“Sometimes you eat the bar, and sometimes, well, he eats you.”
The Stranger... The Big Lebowski (1998)
Then are moments in time when the Unstoppable Force collides with the Immoveable Object and natural laws of the universal are reconfirmed. Laws of probability dictate that one shall yield and the other shall prevail. In the end, the unstoppable force was no match for the immoveable object, better known as the federal government. Years of travel knowledge, guile, swiftness and insider contacts could not budge the Immoveable Object.
The confrontation began January 15th when I discovered my passport was missing and was scheduled to travel to Toronto on January 28th. In a complete panic I quickly assembled all the proper documentation, photos, forms and fees running to the nearest Post Office to submit for expedited passport replacement service. Under this expedited service, I was guaranteed to receive my replacement passport within 10 days for a governmental imposed “you are an idiot to wait so long” fee of $175.
The first clue of my impending disaster was arriving at the Post Office to find it closed while celebrating Martin Luther King’s holiday. Understanding that this would delay departure of my application until January 16th, I quickly surmised that a governmental promise of 10 days and an absolute deadline of 12 days was going to be a problem. I vowed to arrive at the Post Office first thing in the morning to ensure my application was first in the express bin to the New Orleans processing center. The contradiction of New Orleans and expedited service imposed a level of concern to the process, but I stood fast in my faith that the benevolent protector and provider would deliver on its promise.
The following day on the way to the Post Office, my car blows a hose just one day after spending $750 to replace my radiator. I guess my auto repair shop discovered my credit score after quoting me a repair number and decided to up the ante with a second round of repairs. Not overly concerned I applied the principal of executive privilege and called my office manager to retrieve me and my pending application. Leaving the smoking heap of my car on a side street downtown I climbed into Mary’s vehicle for the overdue appointment with stewards of snail mail.
To no one’s surprise one day after the holiday, the line of customers that snaked outside the door lead to the gatekeepers, who sole function was to witness my signature on the application and to collect ransom for restoration of my freedom. Standing in line you begin to realize how the art of personal dehumanization has been perfected. It’s revealing how the system assumes you know this vague and confusing system of acquainted transportation of communications. How each individual is punished for the smallest of procedural missteps, such as not filling out a line on the back of a form thereby regulating them in to public to obediently complete the task and unceremoniously move to the back of this oversized conga line.
Optimism of quickly completing this task fades as I realize new impending passport rules has created a flood of applications from the elderly and drug addicts who are now required to show a passport before they enter Mexico to buy cheap drugs and velvet paintings. The whole scene reminds my of some sort of basic therapy for severe head injury patients who are being provided life skills before they are released back into the general public. I expect to see Jack Nicholson’s character in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest to run past in a white gown with his ass hanging out.
Sixteen passport applications later I arrive at the front of the counter to sign my name. The man behind the counter takes my money and gives me a number to call if I need information on my application’s approval statue. Walking out of the Post Office, Mary is standing on the Post Office steps. With a look of astonishment she says “You are not going to believe this, but my car just died and won’t start. I think you’re cursed?”
Yeah she was probably right, but my passport application is now in the capable hands of the trustworthy government officials. I smile at Mary and say “Call the office and get some other lucky employee to come and get the two of us. If we keep this up, I’ll have the entire staff out here with us and all their cars scattered across town disabled.”
A week passes when I decide to have Mary contact the New Orleans processing center to find out the status of my application. As is the process with the government, they will not talk to Mary, but need to talk me directly. Now there is a foolproof security measure? “Who am I talking to?” a voice inquires from the phone. “Mr. Blue” I confirm, clearing this critical security issue. I wonder if I could get my dog to bark in a certain way whether it would clear this security checkpoint. In broken English acquired in the two days since she got off the boat from Asia, she says “Mistra Bleuz, You passport mailed tomorrow.”
In a rush of appreciation and guilt that I ever questioned our democratic system, I profusely thank the agency for their understanding and commitment towards service. It was like all the dread and anxiety was unwarranted. A small voice in the back of my mind whispered “She said mailed?” My application fee included the most expensive overnight; first delivery express mail money could buy. I dismissed the red flag as a misunderstanding by the operator which would be cleared up in her next English language class later tonight.
Four days later, while traveling in Philadelphia, I realized that there has been no messages or calls of exaltation at having completed the obstacle course and thus receiving the prized passport, so I ask Mary once again to call the New Orleans processing center. This time she must have figured out how to add enough baritone to her voice to clear the security checkpoint. In a decidedly sheepish voice she said “You’re not going to like this!” At the moment I knew I was screwed. “Let me guess, the Asian refugee we talked to was wrong? How could take possibly happen?” I thought of the recent cell phone commercial “You know what Daddy got? Daddy got hosed!”
In most circumstances I would be able to postpone a meeting to buy some time to correct the problem, but as Murphy would have it, “No way in Hell!” The meeting in Toronto is a historic summit of forty experts from around the world convening to establish an occupational skills analysis of a new emerging profession. The summit is being funded by the Canadian government which includes hiring an internationally recognized authority in occupational analysis to facilitate the workshop. The event planners have been working for almost a year preparing the background documents and organizing the venue, which is going to be held in one of the most prestigious hotels in Toronto. The event will begin will with an extravagant cocktail party in the presidential suite of the hotel which is where the chairman of the summit will stay.
If you haven’t guessed by now, I am the chairman of the summit………….. “You know what Daddy got? Daddy got hosed!” I was fortunate to spend my two days in Philadelphia with a couple of Canadians from Toronto who lifted my spirits by telling how lax the process was, even after the deadline has passed. I even listened to the news reports and heard how accommodating the officials were, letting passengers through customs with a warning. “Don’t worry all you need is a driver’s license and a copy of the passport. Not a problem, eh!
Today was the Day of Judgment; could the unstoppable force defeat the immoveable object? With the eager anticipation of a child running down the stairs for Christmas, I dashed to the counter with my story and limited documentation. I smiled and politely explained the situation. Like a bug hitting the windshield at highway speeds, my day was over. The rest is somewhat a blur. I seem to recall saying “You don’t understand you mindless ape, if I’m not traveling to Toronto today; I have no need of f---cking rescheduling on another one of your f---cking flights.” The last thing I remember for sure was being escorted off of airport property by the security guards. Needless to say this is going to cost me a few dozen cavity searches, before the system decides I’ve been reformed and rehabilitated.
The best part is that I have a total of five days to complete the passport application process before my flight to Australia. I’m sure the lead story coverage on the five o’clock news program featuring me will help the processors in New Orleans get the message, that a crazed psycho is planning a trip to the Big Easy if a passport does shown up in a day or two.
As I peer over the smoking wreckage of today, I recognize that in my entire professional career that I have never had a belly flog from the high dive that even comes close to this one. Do not assume that statement means that my professional career is void of miscalculations, misunderstandings, mistakes, bad judgments and total lapses of mental functioning. Quite the contrary I’m a walking poster boy for stupid dog tricks. What makes this belly flop so monumental is that it exceeds by far all the other stupid actions of a generally mistake prone career. As I search to find meaning in the events of the day, attempting to extract wisdom, I am at a complete loss. Someone needs to paint the picture for me, show me the great spiritual purpose, and mentor me in understanding the cosmic forces at work, because all I’m coming up with is “Sometimes you eat the bar, and sometimes, well, he eats you, eh!”
“Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again, this time more intelligently.”
Henry Ford
