as voters go to the poll. Not all, some will drink and say skoal. Personally, I'd like to cull a few and see them in gaol. Which is beyond my control.

But for at least one group of voters, their mood shall remain droll, the residential industrialists, in every way successful. And that's the whole point!

Friday, September 24, 2010

I'm #1 In The World With Well-Wizened Industrialist News!

Look at that, will you? I'm number one in the entire world, according to the famous Google system of indexing web pages!

This is impressive. If you look closely, you'll see I beat out a couple of real powerhouses. Time magazine and Barnes and Noble! Huh? Huh? Those guys aren't slouches!

Here's the link to the original post. In the post, I profile "Ernie," a member of the Residential Industrial Movement who happens to be very well-wizened. But that doesn't mean he's looking for marriage proposals, so ... if you're so inclined, just forget it.

Ernie's a great guy. I told him the world would be reading about him today. He gave me a big old grin. But little did I know he would be Number 1 in the whole world! That's an honor that he does deserve, and I'm happy to have had just a small part in making it happen.

The Well-Wizened Industrialist

We want to pay tribute today to a well-wizened industrialist, one of the true elders of the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM). He's been with us since the very beginning, April or May of this year, going well on six months. But he'd rather we didn't use his actual name -- he doesn't want marriage proposals -- so we'll just call him Ernie.

We're calling him well-wizened because, frankly, that's what he is, yet he's seen it all and is still standing. He's been through a lot of tough times and weather in all his years. From the howling snows of the winter to the blazing hot days of summer. For sure, the years of age have taken over Ernie's face, even though he still insists he's only 39! And of course we believe him...

Be that as it may, Ernie has actually seen more than his share of years, one after the other adding up to quite a few. And in this six months, with his standing as one of the RIM's elder statesmen, he's seen not just the ravages of time but many tough challenges. One, getting a factory up and running is a tough business -- he doesn't want us to say which company is his, again, marriage proposals. But nothing's been easy. He worries a lot about us younger folks, hoping we'll be able to stand up boldly to the Major Industrial Powers (MIP), which so far we have.

Ernie has all the lines of age and the wisdom, and that's a very cool thing to have. He's not like "all those young idiots," as he puts it, who turn from the serious things of work, aren't frugal, and are out "tomcattin' around and gettin' their lives tangled up with girls." But he doesn't always speak his mind. Usually he just stands by in mute silence, knowing it wouldn't do any good anyway. They've got seed to scatter. So he watches all these "fool" young men ride by in the girls' convertibles, eventually being taken to the cleaners.

When I think of Ernie, I have respect for his experience. As stated, he's been with us from the very beginning -- since May, I think it was -- and that's the kind of experience that doesn't come easily. An old-timer like him fascinates me -- remember I have a 104-year-old grandmother -- also well-wizened by the ravages of time and not looking to remarry.

It's easy for me to imagine things about Ernie, since he is such a private man. Such as, I imagine him at home looking within himself, being alone with his thoughts. And I can picture him like an old prophet, up on the highest hill, pulling his mantle up over the lower half of his face, his eyes squinting as the smokestacks blow. In those moments he sees it all, what the ravages of time and three failed marriages have brought. It's a very inscrutable image, an old man who sees it all, and wishes he'd done certain things differently. Milk is fine, but you don't need to buy the whole cow...

In my imagination, Ernie thinks back to the days when people told folk tales by heart, sang songs from their memory, and had good times hanging out on the porch or at the general store. I can picture Ernie as a young man at the general store, playing checkers on top of a pickle barrel, and meeting the first girl -- dammit -- who turned his eye. Nothing they did back then was rushed. They'd sit and look at the potbellied stove like it was a TV. No one was thinking about divorce and losing everything.

Bringing it back to reality, the realm of established facts, I know Ernie opposes the MIP, including even the old-timers from his own generation who are MIP industrialists. Because he knows they're exploitative, selfish, and out only for themselves, not their neighbors. He hates they way they cut corners, have little respect for markets, and for the shabby quality of their inferior goods. They're old but somehow not wise, carrying on with their affairs and quickie Vegas marriages.

Ernie may not be well respected or well known on the world stage. But that's society's problem. The fact is, in the RIM he is a hero. And he's my hero, proving that lonely bachelorhood is the best path, even if it took him several cracks to finally get it right.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

Standing My Ground At The Industrialists' Park

I thought I was witnessing a revolving door, so many guys showing up at the industrialists' park and leaving just as fast. I don't know if I was attracting them or repelling them, or maybe it was a little of both!

I just happened to be in the neighborhood, and I'm no longer afraid of the major industrial powers and what they might do to me, so I went over. This is the park these guys have been known to hang out in. And at least for a while they were after me, making some very threatening moves on me.

Since then, for whatever reason, maybe to lure me into a sense of complacency, they've been hanging back. Meaning I've been able to visit their little love nest with impunity, getting no real trouble. A few of them coming out on an ATV one time. And to tell the absolute truth, there's been some activity when I've shown up that's been weird but I haven't been able to pin it on the industrialists explicitly.

Like today. I showed up and there was some weird activity right at the entrance, an orange pickup that could've been enemy industrialists. It was weird the way they came out of nowhere, like they were on patrol. But then, as though they'd been called off by a lookout or from headquarters, they turned in front of me and quickly exited the park. The timing was such that it was all suspicious, since there had been a train right there, separating me from the orange pickup's approach. Like they were using the train for cover.

Anyway, there was nothing hindering me from advancing on, so I went in and parked. Everything was very quiet. There was an empty car off to the southeast and that was it. Then, suddenly (did someone say everything was quiet!?), it was one car after another, a total of three or four, buzzing in, checking me out like I was fresh meat and buzzing out.

First, there was a guy in a German car (I'm sure it was a German car). He pulled right behind me. He turned and backed up in my direction. I was trying not to look, then as he was pulling away, I noticed some handmade signs in his back windows. But by now I couldn't read what they said. Nothing good, I'd guess, probably threatening: "We took Poland. We'll be back for you!"

Second, there was another guy who came in quick and buzzed around behind me and went out as fast as he came.

Third, the most interesting one. A guy in a red SUV pulled in and was staring at me. This is usually where I would've looked away, but this time I stood my ground and stared back. After 10-15 seconds he broke the stare and sped away. I turned to write these facts down, then when I did I was surprised to look up and see the guy off to my left, at the south. He wasn't approaching me but was approaching the path. His SUV was parked back to the southeast. I have his description, from his shirt to his shorts to the style of his cap.

Now I had something to observe! I kept watching as he walked the path to the south. He was completely in my sights ... until he disappeared behind some bushes or trees. I mentally wished him "a good time if that's what you're into," which I myself am not. To just go back there and ... whatever ... with whomever might be back there ... not my idea of a good time.

In only five minutes or so, he returned, again fully dressed. He either doesn't believe in foreplay or the afterglow isn't much. At this point he had his hands in his pockets and his head down, possibly from guilt. I noticed something I hadn't notice before, a watch on his wrist. Could it be a gift for favors rendered? Or a payoff to buy his silence? I was personally disgusted to think he's that kind of guy. But the evidence was mounting, in addition to the hot date he'd just had back there.

In the meantime, while this guy was back on the path, the second car from above (or one like it) buzzed back in and repeated his quick exit. The guy reminded me of a mosquito, his fast appearance and departure. Tijuana taxi.

As for our little friend on the path, now back in his SUV, it turned out that he and I were leaving at the same time. I thought I'd just drive over and buzz him and maybe work on his guilty conscience when I saw him firing up the SUV to leave. Now he's right behind me. So we're leaving together. I'm looking in the rear view mirror to make sure he's not trying to get me from behind. Some extra vehicular activity.

He seemed to be put off by my constant staring in the mirror. At this point I started thinking that he was thinking maybe I was an agent of some sort. Because suddenly he was on his best behavior. Except when I pulled out on the road, he went around me very quickly. I jotted down his license number in case there was any other trouble, and I've got it locked in my strongbox.

As we went on, he was slowed in traffic in the left lane and I buzzed by him in the right lane. I was muttering things like, "If you think you're going to wipe your hands on my shirttail, you better think again." Other things I was saying were, "I see you staring at me, sizing me up." And, "I'll lead the way, and you're right behind me, but that's as close as you're getting!"

As we got closer to town, he finally went one way and I another. It was then that I knew he'd had enough for the day. And that he wouldn't be back ... until his natural stamina returned, if you catch my meaning.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

A Cute Smile For My Industrial Traffic

On coffee breaks at the factory, I'm able to log on for a few minutes to see how many fellow industrialists are reading my blog. They enjoy getting the information they need almost as much as I enjoying giving it.

My traffic today, of course always in the thousands, made an interesting pattern. That's it at the bottom. I mirrored it at the top, tracing it by hand on graph paper and scanning it in. Looks pretty good, doesn't it? I thought it made an interesting smile. I was calling it ugly, now I'm thinking it's kind of cute!

I did this for you. I hope you get a good chuckle out of it. I'm sure you will.

Why I Treasure Industrialism

Since every single day of my life has now been given over to industrialism -- in the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) -- I have plenty of time to think over the issues and challenges of that work.

And some of the challenges can be almost too much even for me. Such as the latest run-ins with the Major Industrial Powers (MIP), whether they're trying legal tactics to block us in court, or turn the public against us in the media, or whether they're physically after us with their hired goons. But I do my best. I'm not alone, so we work through those things and go on.

But along with the challenges -- and thankfully it's not just that -- there are also many joys that come my way. For example, I love the simple things, like the joy of neighborhood children out splashing in the run off ditch. They came in my factory the other day, sopping wet, and laughing up a storm, the little urchins. I asked them what was so funny, and one of them, a big kid with his hand behind his back, showed me; he had about five dead mice by the tail they said they found next to the ditch. To see them having such a great time lightened my load considerably. And if they're able to kill mice so easily, of course that's a plus.

Along with that kind of thing, the little things of life, I also have the joys of residential industrialism itself, the good cause of neighbors and a country pitching in together, with every man now able to have his own factory. Of course every man doesn't have his own factory yet. This thing just got started in April or May! We've got a long way to go till we see that dream. Although I've been wondering who's going to be the workers when it happens.

We have a good cause, especially if you think about what we had before, with all industry being in the hands of the greedy, unprincipled MIP. The moguls in their failed system had become so corrupt and exploitative, there was really no two ways about it. Something had to give. And even though no one quite imagined what it would be, someone was there with the philosophical vision, the underpinnings of what actually took place. I'll always be proud of that.

Along with that, I treasure the community of industrialists we've become. That's just about the way it has to be, because we can't do it on our own, but how much better to see the good in it. We need common supply and delivery routes, the economy of pooling orders, help from one another in completing orders if there's a major injury or fatality at a plant, and we agitate for better terms for our goods at market, strength in numbers.

Those neighbors who have industrialized are the best neighbors. We get together on a cool evening sometimes and sit in the shadow of one of the factories, or out by the road next to the signage and talk over the issues. The kids are up climbing on a smokestack, and the higher they go, the smaller they look! You hope they won't fall in, but there's probably no danger in that; they're smart enough, if they get smoke in their eyes it's going to sting. We might need to start the ladder out of their reach.

I also treasure the values. This goes along with the community feeling. But I think it warrants its own little category in the list of things to treasure. Honesty, hard work, the willingness to take a risk, a sense of optimism. It's infectious! We got those values from our fathers and grandfathers, we're living by them today, and we're passing them on to the next generation, our sons. These are the values our sons didn't learn back when they went to school. But now as they spend everyday in the factories, it's all becoming second nature to them.

And no list of things you treasure about something about be complete without mentioning the literal treasure, the easy money we're making. RIM members are careful to buy RIM products. And of course the rest of the world wants what we make. We make the things people need everyday. Right in my own neighborhood, we have disposal diapers, industrial vats, wheels for hospital beds, tires, paper plates, and electricity, just to name a few. There's a perpetual market for each of these products, meaning we'll be rolling in dough for the foreseeable future. And that's something to treasure.

The RIM is a great movement, giving industry back to the common man. I'm so happy and proud to be a part of it, finding in it an endless treasure ... for myself ... and everyone. We're going to keep it strong and growing, for ourselves, and as a trust for any of these kids who make it to adulthood.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

The Ordinary Industrialist

The average industrialist is a man in appearance like other men. He's completely ordinary in that respect. He looks the same as they, with nothing to distinguish him. You've seen one, you've seen them all.

And yet, of course, there is something that distinguishes the industrial man from other men. He just so happens to dream big, then act on his dreams. He sees an opportunity and takes it. He sees an empty lot, a yard, a piece of property, perhaps a park, and he instantly envisions what it could be, a place for a factory, a place for manufacturing. And that's special!

But for all intents and purposes, again, in appearance, as to his form, he's just a man. If you stripped him down and put him next to other men, you'd see the exact same features. If a thousand men including our industrialist were stripped down, and a computer were to compile data by a highly technical process like tomography or digital imaging, you'd see data on a thousand ordinary men. The information that resulted, no matter how you massaged it, would not show much, if anything, to set the industrial man apart. He's just a man...

Just a man. But, O, what a man! This is the man who gets up in the morning and arrives at his own factory. He's there bright and early, checking the lines, the parts, and maybe he even jiggles the door to make sure it's been locked all night. In exactly an hour, employees will be showing up, ready to punch in. At that hour, this man will be The Boss, in charge of all those lives, and ultimately responsible for whether their children eat. He's not just a man. Far from it!

And yet the facts are indisputable. He is ordinary, nothing special. He stands exactly 6 foot tall, perhaps, or maybe 5 foot 2. He's any height, any weight, any color, any body type. All these facts are incidental to him and every other man.

It could be he has bad breath, like any man. It could be he has flabby skin, dandruff, liver spots, ear wax buildup, wrinkles, jock itch, or shoes that pinch his feet. He grimaces like any man as he loosens his shoes in his office, thankful for a single moment of sweet relief. There's nothing special about him ... in those things.

He may be nothing special, in certain things. But he is special ... where it counts, in what his life amounts to, in what his life is. By the time the whistle blows, the employees will be faithfully at their tasks. From the boiler room to the lookout man in the towers, the employees will depend on this nothing special industrialist for their marching orders. He will personally oversee the production of that company's products, with the same story being repeated by other singular industrialists throughout the land. From disposable diapers to vats to wheels for hospital beds to paper plates, or even tires, this nothing special man will supply the world!

But, as is universally true in the life of man, he will have physical needs through the course of the day. We mentioned the pinched feet. But maybe he'll get tired, like any man. Certainly he'll need a lunch break, like any man, for his sustenance. And then there are all the bathroom breaks all of us take everyday. With the others, he'll take his place in the line, five men in, five men out. With military precision, five will answer nature's call, then exit so another five can take their place. As he stands there taking his allotted 30 seconds, he's just one in five, then one in 10, then one in 15, and so on. Just one man among many, one man and nothing more.

Nothing more, perhaps in that sense. But he is so much more if you really think about it. This is the man the others depend on. This is the man who will fill the warehouse. This is the man who will fill the trucks. This is the man who will oversee the company's fortunes on the worldwide market, checking the stock ticker and calling in favors. Every job, every man's fortunes, are riding on this one man's decisions and life. Yes, he's nothing more than any man there at the trough, that is true. But he is something very much more when everything else is fully considered.

The ordinary industrialist. Scratch that! Call him the extraordinary industrialist!

On a personal note, as an industrialist myself, making tires, I see myself in the mirror everyday. I'm like every man. I realize no one could really tell there's anything special about me just by looking. It's been my thought for some time that perhaps I should do something to change that. Like maybe wear clothing made of thicker, more lustrous fabrics. Or a science fiction, space movie collar with big points. Maybe a ray gun in a holster. A bigger car, a newer house, new shingles on my old house. Anything to make me stand out for what I really am, an ordinary industrialist who is in all actuality very very special.

Monday, September 20, 2010

The Industrial Fire Down Below

They work down in the hole, down in the pit, down in the basement, hidden away from the light of day, illuminated only by the flaring of flames in the stoves, furnaces, and boilers of our many factories. For the most part they're anonymous and we forget about them down there, and that's bad, because we ought to remember our people better than that. Because they perform a great function for us, a great service. And that's something to think about.

They're right there, deep down, right at the heat source, keeping the flames going, the boilers boiling away. Without them, our smokestacks would look very plain. They'd be standing there lifeless, not worth having. But thanks to their dedicated efforts, the fire rages and the smoke is able to fill the skies. Of course, I'm talking about the guys each one of us hires to keep the fire going down below.

We need the fire down there, for whatever reason. Any time we need boiling water for the work of manufacturing. Or heat in our plants. Or ... Why exactly do we need them? I slept on my head funny last night and have a cauliflower ear, and I'm up early, and, this is embarrassing but I seriously can't remember exactly why we do need so much fire down below. But they are down there, putting coal on the fire, logs, old phone books, chopped up chairs, lighter fluid, anything that'll burn long enough so they can get a coffee break every now and then.

These employees would be mythologically termed the disciples of Vulcan, who was a god of Rome noted for fire. I could look him up -- even the false gods get their own Wiki page these days -- but I'm a big fan of the first commandment, and any idolatry, even of a scholarly nature, is forbidden. But it wouldn't hurt just to make a few innocent guesses. Vulcan, I believe, would've been in the earth, churning up the flames down below. And it'd seem to me that "volcano," the word, might have something to do with him. Whether Vulcan was known for hitting a forge or anvil, like a relative I once had named Clarence did in his town as a blacksmith for farmers, that I don't know. (This is not my Uncle Clarence but a different guy, although my Uncle Clarence had his own fire down below until the fire from another guy's gun put it out. The kind of fire Uncle Clarence had down below will be the theme of the next paragraph...)

Bob Seger has a great song called "The Fire Down Below." In his song, the fire down below is our common libido. He sings of Old Rosie and Hot Nancy and the street lights, then the men showing up in the shadows, with this one thing in common, "They got the fire down below." Similarly, to express the universality of this "fire," he says it's true of the rich man, the poor man, the banker, the lawyer, and the cop; they have one thing in common, the fire down below. Something's down there putting fuel on the fire. Maybe you know the way it goes. You see a sweet young thing jogging by and your fuel's ablaze. And it doesn't matter if you're too old for her -- the oil we burn in our cars is a billion years old! -- proving there's no fuel like an old fuel.

Maybe that's why the firebugs in our depths are so anonymous. There's just a bunch of horny old devils down there looking at dirty magazines. And tossing them on the fire when the boss shows up. In that case, it'd seem to me they're very much like Satan, who lives below in the earth in the flames when he's not out walking about as a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour. Cold cuts.

Anyway, today we pay a fond tribute to these dear denizens of the deep, down there with their fuel, matches, kindling wood, bellows, candles, and incense. Keep up the good work, guys, whatever useful function it is you do.

Just as an aside, I had some real industrial strength fire down below last night, and that's what really gets you hopping. It was inexorable. I'm glad for these denizens of the deep as well, keeping everything burning. They occasionally pull a cord and send out the alarm that the bottom's about to fall out, and that we should get our physiological forms in place for a quick evacuation. Like the jettisoning of a rocket stage in the old days of the space program. Once the fire spewed from below, then it separates from the remaining body of the craft. That's the way it worked, as it fell into the waters below, and that's still the way.

It's a useful function, this fire down below, making the way for a new day of shoveling in the fuel. And it also has certain mental uses for the plant. We've all heard of Martin Luther's fabulous insights and transformation on the pot. I think he might've thrown pootie at the devil. Was it him or Jonathan Swift? Wait, I think Luther threw ink.

And since I mentioned my relative Clarence, I could also mention a cousin's wife, Joyce, who received the Holy Ghost while dealing with the fire down below. She was never a Lutheran, but a full blown pentecostal, especially after she was full blown that day. Like in the Bible, they say, it was like the sound of a mighty rushing wind. Then a cooling splash all the way up her back. One part of her, like the rocket, continued to ascend, and the rest was history.

The lesson is, If you want a magnificent spiritual experience, go anal retentive to the extreme, deny yourself -- a different sort of asceticism -- then pray! My own counsel on this score would be, Try to forget your aspirations and simply let your consciousness melt into the divine as it wills. I know, it's a tough concept. If you'll empty yourself like Joyce, your mind too, it'll be better ... kenosis.

So, today, without further doo, let us pay tribute to these anonymous fiery spirits in all of our basements. Industry needs them ... for something. So, men, keep those fires stoked like a red hot fever and we'll continue to enjoy the benefits of your daring service.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

All Industry Is Local

All industry is local. All good industry, that is, the kind practiced by the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM). With the other guys ... not so much. I think what they do, call it what you will, sucks.

So all good industry is local. And we love it that way. One thing, it gives us the closeness of neighbors, and the accountability of neighbors. When you're a neighbor, you give your product a lot more care, because you know you're accountable for it.

Just think about it. When you've got a neighborly approach, like you have with local industry, you can look the man who made it in the eye and tell him what you feel: "You've sold me a good vat, a vat of sterling quality, unassailable by any standard. And I, sir, shall remember your abilities in manufacturing when planning any and all future purchases."

Or, it could happen, I suppose, that someone could conceivably get a bad one, and that's where accountability would really come in. "Sir, it is my considered opinion, based primarily on the sides immediately falling off, that the vat you sold me is not of sufficient quality to elicit my satisfaction nor to garner my patronage of your establishment in the future."*

My own feelings on this subject would be that the local manufacturer, being accountable, would immediately offer a refund and a pledge to make it right by giving the man's order another try, if that were agreeable to the man. You could go way out on a limb and say, No, it wouldn't be agreeable to the man, say the customer had a short fuse. He might do it like they do it in the movies and "demand satisfaction," meaning they'd have a duel. You've seen how this works: A guy hits another guy with a hankie; it doesn't hurt a bit, except it injures his pride and he has to react with an out and out challenge. So you have a duel. One guy gets killed, whichever one happens to be shot.

That's never happened in the RIM, let me assure you. But were it to happen, I can also assure you it'd only cause us to double down on our efforts to put forth the best merchandise we can. Because no one wants to get killed over one cranky, hotheaded customer. Even if he had grounds. My own opinion, the more I think of it, is maybe the vat fell apart on him over some hidden karmic debt, and the manufacturer was in the right all along. But karmic debts are hard to prove in lively disputes.

But, speaking of karmic debts, what kind of debt would there be if, say, one of the guns turned out to be faulty? We'd have to assume that two RIM duelists would be using RIM-made guns, and if, examining them after the duel, it were found that one was poorly made and had jammed, well ... that would be bad. I'm sure there'd be a party of us, along with the survivors of the dead man, paying a visit to the manufacturer, saying, "Sir, we are discontented, and are here to register our disapproval of your workmanship on this particular model of gun, finding it, in our opinion, to be indisputably poor. It fell apart upon firing."

But let's back up, way back. I would hope that disagreements would be worked out without the parties being disagreeable in the first place, before we even got to the gun troubles. That's the original tone of voice we heard in the above exchange: "Sir, it is my considered opinion, based primarily on the sides immediately falling off, that the vat you sold me is not of sufficient quality...", etc. That's a good start.

Notice the careful tone in the words that are exchanged between neighbors. At least before the whole dueling incident takes place, there's no "Your vats suck!" which would be more typical in an exchange between a customer and a distant plant of the Major Industrial Powers (MIP). Because it's the closeness that makes the difference. So, whatever it is, from a bad toaster to a table missing a leg, dealing with the MIP, you can expect to be dissatisfied. And it's going to show in your attitude. But in the RIM, we can always work it out...

So, local is definitely best. I know I like to walk up and stand on the loading dock of the man I'm buying from. We can both hear the workings of the factory within and know all is going well. Or, if there's a big clunk or explosion, we can both run in to assess the trouble and dangers, me of course deferring to the owner's lead, giving him first dibs on any assessment. Then we would walk back -- depending how long clean-up took -- and seal the deal with a handshake and an exchange of pleasantries. "I spent a little longer sealing the deal, sir, than I expected, but these things happen. I'm only glad I was here, in case you needed backup or for someone to call an ambulance or fire truck."

*I've never known a scenario like this to happen. But were it to happen, I would recommend industrial counseling, a getting together of like-minded industrialists. Again, this would best be done at the local level, between neighbors, who would more easily share a good mutuality of spirit.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

I Might've Seen My Industrial Double


I was writing yesterday about "Desperately Seeking My Industrial Double." So with that fresh in mind, when I went out to breakfast, I was hoping against hopes that the fates would smile on me and be kind and that I'd find him. But really, what's the chances? Sometimes life works that way. You've got yourself primed for something, just in time to catch up with the machinations of a benevolent reality.

It's been my experience, anyway, that reality is benevolent. I keep hearing of industrial accidents, but so far none has happened to me. You have gravity, plus some of our parts hanging from the ceiling, about a ton each. Any one of them can give way at any time, and frequently do. Then here it all comes crashing down, raining down in random directions certain death for those unfortunate enough to be in its path. And of course I hear of fires that get started in folks' factories, whether from a pile of greasy rags, a neglected welder, or the kids playing with the dials in the boiler room. Then a whole family is burnt to a crisp. But that's the way it goes; you have to learn somehow. More often than not, so far, I've been OK ... I haven't lost, only gained...

That's the benevolence of reality I'm talking about. So, there'd be no way of really knowing today -- the way coincidences work and all -- whether I'd go out and run into my industrial double. He'd be my double first and foremost. And if he'd be that, he'd also likely have a deep interest in the workings of industry, particularly with the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) as opposed to the major industrial powers (MIP). Or, say we were compatible in every other way, he would soon be up to speed on this whole thing of industry, and he'd come to hate the MIP as much as I do.

Just thinking of it's doing a number on my head. Because what if he happened to be the son of a MIP executive? Some balding, cholesterol-choking, arteries-hardened executive I've skewered sometime in the past... Then it'd be something like Romeo and Juliet, without the romance. And hopefully without the death. But he'd have to turn his back on his father, who'll die soon enough anyway, and embrace RIM values, as I'm sure he gladly would, otherwise how could he actually be my industrial double? And it's not like he's going to inherit the plant, because with the RIM increasing in every way, we'd likely be there to liberate the MIP facility in the confusing transitional period.

Anyway, I went out to breakfast today, and was looking at the usual assortment of elderly folks. The restaurant looks like a care facility. Or a reunion at the funeral home. But there's one thing you can count on with the elderly, and I'm on the verge of it myself, they love their breakfast. They have very little they have to do through the day, so they're up early and out eating. Plus, they love the senior discount, which, guess what, I also qualify for ... but I'm reluctant to claim. Because I don't look that old and I'll look suspicious claiming it, because my eyes will be shifting and I'll break out in a sweat.

While I'm eating, suddenly a guy comes walking past me. I catch a glimpse and it looks like he's carrying a notebook, which I also have. And I hear him telling the waiter, "I'm waiting for a guy with a white beard and an evil looking face." I immediately think, Who would say something like that? An evil looking face and a white beard? That guy could be my industrial double!

Now he's alone at a table about 10 feet from me, facing me. I keep glancing over, and pretty soon he looked at me when I was glancing. I was momentarily trapped, so I offered a shy wave and went back to my eating. I didn't want to look like a crazy guy ... How do you walk up to someone and ask if they might be your industrial double? The possibilities started going through my mind: What do you think of a total stranger waving at you? Are you trying to fulfill any prophecies about meeting your industrial double? Nothing I could think of sounded quite right.

Pretty soon, another guy came through, at random, an old guy on his way to the bathroom. And for some reason, he (the old guy) waved at this other guy. It made me start wondering why everyone's waving at him. Could the old guy be looking for an industrial double as well? But he was old, as I said, so he seemed to be just another elderly guy there for the discount, being nice.

The guy got up and checked at the door, looking for the white bearded guy with the evil face. But he never arrived. I kept on eating, debating whether I should go over and ask pertinent questions on the subject on my mind. But then I didn't. I got to the cash register and thought I might turn back. But how weird would that look?

I left the restaurant and justified it like this, If he's my industrial double and it's meant to be, we shall meet again. It's the decree of benevolent reality.

Friday, September 17, 2010

Desperately Seeking My Industrial Double

I've been thinking today of some of the existential grief of being alone in my work. Being the philosophical father of the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) indicates I'm a person prone to loneliness, because, frankly, I've never heard of a philosophical father of anything having friends. That's why he becomes a philosophical father, because he's always alone somewhere, gazing at his navel, hatching out some new concept.

I often sit idly daydreaming of new concepts, new worlds, and envision shapes, all on my own. I can sit in the bathroom, looking at the towels hanging there, and see objects, like seeing things in the clouds. Or on the rug. I thought I saw my dog Underbrush the other day, and I hated to get up to feed the actual dog because I knew I'd lose her floor-bound image. So it's a very lonely life.

But I know my industrial double is out there. I'm not talking about a guy who looks like me, but that would be a plus, but someone who has the same kinds of everyday feelings. And of course someone whose vision for the world is my vision, the vision of residential industry, factories everywhere, smokestacks like forests, huge asphalt parking lots, warehouses, electrical grids, cities connected by conveyor belts, and lots of runoff ditches for the kids to play in. He'd also need to be seriously against the major industrial powers, in a state of constant rage against them, without an off switch. Those SOBs make me so mad!

I've been watching the Science Channel, mostly for the dirt and scuttlebutt I'm getting on some of the major industrialists in their "How They Do It" and "Factory Made" shows. And of course I'm enraged especially because I know how these shows are made. They appear to show the major industrialists as models of efficiency, with a great ability for mass production. But it's all done with stop action filming and speeding up the film. They blatantly admitted it one day, when they stopped the film so we could see the details of weaving a particular kind of fabric. Then they "sped" the film up to "actual" speed, which, as far as I'm concerned, had to be at least 20 times faster than reality. So it's completely fraudulent ... but that's another story.

What I wanted to get to is one of the personalities on the Science Channel, and I had to look up the spelling of his name since he's oriental, and in oriental lands they don't even have the same letters we have; they have some kind of picture alphabet that looks like they inked the bottom of a chicken's feet, whacked off its head,  and flung it on to a big sheet of paper. They taught us something like that in school. They said the Chinese originated printing, using a cut potato. And we know potatoes and chicken go great together, so there's probably some validity to the theory.

So I looked him up. And his name is Dr. Michio Kaku. He's got a show that figures out ways (theories) of bringing "impossible" science fiction concepts to reality. Like time travel, teleportation, and, one I'd love to challenge him on, getting a decent meal at KFC. I agree teleporting is possible, and time travel will happen -- just a matter of time -- but as far as I'm concerned, the rest is impossible! They're is beyond hope. And yet, and yet ... if anyone could do it, it'd be him, especially since, as we've seen, the orientals have a way with chickens.

The thing I wanted to mention about Michio Kaku is that the Science Channel has a great promo for his show. It shows him in a crowd of people. The crowd is milling around, looking around, and in the foreground we have our friend, Michio, also looking around. The big difference, of course, is he's the genius in the bunch, yet he seems to fit right in with the average man. But, O! if the average man only knew who he was walking with! While he's doing this milling around, they're saying things like, "Pushing the world to the next level," "It doesn't get any better than that," "The best is yet to come," and "We agree, what he said about KFC."

When I see this ad, without fail, I think of myself, the philosophical father of the RIM, also walking in a crowd of well-meaning morons, without an industrial double. Michio Kaku has no double in that crowd! He alone is the one who knows how to do the impossible! The rest of the idiots wouldn't be able to speed up time by orbiting a black hole if you gave them a piece of toilet paper and moved their hand in place. In fact they're such stupid looking representatives of mankind, they better be careful or he'll send them back to the Stone Age where they belong.

So it's me and Michio. He's a genius, and, it's impolite to say such things about yourself, but I'm not so bad either. If Ray Charles could say it about himself on every other album, why can't I? You know Michio knows he's one. That's why he can be so casual in the crowd. He has no personal anxieties and doubts. He's even happier in the stupid crowd, because it makes him stand out more. And who wouldn't like that? I get that with this blog all the time. I keep looking for another blog as good. My writing is so good it must be generated by a machine, two months in advance...

And I really resonate with some of Michio's promo lines: "Pushing the world to the next level," "It doesn't get any better than that," "The best is yet to come," and "KFC is to food what a toilet [redacted]." And each one of those could just as easily apply to residential industrialism. But there'll be no higher level than residential industrialism, because when we're done, there won't be room for anything else! And so on.

But what I resonate with most is the fundamental loneliness of Michio Kaku in that crowd of people. I know you're out there somewhere. My industrial double. If we got together, that'd be great! We could share our greatest vision: It's morning in America, a shining factory on every hill! Then after hours, we'd get together and say creative things, trying to outdo each other, like, "That smokestack ain't belchin', it's freedom," and, "A yo yo is a round thing with a crack up the middle. I pulled the string but never saw the tampon."

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Residential Industrialists Partner With Twitter

We're getting the word out! The major industrial powers are on the run! They know their day is coming, for them a dark of darkness.

The Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) has inked a deal with the popular website "Twitter," giving us the ability to spread our message widely. Because of Twitter's apparent solidarity with us, the service is free.

The one drawback is that they're only allowing us 140 characters per post. As far as we can tell, it's some kind of probationary rule until we prove ourselves. Our cause being obviously righteous, we're expecting all restraints to be removed soon.

Long live the RIM! Long live Twitter!

A Rainy Day Visit To The Industrial Pervs' Park

Remember the other day, I said I wasn't afraid of the major industrialists (those SOBs) anymore? And how I would go to the park they'd been hanging out in if and when I wanted? Well, I'm living by that word. I was just there again yesterday!

But I have to confess, it did cross my mind, what might happen to me? But I just figured, They haven't been able to catch me all the other times -- and I must've been there 10 times already -- so I was bold. And good thing I was, because nothing bad happened to me this time either. Whether that means they're not there anymore, or not trying to get me anymore, or just that it was a rainy day with less traffic, I don't know. All I know is I went in, did some reconnaissance work, and left ... very much on my own terms.

I know everyone's up to speed on the nature of this park. But there could be one person in my very large readership who doesn't know about it. I've been able to check the map that shows where my readers live, what countries, and, frankly, I don't get that many visitors from Africa. So there might be an African today who's wondering what I'm talking about.

For my African friend, this park is like a small jungle, with thick trees and lots of foliage. It has numerous paths leading I don't know where, because I've never walked them. All day long, and it's probably worse at night (I've never been there at night), there are guys showing up in cars. The guys get out of their cars and walk the paths. Huh? You tell me what's going on! The connection with the major industrial powers is: Some of their men -- both chiefs and underlings -- have been known to hang out there. They've been doing whatever it is they do there. And since I'm Public Enemy No. 1 when it comes to the major industrialists, there's no doubt in my mind they would just love to show me exactly how deep their grudge goes, if you catch my meaning.

I noticed a couple things in that paragraph that need to be on my to-do list, if I'm truly not afraid of the major industrial powers. 1) Do some actual reconnaissance down the paths. What do you think? If I bought some really good tennis shoes, I could probably escape; no one's going to make me take off my shoes. And, 2) Go there after dark. If I got some black pants, a black shirt, socks, etc., I'd probably be OK too. But ... after dark? Can you imagine what it'd be like to be leaning against a bush in the dark that could give way at any minute? I don't even want to think about it...

Anyway, I was there yesterday, not on the paths, not after dark, and it was raining. So nothing too exciting happened, right? Only if you don't get excited by the everyday human drama, the desperation of your fellow creatures. I do love seeing the possibilities, the desperate lengths we (they) go to ... even in the rain ...

It's rare that I'd have to keep my window up, but the rain was coming down from every direction. The glass was getting fogged and it was very stuffy in my car. I was nervous about wiping away some of the fog because it might look like hand signals. So every once in a while I rolled them down, then immediately up.

I didn't see anyone actually walking the paths. It was very wet out there and they would definitely need the protection of an umbrella, not to put too fine a point on it. Which would probably be exactly what they wouldn't want.

I was looking at a car over to the north. The windows looked dark, tinted, so it was a mystery who was inside. Plus, his car was running. Maybe to keep the defrost going, depending on what he was doing and how much steam that vigorous activity generates. Maybe he kept it on for a fast getaway in case of unwanted park dicks, since they might want to crack down on such things.

In an amusing aside, I imagined, What if he's just a normal guy like me, also writing in a notebook, describing me like I'm describing him, as some kind of lech? He'd probably be saying, "There's a guy over there looking very inquisitive about what's going on around him. Like he's trying to get up the nerve to risk the rain on the paths..." But I didn't want to get wet -- from the rain or otherwise -- I've heard that's how sugar melts.

About this time, a guy pulled in who might've been one of the industrialists. I felt very nervous. He had an industrial-type truck, an empty flatbed on the back. Maybe between loads or between loads, if you catch my meaning; there definitely wasn't anything on it; so he was either between loads at the factory, or maybe he was the biggest optimist in the world, what with the rain, looking to take on one. He pulled up next to my car. I never actually saw him, because he was too close for comfort, and I couldn't bring myself to the verge of looking.

I kept writing, but in a very subtle way, not showing my instrument. From his point of view, he must've thought I was "occupied," so he pulled away prematurely and ventured his truck up the road about 100 yards, where another car was parked, backed in, up against the entrance to one of the paths. I was too far away to maintain my close vigilance, so I started up the car and ventured that way too, very slowly. I noticed the guy in the other car. He had his window down -- despite the rain -- and his one free nude arm was resting on the window base. I actually thought about pulling in next to them, but, you know, that'd really take ... guts.

Obviously, I was pushing my luck, and I didn't want to get lucky, so I thought better of it. A line came to me: "There's nothing going on to the naked eye -- although a couple naked eyes might be making an appearance at any moment." There was a dance definitely going on, a car backed up and waiting, a truck with an empty flatbed rolling in very impressively; it'd be enough to get their motors going.

At that point, I left, keeping my honor ... and everything else ... intact.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Deeply Ingrained Patterns Of Industrial Behavior

Everyone here knows I'm fascinated with certain scholarly pursuits, among them the lifestyle sciences, human environmental science, and group dynamics. I was charting out some of this over a year ago as a lifestyle coach. That's a great thing to call yourself. It sounds great, and it's a completely unregulated field.

You might remember my post a little over a year ago sketching out the "Three Rs of Intentional Group Dynamics": 1) aRrange, 2) Reconnoiter, and, 3) Ruminate. Since then, I've had the interesting experience of seeing both my name and the "Three Rs" in a couple of textbooks (alas, for undergrads). It's interesting, but they don't pay you when you're quoted in textbooks. So that's what I learned from textbooks in the last year!

The "Three Rs," as stated above, are meant for the intentional study or guiding of group dynamics. Obviously, "aRrange" is all about intentionality, the careful arranging in advance of spatial conditions depending on your purpose. You want chairs in the right place, knives put away, etc. But reconnoitering and ruminating are more general steps valuable for any group dynamics experience, being more easily done on the fly than aRranging. But you can aRrange somewhat on the fly, depending, again, on your purpose, and the exigencies of the situation.

I don't want to give away too many trade secrets, but I'm actually pretty good at aRranging on the fly. Let's say you walk into a room of people. The group dynamic's already in motion. But anything you do, like a pebble in a pond, is going to have a ripple effect. You can still do very subtle things to aRrange. Everyone's chair might be angled to the left, angle yours to the right. Everyone might be very quiet, you yawn loudly. There's a thousand ways to stir the pot and subtly aRrange things. The element of surprise is your friend, with the goal of having a lovely time of reconnoitering, then later ruminating.

I love getting together with my fellow residential industrialists in small groups or individually. Doing so over the last few months has been a real experience, showing me some of the deeply ingrained patterns of human behavior in an industrial setting. I thought it'd be fun to mention just a few of the common types and how they relate. You can see if these match up with your experience.

THE EXECUTIVE FOREMAN -- The executive foreman is the guy who never works on the lines or in the plant. He's the foreman of foremen. He doesn't have much to say in the hall, but you can tell he loves the attention of everyone looking at him as he passes. But he's so used to it, it barely registers on his features. The peons aren't exactly afraid of him. They're more afraid of their own foreman getting in trouble with the exec, then taking it out on them. The executive foreman is known for keeping his seething temper under wraps except for when he has a foreman in his office and the door's closed. I love reconnoitering and ruminating them. They always think you're observing someone else. It never occurs to them that they're under surveillance. But I've visited with them, pulling the curtains to get it dim and pull my chair in close to theirs (aRranging), and you ought to see the dynamics! Like big blubbering babies or sinners with a priest. Much sadder than you'd think. Then I ruminate about them with the foremen after hours over drinks. For them, it's non-stop entertainment and laughs.

THE FOREMAN -- There's few people in the factory as personally insecure as the foreman, so it's a great release for them to laugh about the execs over drinks. But my own opinion is they drink way too much. Yet the average guy thinks a foreman has it made. But they're insecure because they've been picked off the line, being promoted, and now they're directly responsible for everyone else's performance. They're at the mercy of the weakest link. So their insecurity's always showing itself, like if people have to go to the bathroom and they have to fill in. Because what if two people have to go to the bathroom? They can't stop the line. So they might be running back and forth, and with desperation comes carelessness. This is where I've seen foremen lose a finger. Group dynamics with a bunch of foremen is great fun, after hours, because they're always drunk. And they'll tell you anything you want to know.

THE LUNCH ROOM LADY -- No one has a better job than the lunch room lady. Her personality's always one for kidding around. She's heard it all and is hardened. She usually has a deep, tough voice. She laughs with gusto. She'll jokingly overcharge you at the cash register, saying a sandwich and coffee are $65.00 or even $1,000! She has cute nicknames for most of the guys, Easy Street, Easy Money, and one I heard for a guy named Les, Worth-less. She's kind of a go-between for people throughout the factory, since the breaks are staggered, so she's always relaying messages. But you can have a bad lunch lady, one who casually drops gossip about who your girlfriend was talking to at the last break, etc., and that's where you get some real factory fights ... I got a couple of these hotheads together in the parking lot one night, thinking I'd get their "feelings" in a group therapy-kind of session. But I ended up refereeing the bloodiest fight I've ever seen. It was very interesting.

THE PEONS -- The peon is a broad type, of course. Ranging from the old faithfuls to the young guys who can't make it a week. The happiest peon is the guy who gets his job and stays at it for years. Everyone knows he's weighing down that position and doing well. He doesn't want to be foreman or executive foreman. He's got a wife at home, he's not out drinking his paycheck.

The mid-happiest peon is the one who's good at what he does but is always looking at his options, maybe wanting to bid on something easier. He's got an in with the foreman -- he's heard some confessions at the bar and knows the value of good information. And in addition, because he's good at his work, and can hold his pee till scheduled breaks, he'll move up in the company.

The saddest peon -- this one is a toss-up. You've got the ones who aren't good at what they do, who need help, who are sickly or need to use the bathroom too much. They're the guys who get a reputation for inefficiency or an inability to improve. The other saddest peon would have to be those young guys who don't want to be there at all. You can't tell them a thing. They don't know the value of a job, etc. They talk back because they don't care. They're jealous about their girlfriends. And, of course, they always have tattoos.

Group dynamics with the old faithfuls is boring, since they're sober and strictly faithful to their spouse. The mid-happy ones do some drinking, and, just like trying to move up on the job, they're also sowing their wild oats after hours. So there's some good scuttlebutt. The saddest ones are so easy it's ridiculous. For the inefficient ones they'll blubber on your shoulder. And the others don't care. But be careful, they'll pull a switchblade on you if you pry too deeply. Stay up to date on your tetanus shots.

The whole factory is a one big group dynamics laboratory. And I love it! It's more or less already aRranged for you, just waiting for you to step in, to Reconnoiter, then Ruminate to your heart's content!