Inherit the Windbag

Cicero

Welcome to the weekend Gene Pool. You know the drill. You send in anecdotes and observations on a topic of my choosing, for my use next week.

Last night was the end of a difficult day. I am in back pain, beset for days by a malevolent knot of tight muscle that won’t stop snarling. This is exacerbated by having to walk outside, on ice, in my neighborhood, which is not yet well plowed or well sidewalked. When I do so, I need to enlist Rachel — a fine, sturdy woman — to hold my hand. I’d use a three-toed cane out there, but for the embarrassment. I feel 116 years old, which is the current age of the oldest living person on Earth.

I proposed easing my discomfort by going out to a splendid dinner at a place called Sushi Sato. (They have a succulent dish of baked cod with sweet potato puree that is so good we ordered it twice.)

Things went great. With one exception. The exception was the guy at the next table, which was about four feet away from us.

There were three people there, but only he seemed to be talking. He talked real

loud,

… like that.

I’ve done my best here to reconstruct this guy’s endless peroration from memory. I omit only his bark-laugh, which he used after nearly every sentence, to emphasize and celebrate his wit. He looked like a young man dry-hump driven by low-stakes ambition, like Richard Dreyfuss in The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz.

Here we go:

“I am the the most successful manager, like, by a lot. My team’s numbers are better than the others. I didn’t get the award because the system is broken and boss is — well, you know what he is — but he knows I am the best. We didn’t make the metric, because the metric was unhittable. He gives evaluations cheaply, like grudging. I don’t. I always grade my team members high because I know how to manage. You got to make them like you, and I do….”

Every time he stopped one of these extended gasconades to take a bite of food or a sip of beer, the others at the table remained in stupefied silence, which he then filled by launching back into his shtick: “The point is, the numbers don’t lie…”

It was one of those performances that require no verbal communication at the next table over. Eye-rolling semaphores do the trick.

This went on for an hour. At no point did this guy ever allude to what, exactly, he did for a living, what products or services his team provided, or to whom. Everything he said was process-oriented self-gratification.

So. I really wanted to intercede and say something to him, but of course, I didn’t. I’ll do it now. Maybe he’ll read it!

Hey, Duddy…

I have a few things to tell you:

1. Your job is dreary and unimportant and mercantile.

2. Your team members do not, in fact, like you.

3. The people at your table do not like you.

4. One does not go to a restaurant like this and order “California rolls,” a creation developed to placate unsophisticated Western tastes.

Okay, so. That is your challenge for the day. Tell us about something godawful you were forced to overhear, or witness or otherwise endure, without a clear escape route.

As usual, send it here:

Today’s Gene Pool Gene Poll:

Today’s Mailbag:

Q: I need your help with remembering this, Gene. At some point well after the Bell Experiment, if I recall correctly, didn't you discover that a columnist many years previous had done a strikingly similar experiment with a then-world-famous violin virtuoso? And, astonishingly, they had played the same Stradivarius that Joshua Bell now owns and played that day in the Metro?
I tried to find this on the internet, but the Joshua Bell Metro experiment is so widespread, even searching out the names of the Strad’s previous owners leads back to your story or one about it.

A: Good memory. You’re almost right. Here it is.

—

Q: Is it a good idea at this time in history for the Democratic and Independent members of Congress to boycott the State of the Union on 2/24/26? — Leslie Feder

A: Good question! Let’s put it to a vote:

Okay, one more poll. Is it a good idea to upgrade your subscription to “paid”?

We’re done.