Author: Bill Zapcic

Welcome to Limbooooo

George Carlin, “Class Clown”

It’s been 47 years since George Carlin riffed on Heaven, Hell, Purgatory and Limbo in front of a crowd in Santa Monica, yet the puzzlement over the last of the four persists.

Perhaps because so many of us are there.

Maybe we’re hanging out with Didi and Gogo, in the vain hope we’ll see Godot one of these days.

Maybe it’s 2 a.m. and nobody told us the Metro stops running at midnight. Or that nobody actually took our order at the late-night Mickey D’s drive-thru, and those folks inside are mopping, not frying.

Maybe our Uber ranking is so low that nobody will pick us up.

Maybe we’re still applying for jobs we know we could do in our sleep.

Limmmmm.

Bohhhh!

Ugh.

Intriguingly, while somebody is in Limbo, they can be in Heaven, Hell or Purgatory simultaneously. Just ask any job-seeker.

Heaven plus Limbo is when you’ve gotten an offer but haven’t started yet and have that long-layoff fear that this isn’t really real.

Purgatory plus Limbo is the interview process, wherein you bare your soul, come clean, repent for possible sins and promise a forthright life ahead.

Hell plus Limbo is rejection, and the Ninth Circle of Hell plus Limbo is being rejected after a full battery of interviews and tests and and and. (Yes, Dante scholars: I know this makes the First and Ninth circles collide. Latitude, please.)

Of course, fans of the tropics are familiar with the notion of limbo as the “how low can you go” contortion game.

Second definition, second metaphor.

For job-seekers, this kind of limbo represents the cataloging of so-called transferable skills. It’s strenuous exercise, and it can stretch the imagination as much as any limbo dancer ever stretched hip flexors.

Backfield editor equals teacher. Copy editor equals proofreader. Reporter equals content creator equals creative writer equals sloganeer equals employee communications specialist.

Except, of course, when they don’t.

Even though, yeah, they do.

For most applicants, their résumés and cover letters are AI-scanned for keywords and buzz phrases the hiring company has specified for the specific position, and if those documents don’t achieve a pre-calculated score … pfffft! Electronic 86’d.

A human with vision can extrapolate and, perhaps, take a flier on a liberal arts grad with a parallel career who could easily change lanes without slowing down.

But no. The Terminator is the new HR gatekeeper.

“We’ll keep your résumé on file in case we have an opening more suited to your experience (or skills or qualifications or interests or bona fides).”

Yeah, that check is in the mail.

So: Limbo.

And: limbo.

How may I use my experience and skills to serve you?

There’s a “Far Side” cartoon by Gary Larson in which some of his favorite subjects — cows — are sitting in the living room while a phone rings nearby.

They lament, “Well, there it goes again … and here we sit without opposable thumbs.”

Hey, cows:

Nyaa-nyaa!

The whole notion of human hands goes far beyond the biomechanical.

Hands figure heavily in relationships — holding hands, helping hands, hands that comfort, hands that caress, hands that clean up messes.

Hands given in marriage.

Hands that let go in death.

Recently, though, the act of Pontius Pilate washing his hands at the condemnation of Jesus, as retold leading up to Easter, made me think of how that looks.

We all know how to wash our hands, of course: one hand over, under, rubbing, soaping, fingers interlacing, squeezing, maybe making bubbles and definitely making suds.

So we may or may not go through the ritual at the sink when we wash our hands of something, but the action is there figuratively.

That same action, albeit usually without soap and water, is there when we wring our hands in frustration or helplessness. Ohmyohmyohmyohmy, what am I going to do? And often, if we’ve gotten to the hand-wringing stage, the answer is nothing, because we’re paralyzed by fear or insecurity or lack of belief in ourselves or the higher power’s ability to help us through.

Similar actions. Similar results.

All that’s different is the intentionality, and even that varies from one to the other only slightly.

Washing or wringing, our hands get us away from something annoying, something unpleasant, something difficult.

So why, then, do we need opposable thumbs? Or any of the other four fingers on each hand?

The index finger can point to the sunrise and the promise of a new day.

The ring finger can show the world we’ve bonded with a partner for life and continue to bare our souls in a way no one else can share.

The pinkie is a great place to tie a string as a reminder of something, even if we’re guaranteed to forget what it was. Hey, human, remember?

And that opposable thumb, which cooperates with the others so that we can get a grip? And heaven knows, we all need to get a grip.

On its own, the thumb is a perfect choice for blessing the forehead of people we meet, to remind them that whenever they want to wring or wash in times of trouble, they have a wellspring of Love to tap into.

For the 1963 automotive model year, the Ford Country Squire station wagon — resplendent with its fake wood paneling and fully functional roof rack — was offered in 26 colors, two of them specially blended for springtime.

For the 2019 model year, most manufacturers offer six, with minor variations: red, white, blue, black, gray, and silver.

Subaru has a burnt orange and there may be another quirky offering somewhere, but those are few and, well, quirky.

Of the limited palette, car buyers seem to further limit themselves to white, gray and silver. I know this because those are the folks who drive with their headlights off in dense fog and just before dusk, and those cars put Stealth jet fighters to shame.

You bought white because it hides the dirt better? Two words: WASH ME

From the 1950s into the early 1970s, motorists mostly ordered their cars, picking from a menu of options a Chinese restaurant would envy. They plunked down their down payment and waited a month to six weeks for the vehicle to arrive. Sometimes, if they had a friend at the dealership, they got updates on the progress of assembly and shipping.

People could order almost any combination of exterior and interior colors — some clashing pairs were verboten — and one favorite trick was to order blackwall tires on the passenger side but whitewalls on the driver’s side. That way, motorists got to show off the whitewalls, and it was no biggie if they scraped the blackwalls on the curb. Oh, yeah: curb feelers. Buyers even had their choice of rubber brand.

Then came the oil embargo and the shortages in the early 1970s that turned consumers’ heads toward smaller, fuel-saving cars, cars that came from Europe and the Far East, where fuel always had been expensive and in short supply. Those cars introduced the notions of trim levels and option packages and pre-selected exterior/interior combos. And, oh yeah, no more six shades of blue. You got VW Miami blue or dark blue, Datsun blue, Toyoda blue, with black or fawn leatherette or cloth interior.

The options packages did away with the odd combinations of power steering but manual brakes or vice versa; air conditioning and power door locks but manual windows; or power windows but a manual crank on the tailgate glass. Things that belonged together became standardized.

And for the most part, God was in Heaven and all was right with the world.

Soon, though, this sensible standardization turned in the Soylent Green direction. Food indistinguishable from its packaging. Overpackaging in itself.

I do not consider Ronald McDonald an adversary, but no matter how many ways Mickey D’s tweaks its burgers, nuggets, fries and, yes, salads, they are not serving haute cuisine. Neither is BK or Mom, er, Wendy’s.

Worldwide, the fare is fair, but it’s consistent. And that has advantages for travelers and fans of McMuffins.

Ditto for chain pizza restaurants. They cannot hold a candle to Jersey Shore pizza, New Jersey pizza, New York pizza, but they won’t totally leave you in the lurch, either, the way a Deep South “New York Style” place will.

Cheez Whiz and ketchup on a Ritz cracker. Jeez.

In other words, for consistency and predictability, we settle for the Gentleman’s C.

But that should be a matter of necessity, not a lifestyle choice.

Those Gentleman’s C’s — they’re not just food, or car colors, or our politics (… not gonna go there right now).

They’re on display in our crazed-consumer disposable-goods economy. We buy subpar crap that can’t be repaired when, not if, it breaks.

They pollute our educational system, which teaches kids absolutely everything they need to know to pass a test, and absolutely nothing they need to know to make a difference in a pluralistic society.

They stifle ourselves. We sell ourselves short and say “good enough” or “that’s far enough,” when the real finish line is just a little way farther.

Yes, it’s a challenge to live life to the fullest, and often it takes work, hard work, a lot of hard work. But none of us has the curse of Sisyphus. We can push the boulder over the top. We can nourish ourselves with a bit of excitement.

We can demand — and get — Sahara Rose enamel glistening in the sun.

Save money?

Yes, please!

Everyone loves a bargain. Otherwise, there would be no Dollar General or Walmart or Target or Jersey Shore Premium Outlets.

There’d be no Costco or BJ’s, or highway mega-dealerships assuring us that there’s never a worry when you hurry to them for your next car.

The American economy — at least, post-World War II amid the flight to the suburbs — has been based on conspicuous consumption fueled by discounts and haggling.

The aforementioned car purchase always has been a competition between the buyer and the salesperson, with the invisible hand of I’ll Have To Ask My Manager determining the final price, regardless of what the sticker says. It’s a competition designed to make everyone feel as if they won. The only losers, as history has shown, have been those car companies — Saturn is the prime example — that chose to go with no-haggle pricing.

Saturn, we hardly knew ye.

So when the values go up, up, up, and the prices go down, down, down, what actually could be happening?

Sellers may cut prices on “loss leaders,” items they can take little or no profit on, or even lose a little money, to bring in crowds who’ll buy more than the super-cheap advertised special.

Buyers may settle for a cheaply made item — tires designed to last a week, just long enough to pass inspection. A one-season overcoat, which will be out of style next year anyway.

Ah, disposability.

Not every money-saver has to be Cheap Crap from Canton, China.

House brands are a great way to save money, especially when it’s evident that the products are equal to or even better than their name-brand equivalents. House brands from warehouse-y sellers don’t have flashy packaging, and you may have to root through massive stacks to find your size or flavor, but those can be legit bargains.

And then there are coupons.

Major manufacturers have offered discounts via coupons for time immemorial. First, they had to be scissor-cut from newspapers and circulars. Then the circulars came perforated. Now, coupons are electronic. The Lorax is pleased.

One reason for coupons is new-product introduction. Yeah, I’ll try your new flavor of gruel if it’s half-price.

Usually, though, coupons for foodstuffs help the maker even out the seasons, keeping sales at a consistent level at times of the year when people might not buy that product. Look for Swiss Miss coupons in July. Coupons help makers unload excess inventory.

Then there are coupons to make you cringe.

The last time I looked, I have two eyes that I got from my parents and, as far as I know, they are the only two I’m going to have until Judgment Day. So I’m not thrilled by the notion of discount laser surgery.

I may pay less for brake pads, but I never skimp on technicians’ fees. The same goes for surgery. The AT&T ad about pretty good not being good enough is dead-on accurate.

Then there’s the Groupon for sildenafil, the ingredient in that “magic blue pill” sort-of named for the honeymooners’ favorite waterfall.

Generic drugs are a godsend in most cases — even this most intimate one — but a 40 percent-off offer on an intrusive medication with no specifics is dodgy. Something is just not right about bypassing a prescribing physician to save a buck.

Save money? Yes, please.

House brands and legit coupons.

Timing purchases to clearance periods.

And a counter-intuitive method: Spend more.

Buy quality and maintain it. Purchase products that last. Take care of your tires and shoes and mackintosh and vehicles, and you won’t need replacements quickly.

Take care of yourself, too. Spare parts for your body are hard to find, extremely costly, and never accompanied by coupons.

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson, in “Self Reliance”

In every quote, in every piece of advice, in every snippet of wisdom is a zinger word or phrase. A qualifier. Sometimes it’s context; sometimes it’s CYA for the author or speaker. An escape hatch, like the button-bottom flap on a union suit of underwear.

Buttoned up, the aphorism can be taken at face (or hiney) value, added to a bumper sticker or political button or a red trucker hat, and accepted as gospel.

But once the zinger is identified, we’re challenged to do a deeper dive into the kernel of the observation.

Parsing Emerson’s quote, we select “foolish” as the zinger here, and ponder what a wise consistency might mean.

Skilled laborers — in manufacturing, in handicrafts, in what we call “the trades” — demonstrate their talents by consistently delivering quality work.

Apprentice.

Journeyman.

Master.

Workers climb the ladder by learning, but mostly by producing at a consistently high level.

That sounds pretty wise.

At its core, though, a well-lived life is about relationships, ranging from soul- and flesh-baring intimacy to strangers passing on a street who casually-casually-casually acknowledge each other’s presence.

The thread is a consistent kindness born of respect.

No relationship can survive without consistency. In a relationship, consistency is not sameness, nor is it foolish. In a relationship, consistency is reliability.

You can count on me.*

To be sure, there are degrees of kindness, each appropriate to the relationship. Also, to be doubly sure, we are in relationship with every other human, every other fellow traveler, even those we’ve never met, and will never meet. The world is too small for us to think otherwise.

I believe that butterfly sneezes can cause hurricanes.

I believe that consistent kindness makes our elbows less sharp.

I believe that, if you know you can count on me* — and you can — then we all can sleep soundly.