DO YOU REMEMBER VIDEO OF THE WEEK

Brian Setzer's first solo album after the Stray Cats broke up was titled The Knife feels like Justice. Here is the title track. Forgive the mullet.

EMPLOYEE REVIEW

My annual employee review resembles nothing so much as a law school lesson about conflicting eyewitness accounts. My boss and I sit not 10 feet from each other, so we both have an upclose view of how I work. Yet whereas I see heroic, selfless toil against long odds, my boss sees, well, a crime. It's almost like he sees a thief who keeps robbing the same kindly Mom-and-Pop corner grocer and complains about declining work ethic when the till is a little light.

Sadly, nothing seems to have changed in the past year. I was able to steal a copy of his evaluation of my work. Read on to find out what kind of hole I have dug for myself.


Attitude toward work

Attendance -- Outstanding. But he knows I have licensed bounty hunters who will track him down and deliver him to me trussed up like a Christmas turkey if needs be.

Enthusiasm -- As good as that of any man being marched to the gallows.

Eagerness to improve -- Nonexistent. He says God gave him a talent for slackness, and it would be a sin to abuse that gift by trying to get better.

Cooperation with fellow employees and supervisors -- He spends the better part of each shift plotting against his co-workers and me. The other day he was driving his car around the newsroom trying to run down the assistant news editor (he said he was having "brake problems" and it wasn't his fault), and last week he tried to persuade me to wear an elk costume and join him for a hike in the woods -- on the first day of hunting season.

Work habits -- Deplorable. The man has never come across a task he didn't try to pass off on someone else. Horatio Alger would hire an assassin to kill him and a historian to erase all evidence of his life.

Influence on co-workers -- This year he tricked maintenance workers into putting a "stripper poll" in the newsroom. He then told two of our more attractive female interns that Telegraph tradition demands that they spend the better part of their day gyrating about the poll in barely there outfits. (He favored naughty Catholic schoolgirl attire.) Though this did improve morale briefly, the lawsuits more than canceled out any such gains.

Willingness to accept any type of assignment -- Oh, he accepts most assignments all right. Then he gets somebody else to collaborate with him on the work. He eventually shifts the bulk of the labor to his unfortunate partner while he spends his time on "research." As near as I can tell, his idea of "research" involves either hours of watching Internet pornography or visits to Wayne's Lounge to "get in touch with the common man." And $1.50 highballs. On company time, of course.


Quality of work

Creativity -- He once used Photoshop to create an image of Vice President Cheney passing off national security secrets to one of Zoo Atlanta's giant pandas, which he described as a "foreign agent." Above the photo was a 72-point headline that blared "TREASON IN ATLANTA." He said that would sell more papers than the planned 1A centerpiece about the Forest Hill Road widening. Creative? Yes. Ethical? Not so much.

Ability to work without supervision -- He only works if I stand over him and liberally apply beatings from my swagger stick.

Thoroughness -- I had no idea that the Atlanta Falcons won the World Series in 1995 or that former Saturday Night Live cast member Dan Aykroyd was once governor of Georgia, yet Parnell's section once said so. When told that it was the Braves who won the World Series and that Aykroyd used to impersonate former Gov. Jimmy Carter, Parnell simply said, "Close enough."

Attention to detail -- Misstur Parnell's speling iz not so gud, unforchunitly.

Accuracy -- Like a blind man throwing darts.

Demands on self for quality -- You can't possibly be serious.

Professional standards -- This man looks up to see the underside of a snake.


Quantity of work

Dependability in both routine daily work and in special assignments -- I can always count on him to do as little as possible and do it poorly.

Energy level -- He makes a manatee look like a tornado of activity.

Consistency of performance -- Every day he makes journalism suffer in the same way that he did the day before.

Volume of work -- Enormous ... if he were a church mouse.

Ability to produce under pressure -- The only things he produces under pressure are lame excuses and blame for his co-workers. Otherwise, he just sits staring blankly at his monitor and muttering, "Should have remained a cesspool digger" over and over.


Personal relations

Ability to work well with people at all levels in the division and, where appropriate, in other departments -- People in other departments have declared war on the news desk and demanded reparations when Parnell has come near them.

Effectiveness in dealing with the public -- Security is ordered to shoot him if he comes anywhere near the public.

Willingness to make decisions -- Good, when he knows he can blame the negative consequences on someone else.

Friendliness -- He makes a cobra seem like a sparkling fountain of congeniality.

Leadership -- We stay in the Wild Kingdom. His leadership skills would make a lemming weep.


Primary strengths

Conspiring, whining and uncanny ability to pick the best of his co-workers' dinners from the break room refrigerator and eat it before they know it's gone.


Areas for improvement

The best way he could improve is by becoming a chalk outline on a sidewalk.


Overall performance

As bad as it gets. So let's promote him and be done with it.

DESPERATE MEASURES

One of the things that sucks about blogging is that it can reduce self-worth down to what the hit count says. The more hits you have, the more people like you and what you have to say. Millions of hits makes you a rock star of the blog world and puts you in line for columnist gigs and book deals. A hit count of, oh say, 8,500 makes you the crashing bore of the blog party, a high-water-pants-and-pocket-protector-wearing nerd who would be shot on sight at any profitable publishing house.

Saving myself from blogging oblivion becomes tricky, however. I could try to write about politics. Those guys always seem to rack up the hits. But given my addiction to the ridiculous and the fevered state of the Republic right now, I might wind up as poster boy for some lunatic fringe that thinks what the country needs in the White House is another plain-talking Hollywood star. No, not Fred Dalton Thompson; Mister Ed. I would probably end up as the VP candidate, and it also probably would not be long until the press labels me "the horse's ass" because of my loutish attacks on the opposition.

Some of the most successful roads to blogging stardom have been paved with personal revelation, the more salacious the better. Jessica Cutler, the onetime Capitol Hill intern with an overbooked sex life, rode her blog from abrupt unemployment to the bestseller list.

Other paths to glory use gambling and sports. Since desperate circumstances requires desperate measures, I'm going to grab all three, and give you a taste of what's on the horizon for this blog. Sure you can call it selling out, but it's not like I haven't done that before, and for a lot less.

SAMPLEPOST SAMPLEPOST SAMPLEPOST SAMPLEPOST

My day started with sex, and lots of it. After I kicked out my girlfriend (who was spent from the night's amours, by the way), I was pleased to see that the person delivering my paper was bikini model/law student who was paying her way through school by delivering The Telegraph. Before the thump of the paper had quit echoing on the porch, I had that broad across the hood of her car, and we were definitely making headlines.

After I sent her on her way, it was time to ride my bike. Cycling for me is almost a form of meditation. As soon as the endorphin buzz kicks in, I'm able to clear my mind and focus on the problems and challenges of life. I'm able to find the clarity that leads to deeper spiritual awareness and peace. Cycling allows me to find the better angels of my nature.

And have sex. As I was riding down a country road, I saw a hot twentysomething babe jogging ahead of me. As soon as I pulled up alongside her, I knew it was on. I didn't want to interrupt my ride too much, so I hauled her up on my bike and ... well, do I really have to draw you a picture?

After I discarded her somewhere in Tifton (no lie -- Tifton!), I had to zip back here to Macon to attend an AAU summer league game that had the East Macon Mavericks against the South Forsyth Machine. The Mavericks are the team of Antonio Flywright, a 6-9 high-riser who can take it to the rack with authority and also hit the trey. He can bang inside when he has to, but he's better creating on the perimeter. His ball-handling and passing have to improve, but he's a lockdown defender who has the attention of every D1 coach. Many are hoping that he'll stay in state and go to UGA or Tech, but an inside source (his friend's cousin's girlfriend's brother) says he is a lock for Southern Cal.

The USC angle gained a little credibility when I noticed what had to be a Trojan cheerleader in the stands. She was probably there as an enticement for Antonio, but I was the one who enticed her outside. Once I found a romantic and out of the way spot (in the alley beside the Dumpster), I sexed her down and gave her something to really cheer about.

After that it was on to poker. At least I thought it was poker. It had a lot to do with limping into a game and then watching people flop about. A blind guy was sailing on a river until he hit a big time bluff, but there was a flopping rainbow, so he made a turn to write a check that he folded. After that, I made a call and took down the pot.

And then it was on to more sex. This time with a cocktail waitress at the bar where the poker action was. Unfortunately, she had a jealous boyfriend who sucker-punched me and knocked out a tooth. After picking up the tooth, I scrambled out of the bar and hailed a taxi. The driver was an aerobics instructor working her second job. She started to come on to me like a drunken prom queen, but I thought doing it in the back seat of a cab would be kind of sleazy, so I blew her off.

When I got home and went to bed, I put my tooth under the pillow to see what I would get for it. I figured that if my baby teeth went for a quarter a pop, then one of my permanent teeth would go for about $25, given inflation.

Later that night, I was disturbed by a smoking hot chick with wings and bathed in an ethereal glow slipping something under my pillow. I quickly seized her by the wrist and checked her offering. A quarter -- a lousy quarter. I looked at her and said it was going to cost her a little bit more to get that tooth.

THE DO YOU REMEMBER VIDEO OF THE WEEK

Whatever else people might say about YouTube, its function as an easily accessible video museum is just plain awesome. A few mouse clicks are all I need to dig up some lost treasure from the not-too-distant past, and, boom, it's 1982 again.

It's been many, many years since MTV actually used music videos as its mainstay. Now it's all about the caterwauling and libidinous narcissism of twentysomethings who in a better society would be undergoing steady (and televised) electroshock therapy.

But there are some of us who can remember what it was like to sit down and watch MTV for 20 minutes or so and actually see decent music videos. And to bring back those days, I plan to reach into the vault and pull out some of the gems from that time. Some might be obscure, some not.

We'll lead off with one of my favorite songs from the '80s, Genius of Love by the Tom Tom Club.

OK, so I've let things slip this week. The Tour de France has started, and I've been spending much of the morning hours watching the race. (By the way, you don't have to be a cycling fan to enjoy the race call and commentary of Paul Sherwin and Phil Liggett. They're awesome.) I've been spending the evening hours doing the Local/State section and watching my blood pressure spike. So my blogging time has suffered a bit, and I need to get something posted TODAY.

Under pressure, I go back to a familiar well. The clever cat photos. Like this one from http://icanhascheezburger.com/ It was submitted by meredith h.

So I think that is kind of funny.

DOG RULES

Any road cyclist can tell you that comity between man and dogs is pure fiction. Sure, the family hound might wag its tail and eagerly perform degrading tricks on command ("Roll over! Roll over! Play dead! Now let little Billy dress you up for your funeral!"), but such behavior is a counterfeit of affection. It's an act to ensure that people and their opposable thumbs keep opening cans of dog food.

But put a dog in a situation where it can alibi aggression toward humans, and you see how dogs really roll. When they see a cyclist peacefully making his way down some country road (lowering his carbon footprint, virtuously doing his part to keep health insurance rates down), they see a chance for vengeance and fly toward it with fangs bared. They shoot across a lawn like a heat-seeking missile with funny ears and a tail, hellbent on righting every wrong they have suffered at the hand of men. For every time they have chased a ball that was not really thrown, for each of those damned awful Benji movies, for the cancellation of Run, Joe, Run, dogs want pounds of human flesh in payment. And cyclists make such inviting targets because dogs can always explain their pursuit as a natural response. "Whoa, dude," the family hound can say. "I thought it was fleeing prey, y'know, like a deer or something. After all, that was what I was bred to do." In all my years of cycling, I have never seen a guy in a deer suit riding a bike, nor have I ever seen a real deer wearing a lurid lycra outfit. But we keep buying the argument that dogs chase cyclists because "they just can't help it."

Of course, there are ways to fight back. Braver cyclists will turn their bikes toward an onrushing dog, working on the theory that canines will back down if their aggression is returned. Of course, it's pretty rough (no pun intended) to have that theory blown up when the dog sails over the handle bars and clamps down on your throat. I preferred to use a canine pepper spray as a deterrent, and I got to be pretty handy with it. Three dogs got a blast in the snout from me, and I've thought about painting three silhouettes of dog heads on my top tube. Sort of like a fighter ace.

Naturally, big dogs pose the most serious threat, but in different ways. The German shepherds that have chased me have usually run alongside without crossing my path. I think they are playing a game of nerves with me, seeing whether I'll do their work for them by panicking and wrecking. It's an "I can get you anytime I want you" approach. It hasn't caused me to crash yet, but it has caused me to wonder just how far these brutes will go to unnerve me. Will I find crude drawings of a cyclist falling under a dog's fangs nailed to my door? Will a waiter who has shown a limited vocabulary and an exasperating tendency to chase cars remove his mask to show himself as my canine foe? Will I get into bed one night and find the headset of my bike cut off and thrown under the covers?

Herding dogs, such as border collies, are another matter. They zip about, obviously trying to get me to go somewhere of their choosing. I have often worried that if I encounter border collies of a certain number and persistence I might wind up in shearing pen getting my head shaved. Or in a line going into a slaughter house.

In the meantime, I'll just employ the best means I know to defend myself from dogs: Ride with slower cyclists.