He Just Steps Up To the Microphone and Screams
I have one hallucination. And I swear it has nothing to do with the fact that I can be absolutely convinced that Michael Vartan will one day propose marriage to me. That’s just reality, folks. (I jest, put down the phone, don’t call your lawyers about a restraining order.) I have one hallucination, and it’s far more comical and waaaay less annoying than Ally McBeal’s Oooga-Chuck-a-dancing-baby. He shows up from time to time, usually when I’m stressed, sometimes when I’m bored, and always when I’m feeling like a fish out of water. I call him “Panic Man.”
The typical Fish Out of Water situation usually looks like this: me in the middle of a room surrounded by people who are all gangbusters about some idea that I just don’t get. I remember Panic Man’s first appearance. It was back when I was working as an engineer, testing stuff that was just going to end up as landfill anyways, living in small-town Ontario, working for the man on projects that involved lubricating a forty-foot double-barrelled screw. You know, living the dream! I was stuck in the lunchroom between two co-workers and it went a little something like this.
Gib: So I took my son out deer-hunting yesterday.
Gord: Really? First time?
Gib: Yup. Shot at two bucks and put a whole the size of a pomegranate into the side of a Chuck’s barn.
Gord: What kind of rifle you got him using?
Gib: Oh you know, your standard blah-di-blah-di-blah-di-bloop.
Gord: That’s great. Probably much safer for him than snowmobiling.
Gib: Oh yeah, eh? Especially after what happened last year with the Jones’ kid and the thin ice.
Gord: Well yeah, but with all the Carling he had in him, well, that was expected, you know.
Gib: That’ll learn him for riding a Bombardier blah-di-blah-di-bloop piece of crap.
Gord: Good thing Bobby brought round the truck so we could fish him out.
Gib: Yeah. That truck’s a beaut. My F-150’s been acting up lately. I think it’s the blah-di-blah-di-bloop.
Gord: Better go over to Frank’s and have him take a look at her.
All the while I was looking back and forth between my co-workers with increasing bewilderment. And then Talking Heads started playing in my head all “My God! How did I GET HERE?” And then I lost track of the conversation altogether, and the Talking Heads abruptly stopped playing and Panic Man made his first appearance.
Panic Man is roughly three apples high. He is always impeccably groomed and always wearing a tuxedo with tails. (Much like Mr. Peanut, except without the peanut.) And he lives somewhere behind my right shoulder. And when I need him, he steps up onto my right shoulder, into a fuzzy white spotlight, right up to a microphone. He clears his throat with a little “ahem, ahem.” And then he lets out a barbaric yawp that would make Walt Whitman proud.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Now just because Panic Man’s first appearance happened to be while co-workers were talking about every day rural Canadian staples doesn’t mean that that’s the only time he comes out to play. No indeed. Panic Man shows up when I need him. And I get uncomfortable way more often than hunting and snowmobiling make an appearance in the conversation around me. Panic Man also shows up during four hour conference calls with head office at work. He wears a really big watch on those days and it goes “Tick Tick TICK” really loudly. Panic Man is always hanging with me for Baby or Wedding Showers. I think he likes the cucumber sandwiches. Panic Man is by my side during Speed Dating events when the guy across the table is rambling on for seven minutes straight about insurance underwriting. I tell you, I’d take Panic Man any day over the underwriter!
Panic Man always used to show up when people talked about money. Just the mention of an RRSP would make him step out from the shadows and bellow and bellow and bellow without end. Don’t even get me started on what would happen if anyone mentioned filing taxes! But then I took a course and I quelled that sense of panic. And Panic Man politely went away. He knows there’ll be plenty of other opportunities. There will always be times when I’m stuck in the middle of an impromptu Republican convention, or standing in the middle of group of a dozen women who collectively weigh about as much as a bunch of watercress and yet still want to complain about their fat, or party to an in-depth discussion about how Deepak Chopra has changed the participants’ lives forever. It’s Deepak Chopra, people. Dig a little deeper.
Panic Man could kick George W. Bush, Kate Moss, and Deepak Chopra’s ass. Without even sending his wee bowtie all askew.
The typical Fish Out of Water situation usually looks like this: me in the middle of a room surrounded by people who are all gangbusters about some idea that I just don’t get. I remember Panic Man’s first appearance. It was back when I was working as an engineer, testing stuff that was just going to end up as landfill anyways, living in small-town Ontario, working for the man on projects that involved lubricating a forty-foot double-barrelled screw. You know, living the dream! I was stuck in the lunchroom between two co-workers and it went a little something like this.
Gib: So I took my son out deer-hunting yesterday.
Gord: Really? First time?
Gib: Yup. Shot at two bucks and put a whole the size of a pomegranate into the side of a Chuck’s barn.
Gord: What kind of rifle you got him using?
Gib: Oh you know, your standard blah-di-blah-di-blah-di-bloop.
Gord: That’s great. Probably much safer for him than snowmobiling.
Gib: Oh yeah, eh? Especially after what happened last year with the Jones’ kid and the thin ice.
Gord: Well yeah, but with all the Carling he had in him, well, that was expected, you know.
Gib: That’ll learn him for riding a Bombardier blah-di-blah-di-bloop piece of crap.
Gord: Good thing Bobby brought round the truck so we could fish him out.
Gib: Yeah. That truck’s a beaut. My F-150’s been acting up lately. I think it’s the blah-di-blah-di-bloop.
Gord: Better go over to Frank’s and have him take a look at her.
All the while I was looking back and forth between my co-workers with increasing bewilderment. And then Talking Heads started playing in my head all “My God! How did I GET HERE?” And then I lost track of the conversation altogether, and the Talking Heads abruptly stopped playing and Panic Man made his first appearance.
Panic Man is roughly three apples high. He is always impeccably groomed and always wearing a tuxedo with tails. (Much like Mr. Peanut, except without the peanut.) And he lives somewhere behind my right shoulder. And when I need him, he steps up onto my right shoulder, into a fuzzy white spotlight, right up to a microphone. He clears his throat with a little “ahem, ahem.” And then he lets out a barbaric yawp that would make Walt Whitman proud.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Now just because Panic Man’s first appearance happened to be while co-workers were talking about every day rural Canadian staples doesn’t mean that that’s the only time he comes out to play. No indeed. Panic Man shows up when I need him. And I get uncomfortable way more often than hunting and snowmobiling make an appearance in the conversation around me. Panic Man also shows up during four hour conference calls with head office at work. He wears a really big watch on those days and it goes “Tick Tick TICK” really loudly. Panic Man is always hanging with me for Baby or Wedding Showers. I think he likes the cucumber sandwiches. Panic Man is by my side during Speed Dating events when the guy across the table is rambling on for seven minutes straight about insurance underwriting. I tell you, I’d take Panic Man any day over the underwriter!
Panic Man always used to show up when people talked about money. Just the mention of an RRSP would make him step out from the shadows and bellow and bellow and bellow without end. Don’t even get me started on what would happen if anyone mentioned filing taxes! But then I took a course and I quelled that sense of panic. And Panic Man politely went away. He knows there’ll be plenty of other opportunities. There will always be times when I’m stuck in the middle of an impromptu Republican convention, or standing in the middle of group of a dozen women who collectively weigh about as much as a bunch of watercress and yet still want to complain about their fat, or party to an in-depth discussion about how Deepak Chopra has changed the participants’ lives forever. It’s Deepak Chopra, people. Dig a little deeper.
Panic Man could kick George W. Bush, Kate Moss, and Deepak Chopra’s ass. Without even sending his wee bowtie all askew.
posted by nerdifer at 2:51 p.m.
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