I.

Don’t use column A or row 1.

Just don’t.

II.

Even in spreadsheets, pictures are worth more than words.

Take time, google some images; people will pay attention and

You are paid by the hour.

III.

Learn how to resize rows and columns.

You can google it.

IV.

Vivid color is the core of the beauty of this world

But too many colors

Make a spreadsheet hard to read.

V.

Boxes tend to blend together hypnotically

Turn off grid-lines and headers, and chart borders

You can google it.

VI.

Although fun to kill time,

Avoid using more than two fonts.

VII.

3D charts don’t work in a 2D medium.

Google it.

VIII

If your book gets too many pages --

Table of contents.

IX

Always observe the page delineations.

Somebody might just print this thing.

X

Freeze Panes

You can google it.

XI

Headings should stand out.

People want to know what you are

Trying to illustrate

XII

“Zebra Stripes”

You can google it.

XIII

Everything depends

on

A well crafted

Spreadsheet

From a faded blue

Lawn-chair

Beside the white

chickens.

The mats are the last thing every night – four foot

by three foot, three quarters of an inch

thick, rubber -- row after row of rings

each with flimsy spines, for traction. The ones in my area –

the dish--zone – are easy. But the red ones

under the Souse Chef – Leonard -- are caked

with lard, chunks of fallen shrimp. I’m telling you the guy’s

a fucking disaster. He’s a crappy cook too, but

he kisses Judy’s ass. The waitresses kiss Leonard’s ass.

Leonard kisses Judy’s ass. She kisses the customers. Everybody

sucks up to Dr. Henry -- comes in every

Friday with a new anorexic bimbo. I saw him once. He

came to the kitchen entryway to compliment

the food. The way he looked at Judy, he took her

in the palm of his hand and stroked

her across the forehead like a gerbil. Man, she

would have taken him right there

on the mats. No one kisses my ass, you know. Some

of the waitresses are nice; they ask, “How’re you feeling? Did

you have a good Christmas?” It sucked. Thank you.

They think they’re good people, asking

about my day off. Why don’t you help me

clean these fucking mats? Let’s see you covered

with chicken chunks and eggplant marinated. Let's watch you

wrestle these mother--fuckers

over the goddamn fire escape. Fingers shriveled

in cold water as I squeeze the hose, I throw back my head

to the crisp March sky, and scream

“FUCK YOU!” at the stars. The universe

doesn’t even yawn, just

keeps rolling endlessly through itself.

The traditional response

would be a lament.

The image of a man standing on a block of ice

in the middle of the North Atlantic,

screaming

into the frozen Arctic wind. How

when she finally got home that night,

she seemed awkward.

Her cheeks were pink

and how her little rayon sundress shone translucent

around her thighs

in the light of the doorway.

"Turn some lights on," she said impatiently.

"Where have you been?"

And she would not look at me.

She had to ride with Brian because his wife

was in New York,

said they stopped at his hotel,

so he could get a sweater.

"You went to his room?" "Just for a minute."

"What's going on?" "Nothing."

But it was well past midnight

and when she went to take a shower,

I rifled through her stuff,

the little dress -- barely a handful,

the papers in her bag -- nothing

and then her black lace panties.

But this was not the first time

I felt small before her.

And this is not intended as the block of ice

but the image of a child

having only just discovered the ripples

of light in the bathtub,

standing on a beach, looking out at the vast curve

of the horizon.

For, the real story starts years before

on top of a hill,

wine and bread in the late summer clearing.

She lay naked against the hillside,

the valley spread out below us.

The sky moved in slow September clouds.

I fumbled with the button on my trousers,

leaving the socks on my feet.

She shivered as I kissed her neck

and down the shoulders.

I lay my head between her breasts,

could hear her heart, and in the space

between the beats, how small we are,

stretched out naked to the world,

and I

was supposed to drive myself into her, and I wondered

how it came to be, me and her,

here on this hill above the September valley,

but she was waiting, and this was the moment,

and I was the one.

I held myself bluntly between her legs

and everything was sinking

into the hillside.

She squinched and stiffened

eyes tucked together

and then open boldly as if to say

Get on with it!

Lucy has written her life story

on hospital place mats.

Twelve years, two thousand dollars a week

in soft rooms. She

tried to get them typed, but the doctor

took everything. He said

she would only upset herself. At least

that’s what she told me that day

in the park. It was that kind of sky

you get in late September – the livid blue

that only comes when every drop

of moisture freezes on apples

and the yellow blooms

of squash or pumpkin – as children yelled

over by the monkey bars. I need to believe

that somewhere

someone writes it all down,

not just the atrocities -- soccer fields covered

in fresh turned soil, photographs hanging

on subway kiosks -- but placemats

scribbled with crayon, yellowing

in a hospital file cabinet, as the sun sets

over trees, and the light fades on Lucy

and me and the children arguing

by the sandbox.

He wakes late to find that as he slept

he’s been touched by the whisper – by the images

of his dreams – a seagull

bending toward a curving ocean. Nothing’s

different. He mutters to himself. He

shaves, makes coffee, plods

through some stale bread. But

sitting on the bus it’s clear. He can feel things --

passengers hunched in their seats, bent. Lauren

who just got braces, believes people can see

through her clothes. Tommy, the all-night mechanic

sifts through the lies, praying “God,

let me keep them straight when I get home.” Why,

do we talk to ourselves like this – rummaging

through the fragments. Jonathan, his head

in his palms, imagines

a day when every bill comes due. “Hey…”

he realizes, and this is the part that’s new, “If we

are gall going to waste this bus ride, talking

to ourselves, looping

through the old, over and over, why not

imagine something wonderful -- an orange sunset,

a sleeping child’s soft breath

– something excellent. And so he rises

from his seat and clears

his throat, so that everyone looks up

from their phones. But then he can’t think,

of how to begin.

Let’s say he’s standing

on the blade

of an iron sword suspended

over a vast chasm -- at the bottom

wait jagged shards. The man

wears headphones and listens

to a recording of voices

that whisper to him, tell him

he commands a great army. But

perhaps that is too dramatic. What if,

instead he was covered

with something as simple

as a gray wool blanket.

Imagine, we walk around, each of us,

covered by these blankets.

We grumble how the dust makes it

tough to breath, and

we fantasize

about bigger eyeholes. Or

what if we just

sit here,

drink coffee on that bench

under the apple tree,

feel the mist rising

as leaves fall around us.

Even now, my dear Futility,

as longer days bring red buds

to the tip of every branch, and sparrows

dive among the melting drops

to gather seeds, revealed

by the receding ice, I see you

in line, waiting

to pay for your sandwich. You

pretend not to notice,

in that tweed coat, holding

your hat

like an estranged uncle, for

you know that long

after the sparrow dies,

the tree falls, is cut into chunks

and put into the woodstove; even the ice

turns to water, becomes mist

and dissipates, you know

that you and I, Futility,

will meet at the lunch counter. You will

quietly buy me a cup of coffee.

No need to stand

by the wet fire escape and scream

obscenities at the stars,

for I recognize you,

your faint smile,

as the lone survivor comes to recognize

he will not make the shore,

and for the first time he sees

how the moon alights

upon a slow black ocean.

Do you ever lie on your back

in the damp grass

of August,

Stare into the universe,

the particles of debris

skipping across the ozone.

Once I saw three stars

in a perfect line

and for one, fine, splintered second, I could feel

the extraordinary intelligence-

every crooked twig,

each patch

of cow-chomped dandelion.

A pale dress

wet with

perspiration

clings to her thighs

as she vacuums

the Suburu.

The young man in

the Black Sabbath t--shirt

waits his turn

to be photographed

with the Easter Bunny

in the Price Chopper produce

section. The girl

in the bunny suit

feels like shit. She

stayed up way too late

drinking with her oldest

friend. They drank themselves

shit--faced, peeled

off all their clothing and

explored each other like

children. The friend

is smiling in the bathroom

painting her toenails. The rabbit

will try to let her down

gently, and still

the snow

isn’t melting

fast enough for anyone