Thai Thoughts and Anecdotes Part 232
Suburban Shrub Mulchers
"We live in a discontinuous world–one where digitalization, deregulation, and globalization are profoundly reshaping the industrial landscape. What we see is a dramatic proliferation of new economic life forms: virtual organizations, global consortia, net based commerce, ad infinitum . . . We have reached the end of incrementalism in the quest to create new wealth . . . there is an inflection point where the quest for divergence is transformed into a quest for convergence, and a new collective viewpoint emerges." — Gary Hamel
I knew that. Sure I did. I mean, it is so obvious. But still, it's good once in a while to be reminded of this stuff. That's what the PC suburban shrub mulchers make as a contribution. Making us face each morning with the eternal liberal conundrum: should I Save A Whale today, or should I Hug A Tree today? Or, should I do both? Or should I Hug A Whale, and Save A Tree today? Ok, I'm at my favorite early morning Beach Road Internet chat room and they are bringing me Gin & Tonics and Mangosauce drinks. God I love this town.
Still, no amount of happy monger inebriation can cloud my mind to the fact that this Gary Hamel cat is superior to me in every way and guaranteed makes about four times what I earn with one tenth the work. I mean:
"There is an inflection point where the quest for divergence is transformed into a quest for convergence,"
Now that's just gold. Solid gold Gary. Solid gold. Still . . .
"Honey, could you bring me another drink? Only this time you can just pour the gin & tonic and a mangosauce drink into a big glass together. Kop kuhn khrap sui maak Internet cutie."
Anyway, still . . . when I review Mr. Hamel's Rosetta Stone words portending our future it is hard not to notice one word is missing. Sure, he's got the heavyweights dear to the hearts of hustling verbal priests, and marketing gurus, and authors on the make, and consultant wannabees like 'digitalization', and 'consortia', and 'incrementalization', and 'inflection', and . . . let's cut to the chase. The early morning sun is bouncing off Pattaya bay, the palms are movlng slightly in the breeze, and there is a woman waiting for me to hit the boardwalk with a Mini-Mart sack of breakfast treats. Where is the word 'pussy' Gary?
I mean, don't get me wrong GH, you're a totally uptown righteous prognosticating dude with more degrees than a thermometer factory; but where is the word pussy? Pussy Gary. Where is the pussy in your world?
I mean: " . . . a new collective viewpoint emerges." is rockin' stuff but where is the pussy?
"Here is your dwink sir."
"Kop khun khrap."
When are these college educated big word present and future prediction priests going to talk about pussy? You can save all the whales you want to save, and you can hug all the trees you want to hug, and you can be the best little suburban shrub mulcher you want with your digitalized wheel barrow; but when am I going to see you on the boardwalk chatting up young attractive women?
Never? Not your 'deregulation' and 'globalization' style? Talking to young fun available Thai women for sex doesn't fit into your academic 'industrial landscape'? Proliferation of 'global consortia' doesn't include getting naked with the raven haired giggling tribe? No way to apply for a grant on that? No way to write more peer reviewed junk of no real importance? No way to use the primal boardwalk sex experience as resume padding so that you'll have something to drop at the cocktail part next August in Nantucket? No Gary, my pontificating man; you are not giving me a test. We are not equal. You are not my man. You amuse with your 'net based commerce' and your 'ad infinitum' but my man was outside the Windmill Bar last night.
As I am walking up to the Windmill Bar I see my man coming down the steps. My instincts kick in and I immediately know he has just had sex with my Poomy. It'll be sloppy seconds for me tonight, but I don't care. At least I'm on the right field, and in the right game, and with the most interesting players. I watch him get on his big bike with rebar and junkyard pieces of metal tack welded together. Ape hanger handlebars, a fuel tank made from a beer keg, and no leather in sight.
This isn't one of those suburban weekend warrior shrub mulcher bikes tricked out with chrome, and tassels, and spray painted girls on the gas tank, and embossed saddlebags like Pee Wee Herman's bicycle. This bike says 'dick' and "No, I'm not going to shave my groin to make myself attractive for you. Get on the bed."
Sorry, Gary Hamel, you're not the man. Your Nantucket Volvo with the bumper sticker that says:
"Investment Bankers Do It With Other Peoples' Money" is only funny to the smart set wearing red yachting pants. Little overachiever fools who have sex with careers and sex with business followed by a weekend spent updating their resumes. Your MBA humor has no influence or currency in the real world, and the real world is all about men and women having sex.
See you on the boardwalk Gary (not).
That's a bit different to last week's…