No Weighting--Classifying the Human Race By Volume

V is TTFN

2007-01-15T19:47:00.000-05:00

In the pure spirit of not being volumaic, I will not take up more room in the blogosphere than I'm entitled to, so this is "see ya."
Made my point, got the ball rollin', earned some believers and most importantly, helped some folks learn that size doesn't always matter, but being an asshole can certainly make a difference in how much room on this planet you are hogging.
Thanks to those who posted comments or sent emails of support. Interestingly enough, no one ever communicated with me to disagree with the basic Volumaic theory which states that regardless of your physical size, your personal hygiene, habits and personality are the real determinate factors of how much space you take up.
I won't take the site down, just in case someone should stumble on it. Never can tell--might win another convert.
So farewell and and for gosh sakes, don't be volumaic.
--Volumater

S U Volumaic

2006-11-23T09:08:00.000-05:00

Lately I've felt like I have two asses. It actually began in early August when I traded in my mid-size SUV for a full-size beast. The backstory to that foolhardy move is a long and tortuous tale which I'll resist sharing for fear of boring you all to tears and tossing turkey legs at each other. The point is, I'm now the captain of a road yacht that sucks gas like a politician pockets payoffs.
Indeed, there can be no more volumaic machine than one of these oversized four-wheelers.
That brings me back to my two asses. It's sort of the same feeling when you're wearing a big winter coat trying to gingerly walk through the aisles of a gift store. But everytime you turn your Gore-tex insulated ass it crashes into a fragile cup and saucer set. That's the way it is with this thing. I'm trying to pull out of a tight space in a parking deck but the butt end of my family tank seems just a little too big. I have to make a 14-point turn just to extricate it and then worry every time I turn a corner to drive down the aisle that will hopefully lead to the exit.
Try changing lanes in moderate traffic. Someone piloting a normal sized vehicle can pick a spot and go when it's safe. Not so with my rolling building. I pick a spot, put on my turn signal, and start to go, but suddenly that spot looks woefully inadequate, because I didn't account for the SU(cks)V's big ass. So I flick my blinker bar off and patiently wait for a much bigger hole, but by the time it appears, my exit is a mile behind me.
Yes, I could tool around in an all-wheel drive vehicle that will give me excellent traction in the winter and much, much better fuel economy. But I don't.
Couple of reasons. I live in a climate that demands 4x4 capability in the winter, plus I need lots of room for my skis, kayak, hockey crap and big boxes of electronic toys I can't help buying from those big box electronics palaces.
So for as long as it lasts, I'm stuck behind the wheel of a land barge with a big behind...and that means when you see someone volumaic on the road, the V, is me. Just watch out for those two asses.

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Vertical Volumism

2006-11-07T13:13:00.000-05:00

It's like a surprise package every time those two doors part. Will it be crowded? Will you have the car all to yourself guaranteeing an express ride to your floor? Did some idiot hit every floor button? Will the folks joining you look at the floor, check out your briefcase, or try to make lame conversation in the fleeting time available before you escape the hermetically sealed vertical transportation pod? More to the point, is there any more fertile ground for volumism than an elevator, lift, dumbwaiter? You're in close quarters with no hope of freedom until the light with your desired floor number is extinguished and those doors part. This all leads to the prime examples of elevator volumism.
Example 1: To go....to hell: You've enjoyed an hour grabbing a relaxing lunch in the company cafeteria with your buddies. Both the meal and conversation went down easy, and now it's back to the cube. Just when your head and stomach reached sympatico you hop the crowded elevator. The stench quickly fills the limited air space. There he/she is! Carrying a styrofoam food coffin, Al/Alice from purchasing is transporting leftover boiled carp for that late afternoon snack or tomorrow's dinner. Everyone that's not Al/Alice pastes their bodies as far into the perimeter of the elevator car knowing they're screwed. It doesn't matter if you get off first, or are preceeded by Al/Alice. That dumpster-smelling delicacy will stay stuck in your olfactory nerves for the remainder of the day and night..until lunchtime..tomorrow, when Al/Alice carts home leftover tripe.

Example 2: Gel-o: Easy one. 10 human beings in a 4x4 module. One of 'em decided this would be a great day to goop their hair with shampoo by Shell. The utter disgustingness (is that a word? Is now) of the petroleum-soaked follicles causes you to gag to the point of semi-consciousness. Doesn't matter if the next stop isn't your floor, you dash out of the car, grab a breath of fresh air and decide, what a great day to start my fitness program by taking the stairs.

Example 3: Nice Day...nope: I'm not unfriendly, but I do like my elevator ride to be uneventful with no human entanglements. So that's why when someone starts to chat me up on my way to the sixth floor I'm unfailingly polite but certainly don't expand the scope of our quickie conversation. Yup..nice day, have one too, buh bye, don't care your kid is staying with your estranged spouse this weekend.

Example 4: Phon-y baloney: This one's too easy. Jerk+cell phone (crowded elevator)/10 other occupants=Volumaic moron.

Example 5: Package deal: Hey..think I'll go shopping and instead of leaving my twelve packages of Charmin in the car, I'll schlep 'em up to the office so no one steals them. So now four people desperate to get to their desks before their bosses notice they're late are bumped from the next car up because someone is taking up their space with toilet tissue. Now there's an asswipe.

Going up!

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Cell-U-Not Lite

2006-10-22T09:03:00.000-04:00

It was a short flight, less than two hours, but the end of the long day. We had spent the day in my hometown, New York City to pick up an award, for blogging, then shot straight back to the Motor City. My colleague and I were beat and were power walking through the airport concourse for a non-stop jaunt to the short-term lot where our cars awaited to take us the last 30 minutes to our homes and cold beers.
Good plan until we encountered a barely moving human roadblock. We never did see her face but we sure saw her voluminous gluteous extremely maxiumus packed into a much-too-tight pant suit. We think the pants were panting from stress. Out in front of her boulder-broad head her beefy arms were stretched out holding a tiny little flip phone in full flip mode.
As she struggled to figure out the technology that makes the phone place and receive calls her sausage-thick fingers poked at the little bitty buttons. The more she probed, the further out she held the phone from her Shrek face and her plodding slowed.
The airport was crowded with early evening travellers making it all but impossible to pass the creature on the left or right. We could not take advantage of the moving sidewalk because she moved so slowly, people started stacking up against her as she blocked the entrance to the belt. We figured, OK, we'll just walk alongside the moving sidewalk, but at the last minute the cellphone toting troglodyte eschewed the convenience of the moving sidewalk and once again blocked our way.
Horrified travellers walking the opposite way pulling their wheeled luggage gamely attempted to avoid head-on collisions with Mt. Cellmore as she kept her sunken eyes focused on her phone, oblivious to the agony she was causing. Several were unsuccessful and were launched head over tea kettle into the newsstand, covered with fallen People Magazines and bags of trail mix. We finally reached the wide intersection that led to the airport exit and parking lot to make our escape. She never saw it. Last we heard, with no clue where she was headed or how to operate her phone, the voluptuous vixen of volumism wandered onto a plane headed for Croatia. We thought we heard the flight attendant make an announcement to clear the aisle before takeoff.
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42 Short, Inexplicably Wide

2006-10-15T19:24:00.000-04:00

As I exited my car headed for the store I could see my imminent nemesis ahead of me. He was a trim gentleman about 6-foot-2, accompanied by his wife who wore a skirt much too short for her age or assets. They were a good 100 feet closer to the door than me, meaning they would find their way to their destination first. It was a big store containing men's clothing, women's clothing, children's clothing and household goods at bargain basement prices. You know the chain. It's all good name brand stuff but at prices that make sense.
So with all the possibilities, what were the chances this otherwise fine couple would navigate their way through the narrow aisles and racks and plant their corpus immobili exactly where I wanted to be--in front of the 42-short sport coats? The answer--100 percent.
OK, they have a right to shop wherever they like, but first of all, the guy was a skyscraper compared to me, so why is he camping out in front of the runt rack? They were neither loud nor demontrative, two sure signs of being volumaic, but what put them into this space was the fact that these well-kempt, reserved shoppers found the need to expand their territory to point where no one else could possibly browse the same territory as them.
Now two contained human beings entered the realm of volumismby creating a penumbra around the 42-shorts giving me, a guy who really is a 42-short, even a fighting chance of getting a glimpse of the garments.
So I coyly circled the rack, playing it cool, giving the rack a quick and nonchalant glance, gliding over to the belts and socks, all the while keeping my target in sight.
As they lingered, my route took me over to the ties and buy one pair, get one free socks. Didn't need any. Wanted a 42-short sport coat.
Finally, after a quarter hour, I decided that not only did this couple have an unhealthy fixation with the 42-short sport coat area, but that this giant had serious issues about his height, wishing he had my same Lilliputian proportions. So sad.
Fed up with wasting so much of my Sunday, I decided to make a bold move. I sauntered to the opposite side of the rack which put my eyeball to eyeball with the 42-short sport coat squatter. I lunged across the 52-longs taking in every last 42-short item no matter how shoddy, ugly or gauche. I even held my gaze for a good 15 seconds over a simply unacceptable lavender plaid abomination.
The strategy worked. Visably shaken by my ardor for the bargain priced fashion faux pas, the gentleman nudged his miniskirted mate with an urgency not seen since
Cher's latest farewell tour.
Seizing my victory I triumphantly took my rightful spot dead center at the 42-short rack and maniacally fingered and considered every last wretched coat, none of which was suitable to wear among fellow homo sapiens. How could this be? I had waited and schemed and circled and stared, as the too-tall guy and his trophy gal plopped their volumaic selves in my size range. Why? To torment a short guy in need of business casual clothing? What kind of world is this? What kind of monsters were these people? I only hope as they realize their sin, they find themselves in a most untenable situation. Face-to-face with a locked door during normal business hours on inventory day, at the Big and Tall Men's Shop.

Paint Yer Waggin'

2006-10-08T16:24:00.000-04:00

Now here's a turnabout. A sales guy being annoyed by someone else's loud conversation. You be the judge on who was volumaic. If you decide it's me, you can still be a friend, but I'll never offer you a piece of my soft pretzel.
Here's the setup. I'm travelling on a luxurious Lufthansa Airbus to Germany. See previous post re Germany. My company has been generous to purchase business class seats for our group of four travelling to attend a conference at the home, or would that be, haus office.
I'm seated across the aisle from one of my colleagues and next to a super-sized salesman from a paint company. Maybe he's more properly described as a can and a half..because his bottom certainly was more than a single can..maybe two. Oh yeah..he was German. A sort of Teutonic acryllic two-coat paint pusher.
So my colleague and I start to chat. A little business, a little bullshit, but it's all friendly and light and it helps the 7.5 hour flight pass by that much quicker.
Full disclosure, while we were talking Johnny Splotch had his brontasaurus size noggin' deep into a five-story stack of Power Points for a presentation I presumed he had to deliver first thing upon arriving in Deutschland. I couldn't quite see what the subject was but perhaps it was on the eternal debate: "Roller or brush--Strokes of genius or broadbrush insanity?"
Whatever, a few moments into our conversation Sir Spraypaint whips his bulk around resting on his side while beaming a hard stare in our direction. Given his size and the angle of his list, I believed a large freighter was next to me resting on its gunwales.
The combination of his threatening glare and formidable dimensions caused me to move as far as I could toward the aisle in hopes of putting some space between me and the potential projectiles he clinged to in the form of Mt. Power Point.
Surely, our conversation, no matter how esoteric or vacuous, must have been more interesting than the ins and outs of chemical cosmetics. Although I must admit, a rich vanilla white does set my heart aflutter when applied to quality wainscotting.
Anyway, you can go only so far in an airplane seat..even a nice wide business class perch. The paint blob continued to maintain his pose and stare until my colleague and I no longer felt comfortable carrying on our conversation.
But the standoff finally ended courtesy a well-timed coincidence. Just as we believed the Deutsch Boy was about to actually launch himself at us the friendly flight attendant came by with a basket of warm rolls.
The fragrance of the fresh bread and promise of feeding his jowling jaws instantly calmed the boiling beast. With a smile, he accepted the bait, along with a few pats of fresh butter, and retreated to his straining seat.
My colleague and I did not speak again until landing. But I promised to retell this story of volumism on the part of a pasty-faced paint salesman, without glossing over the details.

A Cubist Portrait

2006-09-24T10:57:00.000-04:00

I've been waiting for just the right time to tackle this no-brainer, but nevertheless a vital Volumist scenario. This is it. Life in the cube farm and its most volumaic denizens.
How does someone steal space in an office? Simple. Through obnoxious and selfish behavior, they repel co-workers to the point of avoiding them at all cost. Walk by Mr. V's cube and risk an endless story about his kid's soccer game? Nope. Take another route to the washroom.
Normal route to the exit closest to the elevators run by Ms. V's lair and give her entree into your soul with her high-pitched whining about the fact that she's been passed over for promotion 13 times? Time to get a little extra exercise by taking the long way around.
A few cases-in-point:
The PA Announcer: This is what I've named the person who must speak as loudly as possible on the phone so that everyone in the office must stop what they are doing because the noise level is so high. "HI. WHAATTA YOU DOIN'? WANNA GO TO A MOVIE TONIGHT. I HATE THAT MOVIE. IT SUUCCKS! YEAH, YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE TOO! SCREW OFF! YEAH. OK, THAT MOVIE IS OK BUT I'D RATHER SEE "FAT CHICKS ON BIKES."

The E-Mail Carpet Bomber: There's one or two in every office. This person feels they must send what they feel are oh-so important emails to every single person on the floor. Here are a few examples of useless emails carpet-bombed by this equally useless person.
"There's carrot cake at the admin's desk. It's really good and I made it myself and we all deserve it." Translation: I know you all hate my guts but maybe I can bribe you bastards into liking me with some cake to stuff your ugly faces and give you an excuse to do even less than you already do.
"Just a reminder, file folders are a nifty way to organize loose papers and put them in alphabetical order by subject." Translation: I have absolultely nothing of value to contribute so I thought I'd waste some of your valuable time by offering some advice with little or no value to you.
"Don't forget. Tomorrow is a company holiday so don't come to work." Translation: No shit. We've been killing time all day in hopes the boss will let us out early.

Microwave marauder: Ever microwave raw fish? Ever SMELL raw fish being microwaved? Yeah..it smells like the men's room at a freeway rest stop. But there's always someone in every office who thinks it's a swell idea to nuke a mackerel in a microwave oven for lunch. The gagging by his or her co-workers never seems to be a strong enough hint that it smells like a day-old soiled diaper and there's no way anyone in their right mind would actually put that stinking grayish pus in their mouths...and survive. The rancid odor itself creates a massive penumbra around the break room or kitchen area, thereby preventing other hungry workers from grabbing a snack or a cup of joe in a room that's supposed to be a refuge for everyone. Next time you see a co-worker start to nuke a fish, cast a hook in their direction, capture the offending filet and toss it out the window. If they protest, just deadpan, "it ain't fishin' season and you're over my limit."

2006-09-24T10:33:00.000-04:00

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Achtung-Deutschland ist sehr Volumaic

2006-09-16T14:13:00.000-04:00

The land of beer, liederhosen and early 20th century atrocities may be about 4,000 miles from my hometown, but after a whirlwind visit, it can have all the space it needs.
Made the journey to Deutschland for business--actually to speak to a prestigious group on corporate blogging--like they don't have anyone just a little bit closer to discuss this topic. Apparently nicht.
While the folks I encountered were unexepectedly warm, humorous and patient (with my extremely limited German vocabulary) I have discovered that perhaps the nation's new anthem should be "Volumism uber alles."
Example 1, the salad bar: My co-worker warned me. If we hit the salad bar at the company cafeteria, one must be quick, ruthless and decisive, or risk being mauled by the other famished POW's (prisoners of work)temporarily uncaged from their offices. She was right. I attempted to line up for my crack at the greens and crunchies, but it appears, there is no line. "Oh, forgot to mention," said my more experienced co-worker, "Germans don't queue." Huh? Yeah...Germans just don't like to line up. Instead they launch a personal blitzkrieg on the buffet shoving, reaching in, snatching the tongs and beating you to the last crouton. I managed to capture a couple of lettuce leaves, some purple cabbage and the biggest thing I could get my unsanitized hands on--a whole grain roll. To linger is to lose..one's toes.. as the savages procede to step all over you in search of their precious fiber.

Example 1a, the breakfast buffet: At the hotel I almost lost several fingers as empty-stomached Germans slashed their way through the unidentifiable luncheon meat laid out for breakfast. They seem to have a fascination with sharp metal objects and are quite content to stab anything available, whether or not it's edible. They don't queue for breakfast either. I dared pause to figure out what all the mystery meat was but never got a chance to make a choice because the multitude pushed along like digestive peristalsis.

Example 2, the train: So I'm sitting in the window seat in a car on the high-speed intercity express headed from Frankfurt to Stuttgart, with a short stop in Mannheim--yeah where the Steamroller must have come from. A woman gets on in Mannheim with a load of crap and asks if the seat next to me is taken. It isn't. She sits. About five minutes later, a wimpy dude with a thin goatee whines the lady is in his "Plotz." That's seat. She snaps back that there's another seat nearby, couldn't he just move there. Nein! Wimp boy insisted on that seat. (This is going on in German) I detect the word "Fenster." That's window in German. After the two argue for awhile, the exasperated woman takes all her crap and moves to the nearby Plotz yelling "train travel in Germany is a joke!" She kindly did this in English for my benefit. I appreciated that since I was perceptive enough to realize I had a good story to tell. As wimpy settles in I ask him if he wants the Fenster. (All nouns are capitalized in German). Nein, he replies very wimpily. He wasn't going to take on a guy who barely speaks his language.

Example 3, the gut: Finally arriving in Stuttgart, I check in to my hotel which is attached to an entertainment complex with a theatre, cinema, some cheesy shops and a few bars. As I'm walking through the complex, I glance out the large window to the biergarten where a guy is sitting at an outdoor table across from a young lady, sipping on a tall glass of the local brew. Nice scene, right? Nein! Beer boy has his collared shirt completely unbuttoned, exposing on the world a white, pasty, doughy, sweaty mound of flesh, otherwise known as a gut. I recoiled from the window, shielded my eyes and went through my knowledge of first aid hoping to recall some quick method of inducing instant amnesia. Obviously I failed at that since I'm recounting this brain-scarring incident in this space.

I'm only now beginning to recover, but I'm bracing for a relapse. I have to return there in a few weeks. I'm expecting the wurst.

Extended Warranty....Noodnik

2006-08-26T08:45:00.000-04:00

This is a generic red-shirted computer guy..not the one you'll read about below.

OK, what's a noodnik? If you're not from New Yawk, as I am, it's not a epithet with which you might be familiar. Very simply, a noodnik is a pain in the ass.
Generally in this space we discuss people who are volumaic, that is, create space around them because of their bad personal hygiene, offensive personality, careless habits, and generally being inconsiderate noodniks.
Let's take it one step further--the combination of an already volumaic person--a salesman, and the thing the person is selling. That thing in particular is the blatant rip off known as the extended warranty. It is virtually impossible to buy anything you plug in without being pitched the extended warranty. Very simply, it's a way for a store to get you to buy something you probably won't ever need.
So here I was, ready to buy a new computer for the family. We researched it before entering the store, knew exactly what model we wanted, and even checked the availability of that unit at that particular store. Easy, right? Nope.

After waiting at least 15 minutes for a salesperson, an apologetic young guy came over and offered his assistance. I pointed to the computer, saying "I'd like one of these. Don't need a printer or monitor, just the CPU." How easy is that? Then it started.
"Well," said the red-shirted salesman in stockboy's clothing. "We sell our computers supported or un-supported. Unsupported is equivalent to buying a computer out of someone's car trunk. Supported means we take care of your unit for 3 years."
"Extended warranty, huh?" I replied.
"Well, yeah," he admitted.
"Never buy 'em," I retorted. "I'd rather have the money in my wallet then yours."
Right then you would think I insulted a family member or told him I heard he sucked at "Grand Theft Auto." His eyes bulged, faced tightened and lips narrowed as he spat back at me, "So, you're a gambling man?"
"Absolutely," said I, "and I almost always win."
This went on for another 10 minutes and the aggressive geek wouldn't take the hint. I imagine this is due to too much time on the computer eroding his interpersonal skills.
I exhibited all the body language: turning away, averting my eyes, giving him the finger, but no go.
Finally, he admitted defeat and retreated to the warehouse to retrieve my computer.
"I'll bring it up to the cashier for you," the now broken horse bleated.
But this guy was tougher than I thought. A 20-year old supersalesman in the making. He had one more bullet in the chamber.
As we moved to the front of the store, he couldn't help himself, frustrated he couldn't up-sell me on anything.
"So, how much you pay for long distance phone service, ever hear of Vonage?"
But alas, this volumaic verbalizer's shots failed to hit home.
As if wearing a mental vest of Kevlar I smiled, puffed out my chest and sweetly responded, "Heard of it, don't need it, good day."
Yessssss! The noodnik quietly set the computer on the cashier's desk, gave me a bewildered look, and shuffled off to the break room to think about what just happened.

Convention-al Wisdom

2006-08-11T21:01:00.000-04:00

Sorry I've been away so long..a blogger non-non. I say that in French because that photo to the left is a clump of Frenchies engaging in a conversational manage a trois at some convention..probably a gathering of truffle merchants. I actually have no idea. What's that have to do with being volumaic? I've spent the past week at a trade conference which turned out to be a veritable petri dish of volumism.
Here's how it goes down. Take any man or woman ready to enjoy a free cup of joe from one of the many urns placed on tables positioned smack in the middle of the main aisle outside the meeting rooms. For some reason they find themselves compelled to back up without looking, sending fellow convention-goers fleeing as the coffee slingers realize their folly and their arms go flying, forgetting they are holding mugs of scalding liquid. What is it that causes otherwise contained individuals to become coffee-wielding zombies creating space around them by those fearing second degree burns and costly dry cleaning bills?
Case #2: People who attend trade shows or conventions do so, in part, to network or simply to catch up with professional acquaintences. That's real nice. However, just like the French fries in the photo, they feel it necessary to conduct said sessions smack in the center of the aisle so there's no possible way to pass without either interrupting them or hitting your ass on a nearby coffee urn. This would be a case of collective volumism. Don't bother to ask them to move. You get a look that says quite unmistakenly, "Network with you? Don't bet your raised letter business card on it." That's very cold in the convention-trade show-networking-corporate bullshit arena.
Finally, there are the pigs who insist on taking their precious laptop computers with them...everywhere...especially in the actual sessions. They used to lay out pads and pens for everyone for taking notes. Ha! So 20th century. Now every guy has to take up two seats by popping open the laptop, agenda materials and a cup of that crappy lukewarm coffee. All the time the speaker is struggling to be heard, all you can hear is the insistent tap, tap, tapping of nerd boys on their keyboards...many of whom don't give a shit about the presentation. Oh, they're easy to spot..they're the ones playing solitaire or surfing the web or registering on some find-a-date website in hopes of finding a nerd girl that will love them for their strategic thinking skills. The result of all this is the slobs take up twice the room, leaving those who may actually want to learn something stuck in the back row of chairs where there aren't any tables to write on and the sound is, huh? distant.
So did I have a crummy time because of all the volumism? Are you kidding? I drank about nine dozen cups of free coffee and was very comfortable..as I spread out my laptop.

Repast Tense

2006-07-23T09:24:00.001-04:00

Cliche' alert: You are what you eat. Volumaic Corollary: What you eat can make other people flee and barf.
Mea culpa. I'm a pain in the ass eater. Only person to have ever lived in Arizona that didn't learn to love Mexican food--won't touch sushi, except with forceps--Indian food reminds me of an EPA Superfund site. It's not that I have anything against any of the cultures from which these foods hail. I just don't like 'em. If you do, that's wonderful. In fact, I envy you for not being such a finnicky eater. It's just a curse I can't seem to shake. Don't ask me if I've ever tried the foods, I can't even be in the same zip code.
So for me, being in close proximity to anyone enjoying certain ethnic foods with pungent odors is an instantly volumaic situation. There's only so far you can flee in a restaurant. You can push your chair a bit or turn more towards a companion ingesting more conventional or less smelly dishes, but that's rude. I've tried holding my breath for long periods of time, but that makes you look like a moron and lengthens the time it takes to finish your own food. It also severely limits your role in the mealtime conversation. So I suffer in silence, taking shallow breaths, sipping my drink, taking bites and burying my nose in my own food to soak up a more acceptable smell, and pray for dessert, which almost never includes anything with objectionable odors. Ah..but then it's time for the O'Henry twist. I order a double espresso and prepare to inhale the nutty, strong aroma as I lift the demitasse cup to my lips. Just then my burrito, nacho, taco eating buddy wrinkles his nose in disgust as he spits his words at me: "What's that vile smelling swill in that kid-size cup?"
Touche'. But have you ever smelled mayonnaise infused tuna? Aha!

Swan Song for a Killer Bird

2006-07-16T13:34:00.000-04:00

I love nature. I love natural things. Animals are sweet. Swans need to die. Oh, don't be shocked. Swans are one of the most vicious, volumaic creatures to suck the oxygen out of the atmosphere. Don't let that graceful neck, stark white plumage, and regal air fool you. Swans are the Joan Crawfords of waterfowl-dom. Here's the proof. You're out on the lake, paddling away quietly and respectfully in your kayak. You see the buzzard in swan's clothing floating calmly taking in the sights. Then, you get within 50 feet and it's Mommie Dearest with feathers. The damn thing starts flapping its wings, making guttaral sounds like those coming out of Linda Blair's mouth during "The Exorcist," and unless you beat a hasty retreat the Kamikaze bird hurls itself at you, beak blazing. Yeah, yeah, I know the story. The bird's trying to protect its young. That's swell, but no one wants to hurt their precious little cygnets. We just want to spend a nice, calm morning soaking up the sun, bobbing with the swells and getting a little exercise. Instead, Jack the Nipper goes postal on you believing the whole damn lake belongs to the swan family. Tough luck, future pillow stuffing. You're nothing but a volumaic provocateur. Get ready for your swan song.

Duh Sunday Supermarket Sweep

2006-07-09T14:27:00.000-04:00

OK. This time it's me. Just stick a big "V" on my forehead because today, I was was the volumaic one. One of the true pleasures in life is the soft cookie called a "black and white." If you've never had one, rewrite your life's goals and make the search and ingestion of a black and white your number one goal, just ahead of finding a cure for drivers who don't use blinkers. For the uninitiated, a black and white is a soft, cakelike cookie with both chocolate and vanilla frosting on top, giving the treat its name. They seem to have originated in my hometown of NYC but are beginning to spread to Middle America. To eat one is to know a pastry pleasure matched only, perhaps, by the caloric but sublime Napolean. So I was ecstatic to find out that black and whites had arrived at one local supermarket chain. I grabbed the kids, tossed 'em in the car and took off for the store vowing to bring home the bakin'. Alas, a big pile of black and whites lay neglected by the clueless crowd. They had no inkling they were so close to greatness. We quickly rushed to the bin, flipped open the lid and began piling individually wrapped black and whites into a bakery box. The other shoppers gazed at us as if we had just pulled in from the boonies and left the pickup idling outside. With our treasure finally secured, we headed for the checkout--the self-checkout--the one where you do it yourself until you screw it up and someone has to help you. Ooo...bad move. The rush of the moment quickly evaporated as the machine rudely asked us to input some sort of code. There was no code, no bar code, no Morse code, no Boy Scout code. No code. The impudent electronic checkout chump ordered us to just stand there and wait for help. But no help came. The line of shoppers hoping to skip out quickly to resume their Sundays began to build. Their body language screamed "you idiot!" and I could only look helplessly as the impatient pudgy checkout chick asked me disgustedly, "what're those things, donuts?" No, they're cookies I told her. The crowd behind me didn't really give a shit. "I dunno" the chick spat back. Then I took the closer look at the black and whites I should have taken at the outset. Remember I told you they were individually wrapped? Welllllll...on the back
of the wrapping there was a price sticker emblazoned with a bar code. Now I really felt stupid and the 20 people wishing my life to be extinguished at that point readily agreed. So, like an idiot, I asked the pudge, "Do I have to scan each of them individually?" "Yeah," she whined, "just scan each donut." "They're cookies!" I shouted back as I began to scan each of them.
"Guess who's volumaic today?" my daughter laughed. "Yeah, yeah," I sulked. It was painfully clear---in black and white.

Eau No!

2006-07-02T10:45:00.000-04:00

The crisp but artificial coolness and scent of the grocery store's air conditioning was a welcome respite from a brutally hot and humid Sunday morning.
It had the hallmarks of a successful sortie in the otherwise wild world of the supermarket. My wife got a head start on her shopping while I mortgaged my future for a tank of gas. I snagged a great parking spot close to the store and the cart corral. I confidently walked into the store, took in the cool air and headed down the big center aisle where I could quickly look down each product aisle to find my wife. Then, the promise of a non-volumaic morning came to an abrupt end. As I reached aisle 6 a creature with wild mouse-grey hair slipped ahead of me as she emerged from aisle 5. My nose flared, my lungs ached and my eyes watered like a hole in the Rotterdam dike. This otherwise earnest, quiet, comported and contained individual entered the realm of the volumaic as a result of some foreign substance saturating her scalp. The odor was a cross between acid burning through flesh and any Indian food. Immediately, the space I had given this follicle-based landfill grew first to a few feet, to several yards to, I don't know, a zip code. I forgot the reason I entered the store in the first place. I began hallucinating. The boxes of cereal looked like demonic sentries of the nation's grain supply. Tony the Tiger took on a monstrous pose as if warning me, "Keep your goddam hands off the Frosted Flakes. They're for kids you middle aged loser with a Peter Pan complex." Actually, for an animated advertising spokes-lion, that was pretty deep.
Quickly gaining my composure I ducked into the household cleanser aisle and breathed in as much Glade as I could, except for the Sweet Spring or whatever--that was worse.
My head cleared, the source of my olfactory incident disappeared into the pet aisle, where she clearly belong, and I found my wife--ahh the smell of success.

Swedish Meatballs

2006-06-25T14:37:00.000-04:00

Is it possible for a place to be volumaic? I'll answer that. Yes! If it's a certain place that turns normal human beings into cattle and neighborhoods into police states. You know what I'm talkin' about. It's that famous Swedish cheap furniture store that sells stuff you have to build yourself and has a name that rhymes with the heroine in West Side Story.

What makes the place volumaic is this: Because of the manic fervor it incites among once contained homo sapiens, these mega stores create a space around them that far exceeds their property lines.
Y'see, they just opened one not far from where I live. The previously closest one was about 300 miles away, so our 'burbs obviously hit the big time.
A week before the store opened its doors a clutch of insane individuals decided it would be "fun" to camp out at its entrance to wait for the big day. Afterall, the first few people would receive a free chair worth $78. The rest would get coupons for a free hot dog or frozen yogurt--now there's a couple of things worth giving up a precious week of life for!
The TV stations and papers were all over it. They not only featured these store squatters, but led with the story! The store's management cheerfully allowed the camping knowing, from previous such openings, they could receive invaluable free publicity. It worked. The freeway was backed up, the parking lots jammed and gridlock ruled the day both outside the store and inside.
So we let a couple of weeks go by hoping the hardcore cheap Swedish furniture disciples got it out of their systems leaving the store accessible. Uh uh.
On a Saturday night the "overflow" parking lot was overflowing. The regular lot was as stagnant as Congress and the police were there to direct us poor saps, although just where we intended to leave our vehicles was a mystery. We managed to mooch a spot in a neighboring store's lot--an idea shared by our fellow cheap furniture prospectors. After making the hike we entered the value Valhalla and were immediately struck by the impenetrable masses. As we tried hopelessly to get our bearings, a worker came over, smiled and said, "You trying to figure out how to get outta here?" Not yet, we answered, having gone to all this trouble to see what we were missing. A map suggested we follow the arrows taped to the floor, lest we miss anything, or worse yet, lost our way. Elbow to elbow with the rest of the human sheep we trudged through the showroom, pushed along by the peristalsis of the masses. There was no way we wanted to actually buy something then have to continue the process--whatever that was, so we kept moving. Daylight! We rushed to catch the stairs that led to the exit, vowing never to darken the doorstep of this house of torture again. If we're dumb enough to try this again, we should change our name to the specialty of the cheap furniture joint's snackbar--Swedish Meatballs.

Just Between You and V

2006-06-17T10:39:00.000-04:00

I'm going to depart from the usual thing this time around. Instead of relating a recent example of someone being volumaic it seems time for a refresher on just what this is all about. That's because some well-meaning regular readers have made some suggestions that are, understandably, missing the point, like pointing out a large person and saying, "hey, looks like another post for your blog." Um..no.
For the best explanation of what Volumism is all about please go back to the beginning and read the first two posts. But figuring your time is valuable, here's a quickie version.
Here goes:

Volumism is about classifying folks by how much space they actually take in the world based not only on their physical size, but the space they seem to create around them because of bad habits, poor perosnal hygiene or unfortunate choices.

So..you can be fat, but not volumaic because you're a nice person, don't talk too loud, don't yak on your cell phone in the grocery store line, bathe regularly and refrain from dousing your hair with smelly gels.
You can be thinner and be totally volumaic because you're obnoxious, talk on your cell phone during your kid's elementary school play, use essence of landfill cologne and have hair styled by Medusa's beautician.
That's it in a nutshell.
It seems to be a much more fair way of classifying people since large folks take a lot of grief when most are exeptionally nice human beings. By the same token, walking sticks slide by in life even though many are detestable and create space around them because they simply repel others so convincingly.

What are your volumaic experiences and thoughts on this theory? Everyone can play.

Airborne Inflation

2006-06-08T00:48:00.000-04:00

One of the main tenets of volumism is that a person is considered volumaic if they seem to take up more space because of their personal traits, inconsiderate behavior or outlandish fashion or hairstyle choices.
So here I was today on a five hour flight from Detroit to Portland, Oregon on a business trip. Of course, the 757 was packed as tight as a sailor's dufflebag.
I made sure I booked an aisle seat as always. There are two reasons for that. One, you get extra leg and elbow room, and two, it's easier to get out to hit the head.
Next to me, in the dreaded center seat was a woman who could best be described as stout. She wore conservative clothing, didn't speak too loudly to her husband seated by the window and seemed like an all-around non-volumaic person.
But as the flight progressed my center seat neighbor eerily began to expand. At first I thought my brain was being fried by the pressure at 35,000 feet, but it wasn't. Her voice seemed to get louder. Her arms began to creep into my space. Her entire body morphed from just a little chunky to a meandering blob of bio matter. I found myself fighting for every last millimeter of space. The more I scrunched toward the aisle the more I was buffeted on the leg and shoulders by the infernal beverage cart and passengers with bladders filled with complimentary coffee and Coke who made desperate dashes for the head before a line formed.
I looked around. Stephen King was nowhere in sight. Neither was Dean Koontz. Yet something spooky was transforming an otherwise well comported woman into an expanding nightmare.
Then just as suddenly as she began to enter my space, she began to shrink back to her previous form just as the flight attendant announced we were on final approach to Portland. The tray table was fastened. The seat back returned to the upright position and the creature in 32B assumed her original form. Forthe first time in five hours I finally had access to all of the space implied by my boarding pass. But it was too late. We'd landed. It was time to get off the plane, and think about what had just transpired.

A Latte' Waiting

2006-06-03T11:27:00.000-04:00

Sorry it's been awhile. Had to wait in line behind two guys in the Starbucks line who suddenly, and involuntarily, contributed to a maddeningly volumaic condition.
Here's the setup. We're at a large metropolitan airport hoping to pick up a quick cup of simple black coffee and a pastry before our foodless flight.
Yes, I know, simple black coffee just isn't really on the menu of the world's largest java giant, but I've succeeded to secure said caffeine vehicle hundreds of times.
We're next in line. The only thing standing between us, our coffee and pastry are two spikey haired dudes who work at an airport restaurant in line in front of us. Our hopes of quick service died with the dudes's order....or should I say their order for every last person who worked, or ever worked in the Japanese restaurant where they were currently employed. OK..if they were just ordering cups o' joe for their colleagues, no problem. But they proceeded to order the most complicated and caloric confections available--enough to make even the best barista cough up capuccino foam.
What kind of drinks? How about a mochalattechocolatecoconuthalfcafslurpyslusheefrapuchinosuprise...five of em!
The "speed" at which the rotund barista moved was roughly the same speed at which the entire Pacific Ocean would evaporate. As this beast with a butt five ax-handles wide slothed through the drink-making process the line grew from about five to roughly 30 caffeine-deprived travellers, all believing by the time their habit was fed their planes would be well on their way, without them.
Yes, I glared at butt-girl's "helper" who glared back at me spitting "she'll be with you in a minute." Yeah..what minute of what day I wondered.
Finally the five crap-u-cinos were brewed, mixed, mashed and dispensed and I truly believed the end of the ordeal was near. Then spike boys looked at the elaborate drinks, then each other, then butt-girl and whimpered, "how I'm gonna carry these things." Hmmm, I thought, I've have a suggestion.

Stuck in Bed

2006-05-21T10:07:00.000-04:00

Sorry it's been awhile since my last post. I've been stuck behind a giant pickup truck and couldn't see any of the street signs or traffic lights. Of all vehicles, pickup trucks might be the most volumaic. It doesn't matter if they're compact, midsize or fullsize--all pickup trucks command wider swaths on the road for one reason and one reason only: they have giant asses, AKA "beds."
Now if everyone who drove a pickup truck actually loaded stuff in the beds I'd have no beef, even though I still would be miserable being stuck behind one. But when I see cellphone-yakking, backward baseball cap-wearing poseurs doing the urban lean behind the wheel of an F-150 or Ram with zippo in the truck bed, or nothing attached to the tow hitch, I'm pissed. You know the only reason they're driving the beasts is to make up for other, um, shortcomings. The result is there are hundreds of thousands of view-obscuring pickup trucks on the road that aren't actually performing any work, other than providing a four-wheeled phallic substitute. Hey brother, you can't carry THAT in a pickup truck bed.
Besides, there are those of us who honestly can't stand the competition in race for blacktop domination. So we sulk at the stop light behind the pickup's fat ass..in our giant SUVs.

This is the Song That Never Ends....

2006-05-07T18:57:00.000-04:00

She was in her mid 20's. Long brown hair, fit and friendly. She insisted we had met at some professional function several months ago, but her generic suburban looks coupled with my non-existent short term memory conspired to erase any recollection I might have had of that encounter. So there we were, at another such function, in a klatsch of three or four attendees biding our time until the next mind-numbing "breakout session." We were standing in a side corridor making small talk and trading war stories, when Miss Suburbia decided she would step up her, shall we say, awareness level, to full on volumaic.
As if powered by a HEMI engine, her mouth went from zero to 60 in a flash going on and on about how she and her boyfriend share a house but are lousy do-it-yourselfers, no, in fact, they are helpless with tools, since that's what they both are...tools.
"We tried plumbing but everything leaked. We couldn't plug in a lamp, we can't paint, we're morons, we're helpless, we can't even light a barbecue, how do you light a barbecue, is it easy, is the lighter fluid dangerous, does it smell....are you listening?" Um, no. Her non-stop yammering went on for a full 10 minutes when one member of our group feigned the need to pee and ducked into the nearby men's room. Damn! That was a great idea! Now there are just three of us as her pace redlined her verbal tachometer. I didn't know jaws could move that fast, except when involved in a hot dog eating contest or trying to bite your way out of a gingerbread house. As her vocal volume escalated, so did her V-rating. In no time had she broken new records for volumism. Indeed, the space around her grew so much so, the entire breadth of the corridor was now blocked by the widening circle of unlucky souls still standing there.
Several of us tried mightily to break in, just to let the poor girl take a breath, but she was like a scuba diver with an unlimited supply of oxygen. Who is this person that never requires respiration?
At last, my trusty Blackberry began beeping and vibrating giving me my out. "Gotta run, important meeting," I broke in apologetically.
The cowards standing with me then all clutched their hips as if they also were equipped with the same electronic tether. "Yeah, me too," they chimed in as they tore off toward the exit as if someone had fired a starter's pistol.
As we made our escape, she yelled after us "Yeah, I can't figure out how to use a Blackberry either." Really?

Too Long Shelf Life

2006-04-30T14:59:00.000-04:00

Who would believe an establishment engaged in the selling or loaning of books could be a hotbed of volumism? It's all too true, and I know it's happened to you. Now our whole philosophy of volumism is that size doesn't matter..and it doesn't. In this case the operating dynamic is any sized person coupled with negative locomotion--a nice way of saying once they pick a spot they don't move their asses. So here I was in mall bookstore interested in a book on banjo picking. Don't ask..I'm having a midlife thing. The area where such books are located is in an obscure corner where few venture--except a skinny guy with a ball cap and no compunction to make use of his leg muscles. He camped out directly in front of the three feet of shelf space in front of the "performing arts" books. However, the only thing he was performing was picking up a book on heavy metal bands and decided to read it RIGHT THERE. It's a book store not a library numbnuts! I gamely peeked and poked around this moron but he never let on that he knew perhaps someone else would like to see what this fine store was offering on the subject of performing arts. So I looked elsewhere for a few minutes and counted 135 new books on sudokus. Then I checked back at "performing arts" where metal boy still had his slackjawed puss in the pages right in front of the shelf. I suppose I could have said "excuse me" but I couldn't see enough of the books to see if they even carried anything on banjo picking. So I just left and walked around the mall taking my chances against the onslaught of baby strollers and goofy looking kids with every bit of flesh pierced trying to get me to stop in at the cell phone pushcart and sign up. Never been a dude, never will be.
30 minutes later I defiantly stormed back to the damned bookstore vowing to lay a hipcheck on the slacker if he was still blocking my view. He was gone. Ha! He found a big word and gave up. I had "performing arts" all to myself. I slowly and deliberately checked every last title from Guitar for Dummies to Idiot's Guide to Piano to Ballet for Bozos. Not one damned book on banjo picking. Ah...who needs one? What a stupid idea learning to play the banjo at my age. Who was Susannah anyway? And you're not getting that thing anywhere near my knee.

Jiffy Rube

2006-04-23T10:17:00.000-04:00

There's something authentically American about popping into a Jiffy Lube to exchange your car's black, greasy expired fluids for a new shot 'o oil and other petroleum products. That quick blast of air in your tires and the topping off of the windshield wiper fluid just makes the 15 minutes or so in the waiting room all that much more worth it. Of course the big moment is when the guy in his coveralls embroidered with his nickname "Chunk" hits you up for a new air filter and you find the strength to turn him down with the polite demurral, "Looks pretty good to me. I'll change it next time." You both know it's a lie but it saves you 20 bucks and Chunk has fulfilled his obligation to try to pad your bill.
But the real charm of the quick oil change place, whether it's the Jiffy Lube, or a lesser chain is the waiting room. Now some places let you sit in the car while the poor guy who drew pit duty wails away on your car's underbody to drain the life essence out of your oil pan. But I like the places that let you step out from behind the wheel and enjoy some quality time sipping coffee that was made with water drawn from an EPA Superfund site, flipping through a decades-old car magazine and staring down the other folks biding their time, wondering if the washroom is safe from predators and crawling things.

Of course, the waiting room is a great incubator for volumism.So the other day I had the good fortune, temporarily, of finding myself the solitary occupant of the waiting room. While I enjoyed reading about the 1998 Indy 500 as if it had just been run, my peace was suddenly invaded by...the cable guy. The truck equipped with cherry picker and never the right parts to fix your TV troubles was in Bay #2. Cable guy, who, incidentally, also had his name attractively embroidered on his shirt, quickly whipped out the prime instrument of volumism know as the cell phone. It was bad enough that he found it necessary to use the loudest voice possible to call a fellow cable guy to tell him he had "nuthin' to do so's I figured I'd get a lube job," but he did so while making circuits around the tiny room. So much for reading about the '98 Indy or simply waiting the few more minutes it would take to complete the service on my car, I had to contend with this human incarnation of Seabiscuit. Now here's the kicker. Realizing I could not read while this moron held a conversation that basically covered the pros and cons of screwing off on the boss's time, I whipped out my Blackberry to play the little brick breaking game. At about the time I was reaching the highest level I'd ever attained cable guy stopped talking, flipped his phone shut and camped over my right shoulder. I could smell the 7/11 burrito he had just injested and felt the stare of a guy conversant with coaxial cable as he peered down at my little device, enjoying my game vicariously!

I purposely let the game go bad in a hurry just to deny cable guy the pleasure of mooching my entertainment. I could play another time.
But I could pray immediately--for him to either get an emergency call from some kid who lost the Cartoon Channel, or my car to be ready. Bingo, car ready. Cable guy left to entertain himself. Don't wanna think about that.

The Mauling of America

2006-04-18T13:06:00.000-04:00

They are palaces of enterprise, centers of commerce, places to buy overpriced pretzels. But more notably, today's shopping malls are vorticies of volumism.
Otherwise contained individuals suddenly grow in volume the moment they breach the thresholds of these hermetically sealed storefront circuses.

So here's how it went down the other day while I pursued the perfect deal and the five dollar Starbucks swill.
A toddler..perhaps two years old. How much space can such an imp command? This creature was barely three feet tall and weighed less than my belt buckle. Yet, as I strolled by a cross-corridor where this latent lethal weapon lay in wait I was soon to give up to it, her, a full 20 square feet of space. You see, at the exact moment our coordinates crossed, Thing One let out a scream of many dozen decibels at a pitch so high champagne flutes on display at a nearby department store began to vibrate. My wife advised me this was a yelp of joy in reaction to a parent's inane goo-gooing. At least I think that was the message. I am still, three days later, not able to hear anything lower in volume than a nuclear test.

But we preservered to the main concourse where those of slim posterior made up for their physical fitness by combining with other like gluteous minimus-es to form a classic volumaic butt blockade..

One skinny ass..no problem. Five abreast, and there's no hope of making Sears before closing. This brings about the long-held mathematic theory of the "Rule of Rear Ends," which states plainly that "each set o'cheeks moving individually equals a factor of one. However, for each set immediately adjacent to it adds a volume by a factor of five. In simple language, that means you have no freakin' prayer of getting by unless one of 'em decides to duck into Hot Topic for some black lip gloss.

And finally....

The Stink Bomb

Here's the formula: one normal sized person + no bath or shower + hair products that smell like the Chicago Stock Yards = equal 10-foot diameterconcentric circles of space around them by disgusted shoppers about to lose their Food Court lunches. Yup...a couple of Taco Bell burritos, washed down by a Gloria Jeans cappuccino, deposited on the mall's freshly waxed Gallerio.
Happy shopping!

The Birds and the Bees="V"

2006-04-13T16:41:00.000-04:00

Our loyal correspondent has officially been transformed from a two-dimensional, height and weight thinker of the past to a full-fledged member of the "V People."
One can only be in awe of her perceptiveness of Volumism. This is one person who gets it. Only a couple of billion more backwards thinkers to go. Read on...and learn:
The Birds

Can the concept of volumism be applied to the world of nature? I think so. Take birds for example. Who doesn't like birds? Let's face it, they're sweet, innocent, quite harmless, and people equate them with the first signs of spring - and who isn't heart-broken at the sight of an injured bird, knowing they're perfect targets for predetors? But their bodily functions leave much to be desired! They definitely often violate our "space" and also our possessions! I went out a few days ago, ready to go to work, and found a very large splat of bird crap on my car, down my driver's side window all the way down to the door handle. Excuse me! I'd say that's pretty volumaic!

The Bees

And how about bees? Speaking as someone who is very afraid of bees (and I can't even claim allergies as an excuse), I KNOW they're very volumaic! They tease us in fact - often flying in and out thru our "space" so fast that we can't do much to stop them! And, they know perfectly well that WE on the other hand are NOT going to invade their personal space now are we? Except for bee-keepers, but they're just plain weird anyway - as anyone who has seen Eddie Izzard's "take" on bee keepers, understands perfectly!

Dogs?
And how about dogs, when they're trying to get to know you?....I won't even go there!

Dr. Who-dunit

2006-04-12T18:54:00.000-04:00

Whovians are rejoicing since the time travelling Doctor returned to the tube a few months ago. The resurrection of the veddy British Dr. Who may have been the inspiration for this Volumist observation from a friend:

I believe there are certain groups of people that we WANT to be volumaic, we WANT them to have all the space in the world around them - like put them in the middle of the Great Salt Lake or something. My list of those groups would be: 1) Dentists! 2) Smokers! 3) Those "clip board" people in the mall and 4) Daleks! And speaking of the Doctor, I think the most perfect example of "reverse" volumism would be his TARDIS - forever larger on the INSIDE than the outside! It never does and never will go beyond its 3-feet assigned area! Yes? YES!

Surviving the Home Show-Barely

2006-04-09T15:20:00.000-04:00

Our concrete garage floor has so many cracks and fissures it looks like the place where Prof. Richter came up with the idea for his nifty earthquake scale. So we ventured out to the'burbs for the annual "home show" hunting for ideas that would turn our enclosed wasteland into something a little more commodious...and safer. Oh yeah, we found a few great ideas, but we really hit paydirt stumbling on a gusher of volumaic lookie-loos.

If you're new to this blog, please go to the bottom and read about the theory of "volumism" and why it's a much more description of our fellow human animals than height and weight.

So here we go.
First, there are gangly guys who, under the "old" system would be described as 6-foot, 4-inches. But when they get to a crowded exhibition hall loaded with freebies, these otherwise contained gentlemen are transformed into veritable killer windmills.

Their arms are flailing pointing to the landscaping booth over here, the roofing dude in the corner and the tub re-liner waaaay over there. In no time they've sucked up more than three times their allotment of 3 square feet as anyone shorter than them ducks for their dear lives lest they be decapitated by his uncontrolled extremities. What makes these tall drinks of adreneline especially dangerous is that they're doing all this while wielding the free yardstick they picked up by sweet talking the chick at the home remodeling booth.

Second...the stroller people. Yeah, yeah, yeah....we had 'em too when our kids were young enough to have us chauffeur them in what were once known as prams, but things are different now. The modern stoller is as elaborate and spacious as an SUV. There's enough room for the kid, every toy in the world, bottles, rattles, diapers, a shotgun and sedatives for the parents.

As we're attempting to navigate the narrow aisles, it's as if Rommel and his tanks came to plundering Egypt. The convoy of parent-powered kid-mobiles stormed the "Drop Ceiling" aisle taking no prisoners. "Out of the way you childless wretches! Damn you empty nesters! We are headed for the family restroom for re-diapering and let nothing obstruct us...NOTHING!"

The collateral damage was heavy as those who made the unwise decision not to clear the way for the tooling toddlers in their $300 transport pods found themselves quickly crashing to the hard exhibition hall floor--their free chip clips, garbage bags and stress balls flying from their clammy grips.

And then, there were what I call the "abreasters." Yes, they are volumaic voyagers who have not yet come to grips with the concept of "single file." "Abreasters" calculate the width of any given aisle then quickly figure out how many of them it will take, standing side-by-side, to completely occupy the entire aise so that no one can possibly pass them by. It's a little like Roller Derby, except if you attempt to smash through their blossoming blockade it's considered assault in most states. You then have two choices: slow down and suffer in silence behind them, or double back and take another route. Myself, I like to sneak up on them and sneeze without a tissue. It's a subtle yet effective hint that they ought to let you pass. Give it a try. You sometimes get a free tissue out of it.

Share Your Volumaic Moments

2006-04-08T10:25:00.000-04:00

I can go on and on with examples of volumaic people, but I know you've got plenty to share, so go ahead...add you volumaic moments here. It's a movement folks.

Volumism in Aisle V

2006-04-02T10:47:00.000-04:00

Just came from the supermarket. It's something we do almost every Sunday morning after gulping our necessary hot, brown liquid drug and devouring the thick, ad-laden paper. So it's like this: Sunday morning at the supermarket is a virtual petri dish of Volumism. The reason is simple, and spelled with three letters: M-E-N.
As one of the species it hurts me to report this, but after a virtual lifetime of experience, there's no denying it. Men simply should not be allowed to go unaccompanied by a woman to the supermarket.
With cell phone surgically attached to one hand and ear, and shopping cart being guided with the free hand, these poor, pathetic Y chromosomes are left to meander the aisles aimlessly with not one clue where they're going or who is around them. Think of someone driving who has one hand on the wheel, the other on the phone and no idea what the route is to their destination. Add to that a demolition derby shopping cart driving mentality and you see a volumaic scenario building somewhere between the organic oatmeal and toilet paper.

Oblivious to where the items live that are listed on the slip of paper handed to them by their significant, and experienced, others, and preoccupied by their cell phone calls, the "Sunday supermarket male marauders" at first race, then suddenly stop, then pull a quick U-turn.
Fellow shoppers are terrorized by the shopping cart driving of what would appear to be a severely impaired operator bucking for at least a 4 point violation and serious community service.

On this day, I found myself in the laundry detergent aisle, stuck behind a man yakking on his phone, pushing his cart in what appeared to be Satanic diagonal patterns, with his dumpy middle-aged butt straining the seams of his dollar store jeans. I was compelled to give this monster wide berth--so much so I completely missed my assignment to snag a 64 ounce "Snuggle" softener. In the supermarket society, it is indeed a black mark on one's reputation to have to admit you missed your item and are forced to double back. But I had my excuse ready for any of the smart, knowledgable women in the crowd, which included my wife. Yup..forced to do the unthinkable by a volumaic vermin. The knowing looks told me they understood.

The sharp stare aimed at would-be mockers by my wife kept them well at bay. It was a look that warned, "Back off. He's with me, and I know where the rutabagas are."

Flying Thirst Class

2006-03-26T10:11:00.000-05:00

The jetway was backed up from the door of the plane clear to the gate with passengers anxious to board, stick their crap in the overhead bins and shoehorn themselves into under-sized seats for the short flight to New York's LaGuardia Airport from Detroit.
My daughter and I were two of the unfortunates stuck in that purgatory right where the jetway ended and the jet began...oh, so close to traversing the threshold that would allow us to be spam in a can for the next 1:15. So what was holding up our progress. You already know the answer....a volumaic disaster in the form of an idiot in first class who believed his thirst came first.
Our position in the stagnant line gave us a front row view of this classic volumaic tableau. See, even though the man was slight of physical stature, and even slighter of hair, he made up for his flyspeck bearing by swimming upstream in the aisle filled with passengers headed for their seats back in steerage, and demanded the flight attendant give him something to drink, right now.
The disgusted flight attendant motioned for the idiot to pipe down and go back to his seat, but he would not be denied. As the now pissed-off passengers cooled their heels as they lugged their carry-on bags, Mr. First Class insisted his thirst be satiated, the other 120 passengers be damned. Just to get the fool to sit down and shut his pie hole, the harried flight attendant quickly filled his request. So arrogant, so selfish, so......volumaic!
Yes, in keeping with our philosophy, an average-sized package of protoplasm succeeded in sucking up not just a few additional square feet beyond the prescribed to which three each of us is entitled, but additional square yards due to his aforementioned arrogance and selfishness.

Frankly, I think the flight attendant should have simply tossed the drink in the moron's face, but since Northwest employees have already given up a good deal of their pay and benefits to save the limping airline, and their jobs, it probably wouldn't have looked good on her annual evaluation.
Aside from the sheer disregard for his fellow passengers, here's what yanks my crank. Half the first class passengers didn't even fork over the extra moolah for the upgraded seats and the privileges they include. If they did, then perhaps we could stand a little arrogance because they've got the dough, and I don't. But the truth is, many of them are given upgrades because they fly so damned much for business they achieve the exalted Platinum or Silver Elite status on the boss's dime. That means they've earned First Class seats by being stuck on airplanes much of their lives.
I'm sure all of you have had many volumaic experiences on airplanes--they're just such fertile ground for displays of such behavior. Please go ahead and share.
Oh...and I didn't mention the woman with huge hair who decided to tie her horsetail in a fuschia bath towel. It didn't hel,p that she had an aisle seat...her bulging tonsorial tendril accounted for at least three collisions with the drink cart. I think I saw terry cloth in my Coke. See...I told you it was just too easy.

When Lips Part--Me from You

2006-03-11T11:48:00.000-05:00

A "volumaic moment" I just can't shake. For the purpose of privacy no real names will be used here but I assure you this really happened a couple of days ago. I'm hoping for closure at some point.
In my work, I come in contact with news reporters. I used to be one so I know well the pressures they're under to gather information quickly and accurately. Last Wednesday a stressed-out reporter on deadline decided to put a bullseye on my back and dialed my number.
Her question, delivered in a manic drawl sounded roughly like this: "IneedsomeinformationrightnowandIcan'tfinditandIdon'tknowwhattodoandIneeditrightnowsogetmesomethingtellmesomethinggetmesomoneI cantalkwithrightnowok?ok?ok?ok?ok?"
OK.
Volumaic inventory time.
Loud, crazed, incoherent. Hmmm....This one' s got the making's of at least a V-3. See V-Scale posting for explanation.
But, you see, I know this person. I've seen this person. I'm frightened of this person.
Why? Imagine, if you will, THAT question delivered THAT way coming from.........Botox lips.
Even though this was a telephone conversation, her delivery, combined with the image of THOSE elephantine lips blubbering out those words forced me to distance myself from the telephone for fear of being sucked through the receiver when she took a breath. Good thing my desk is strong and I could hang onto a drawer handle.
Her standing on the V-Scale instantly shot through the roof and my lunch shot through my gullet. Over-the-counter pharmaceuticals were in order but would anything be strong enough?
All this brings us back to the basic premise of Volumism. Except for lips that could double as O-rings on the space shuttle, this person is not physically imposing. Yet her frantic delivery coupled with the image of THOSE lips actually caused me back away from the phone, in effect allowing her to claim more space from a remote location than she's entitled--THAT's what makes her volumaic.
Whew...I think I found some Tylenol 3's. The pain will soon subside.
Love to hear about your volumaic experiences. Take back your space.
Chuck.
weight

The "V" Scale

2006-03-04T12:59:00.000-05:00

Now that we've discussed the basic philosophy of "volumism" and classifying folks on a more realistic basis, here's how the V-Scale works:

First, completely ignore the person's height and weight.
Second, assume each person, while standing still, is entitled to three-square feet of space.
Third, bring along four friends and from the edge of the person's space, observed for three minutes.
Listen, watch, and smell 'em. Notice if you and your friends are repelled by any of the person's characteristics and write down how much extra space you had to give that person to escape their hair, smell, idiotic voice, out of control limbs, or any other objectionable characteristics.
Fourth, check that number against the scale I have devised.

Zero square feet...................."Contained"
1-2 square feet......................V1-"Volume challenged"
2-4 square feet......................V2-"Annoying"
4-6 square feet......................V3-"Ripe for felonious assault"
Over 6 square feet................V4-"Volumaic"--you may follow through with any threats previously leveled against this person.

Please note, that depending on your individual tolerances one person may be Volumaic to you but not to others.

Picture now, how this scale, however, could be so useful to police when interviewing a witness for a description of a perpetrator.
"Yes officer, the robber was a V3 with red hair."
"Ah," replies the grateful officer. "You mean the one wearing Eau de Landfill, bad perm? A screamer with rowdy kids and an untrained pit bull?"
"Bingo!" exclaims the witness.
"I'm on it," says the cop. "Your description fits number 3 on the most wanted list to a T. This case is all but solved."
See? Your knowledge of the V-Scale could turn you into a civic hero.

I'm not really interested in your weight, but you're welcome to weigh in on the system and any experiences with Volumaic people.

Can someone be cured of being volumaic? Absolutely. We'll discuss that and further evidence of why the V-Scale makes so much sense in our next post.

Volumism -Why Size Doesn't Matter

2006-02-26T20:01:00.000-05:00

You’ve been there. You’re standing in line, say, at the movies and some loudmouth is flailing his arms, shuffling his feet, telling his suffering date some long, drawn-out story of his latest victories in corporate America. You notice that the longer this loser carries on, the more space is opening up around him. I’ve noticed this too. What struck me is that even though our hypothetical yutz is only 4-foot 7-inches and 115 pounds, he seems to be taking up more room on this Earth than the basic 3 square feet that, I think, to which anyone is entitled.

So I continued my informal observations over the course of several months and found similar scenarios where, regardless of a person’s physical dimensions, he or she just appeared to cut a wide swatch through life—in many cases usurping space meant for other individuals.

Here’s an example I discovered during a recent trip to Florida. Two sun-dried poolside prunes are locked in a major debate over which deli sells the best lox. It’s an important issue, to be sure, but the demeanor of the debaters is such that despite their almost opaque skin and flyweight dimensions, these two yentas were so demonstrative that an instant exodus of chaise lounge lizards ensued. The battle of the lox continued in isolation as anyone who entered the pool area was immediately repelled by the sound, fury and ardor of the combatants.

I offer another example. This has nothing to do with sound, fury or flailing. It’s strictly cosmetic. You’re on a plane. You settle into your crummy middle seat, realizing you’ve not only already read the in-flight magazine feature on new uses for Melmac, but have done the crossword puzzle and ordered the pants presser from the Skymall catalogue. Now it hits you. Wafting over from the creature in the window seat next to you is the distinct odor of rotting sturgeon. But alas, it’s the latest designer fragrance in which she’s bathed herself and it’s driving you to quickly grab the air sickness bag. Making matters worse, there’s the tonsorial tragedy on her head consisting of a “do” so high and wide it would appear to require a building permit and aviation warning lights. You find yourself scrunching your arms and legs together in a futile effort to put some space between you and this combination of Glade gone wild and Medusa—so much so you’re using only 50 bucks worth of that 200 dollar seat—and she’s only a 90-pound waif!

What this all boils down to is our society has been wasting its time defining human beings by those two famous dimensions: height and weight. I offer you the only single dimension that really matters, one that truly puts people in their true contexts and one that accurately and decisively tells what matters most—how much damn space a single person takes on this planet. That dimension, my friends is, simply put, volume. Oh no, not in the sense of geometric proportions, but in the sense of how a person’s demeanor, dress, hygiene and general milieu work in concert with every other person he or she comes in contact with. People who seem to build a pocket of space around them because they are loud, smelly, carry a lot of crap, have little kids running around in a confined area, have their hair styles extend beyond a body’s continental shelf, or are general obnoxious, would be classified as “volumaic.”

Odds are you encountered a volumaic person by virtue of the following: three kids stuffed in a triple-seat stroller all screaming that they will hold their breaths until the mom buys them a toy, and 14 shopping bags piled high and wide and falling all over the place. The collective effect of the noisy brats, the RV sized stroller and sprawling string of shopping bags makes it look like our mom has used a stun gun on the rest of the shoppers, creating a pocket of space around her, all too large in proportion to the area afforded less volumaic shoppers. Oh yeah…all the time she’s schlepping the brats and the bags she’s yakking loudly on her cell phone.

The flipside? People who do not cause the general scattering of other human beings but carry on their lives in the two or three square feet at a time to which they are entitled, would be classified as “contained.” An apt example would be a person walking arms to the side, loosely swinging, hair never extending beyond the shoulders, speaking to a companion in a normal voice, not on a cell phone, and not carrying a piece of luggage you walk like a dog. A “contained” person is one who has their kids and pets under control and one who doesn’t attempt to stuff all of their life possessions into an airplane’s overhead bin.

Of course, these have been extreme examples. In a subsequent post, I will introduce you to an unscientific, but effective method in which to classify a person based on their volumaism, and how it could be useful in assisting police in nabbing suspects.

Is it always bad to be volumaic? Not at all. Someone with true charisma who commands attention, respect or awe through real accomplishments or humor is said to be “positively volumaic.”

This was a much longer post than is normal for a blog, so I appreciate your attention. Now, let’s go out and spread the word—it’s time to take back our space.