In Your Facebook!

Whenever I tell anyone about my blog, one of the first questions that I'm invariably asked is whether I'm on Facebook. I'm not on Facebook. Some find that odd and can't understand why not. They assume that anyone who blogs must surely also be on Facebook, as though blogging and social networking were pretty much synonymous. They're really not.

Facebook, MSN, Myspace and other such social networks are, by their nature, community-oriented services where large groups of people mingle and converse. Blogging is different. I just sit here, alone in my attic, thinking out loud at the world. Anyone who cares to listen is welcome and I invite comments and other feedback but, in a sense, blogging is a pretty introverted activity.

I'm an introvert at heart. I'm uncomfortable in a crowd. I don't particularly enjoy meeting new people, prefering instead to stick with a small group of familiar friends. Even then, I'm really not intereted in whether they happen to be feeling happy, sleepy, grumpy, bashful, dopey, sneezy or Doc at any given moment.  It's not that I don't care, it's just that every human being goes through shifting moods.  Most of us just deal with it quietly.  If there's an ongoing issue and you think I can be of help, or even just need a sympathetic ear, by all means, talk to me, but do it in person, not through some electronic social club.

Even some people who previously enjoyed Facebook have gotten disillusioned with the service because they find that they can't turn it off, according to a Waterloo Region Record article from some time ago.  These people found that, having created a Facebook account and joined a few groups, they couldn't stop incoming messages inviting them to play games, take quizzes or broadcasting the transient moods of any number of "friends" whom they barely knew.  It's like Jim Varney's annoying Ernest P. Worrell character who keeps popping up everywhere in those old 'eighties TV commercials, "KnowhutImeanVern?" 

Then there are those annoying virtual "pokes".  In the real world, anyone who continually pokes us soon finds themselves on the receiving end of an exasperated "Stop that, willya???"  What Facebook really needs is a virtual cuff across the back of the head to send back in response.

Then, of course, there's Facebook's famous "wall". All through the seventies, while I was growing up, Roger Waters and friends kept telling me that The Wall is a bad thing! In fact, today, they might have this to say:

We don't need no social networks
We don't need no fanboy zones
No online rants by neo Nazis
Facebook leave them kids alone
Hey! Facebook! Leave them kids alone!
All in all it's just more mindless crap on the Wall

Of course, there are the ever-present privacy concerns.  Facebook itself has acknowledged privacy holes in the past.  Of course, they claim to have patched these up and assure all that the network is now completely secure, but that's sort of like fixing the dyke after the city's been flooded, isn't it?  Then there's the lingering doubt about how secure one's personal info really is.  That having been said, privacy concerns aren't really what keeps me away from Facebook. For one thing, I figure anybody who broadcasts their friends, family, personal photographs, interests and even momentary moods online really shouldn't have too much expectation of privacy.  Besides that, I'm cynical enough to believe that the concept of privacy is a myth in our electronic data-oriented society. A half hour and perhaps a few dollars spent on on-line searches will give you most peoples' mailing addresses, phone numbers and even credit histories, criminal records (if any) and family members.  Google my name and you'll come up with several links and references, but Facebook won't be one of them.

That Is SO Cliché!

One of the reasons why I created this blog was to practice my writing skills. I enjoy writing, and I've had some kind compliments from various people about my writing. At risk of sounding immodest, I consider my writing skills to be above-average.

This is not to say that there isn't room for improvement. I'm aware of several weaknesses in my writing. For example, I tend to overuse clichés like they're going out of style. Armed with this awareness, I decided recently to read up on clichés. "Know thine enemy," as they say! My research led me to a web site called Cliché Finder (http://www.westegg.com/cliche/) which offers a large repository of clichés.

While browsing Cliché Finder's collection of clichés (as if I needed to learn more of them), it occurred to me that clichés can apparently be divided into broad groups, each with its own unique characteristics. I've identified four distinct categories of clichés (well, okay, five actually, but I'll explain about that shortly).

The first group consists clichés that use obscure words with mystery meanings (or was that mystery words with obscure meanings?) For example:

"Thanks to my 3.2-litre hemi, I have 320 horses at my beck and call!"

What's a "beck"? How does one "beck", exactly? Its usage suggests that it's synonymous with "summon". You never hear anyone say "I becked up all the courage I could muster", or "I was becked by my boss on the weekend" or "The district court served me with a becks because of my large and impressive collection of unpaid parking tickets". (Actually, if district courts were to serve Beck's, I'd commit a lot more traffic offenses!)

Maybe it's a distortion or a mispronunciation. Maybe the original word was "beckon", as in "Thanks to my 3.2-litre hemi, I have 320 horses at my beckon call". Still doesn't quite read properly, but at least "beckon" is a recognizable word, and it does fit the context.

Another example: "After the hurricane, the entire city was strewn with flotsam and jetsam." What are "flotsam" and "jetsam"? Has anyone ever seen a flotsam or a jetsam? Actually, the usage makes them sound like plural terms. What's the singular? A "flotsa" and a "jetsa"? Are they anything like "brick-a-brack"? For that matter, I've never seen a brick-a-brack either, even though my attic seems to be full of it, according to a recent post on this blog. I'm pretty sure there's some flotsam and jetsam lying about up here as well. I probably just don't recognize it.

One last example: "He took the whole kit and caboodle". Again, I'm not sure what a "caboodle" is. Sounds like some sort of weird fusion of a taxi cab and a poodle.

The second category of clichés that I've identified is comprised of clichés with recognizable words that are nevertheless used in a strange or unusual context:

"I have no truck with gay people". The context is that the speaker has no "problem" with gay people or has no objection to gay people. Taken literally, one might think that the speaker was asked to produce a truck laden with homosexuals and, regrettably, was unable to comply.

"You pay through the nose to get a plumber on a weekend". Personally, I would be most averse to accepting as compensation for services rendered anything that was discharged from the nostrils of my client.

Then there's a relatively new cliché that I love to hate, and which my daughter uses constantly. "Hey Jessica," I once said to her, "I saw a mechanic at the Jiffy Lube that looks just like Jim Carrey!" Her response: "That's random!" I don't quite understand. What's random about it? Did she think that I saw a Jim Carrey look-alike at a random Jiffy Lube? No, it was a very specific Jiffy Lube. Perhaps she meant that there's a random number of grease monkeys who resemble Jim Carrey. She explained that "random", in this context, apparently means "weird" or "bizarre". I told her that one can't just go assigning random meanings to the word "random".

Next we have clichés that paint odd mental pictures:

"Robert Mugabe can go to hell in a hand basket!" Although I'm quite sincere in this assertion, I'm not sure why a hand basket would be the most appropriate vehicle for one's trip to Hades. Maybe that's what Satan uses to collect the souls that he carries off down there. Hand baskets conjure up images of Little Red Riding Hood or bonnetted maidens packing picnic lunches. They seem a little, how shall I say, "effeminate" for the Lord of Darkness - not that there's anything wrong with that!

Consider this snippit from Ray Stevens' "The Streak": "I was standin' over there by the tomaters, and here he come, running through the pole beans, through the fruits and vegetables, naked as a jay bird!" Granted, jay birds don't wear clothes. On the other hand, they are at least covered with feathers. I can think of other species of animal that I would consider to be much more "naked" than jay birds. The most obvious example would be the Sphynx, a rare breed of hairless cat. Admittedly, a lot of people might not know what a Sphynx is, or might confuse it with the half-lion, half-man Egyptian statue, so perhaps the better-known naked mole-rat would be a more appropriate simile. "Naked as a mole-rat" sounds just as hip as "naked as a jay bird", if not more so. One might consider the phrase "Naked as a naked mole-rat", in order to emphasize the comparison with a naked mole-rat as opposed to fur-bearing mole-rats, but I suggest that this alternative phrase repeats the word "naked" in overly-rapid succession and, thus, sounds repetitive, so I would leave it as "Naked as a mole-rat" and trust in the listener's understanding of the intended reference.

Finally, there's the well-known "Here's mud in your eye!" spoken immediately before quaffing an alcoholic beverage. What a strange toast! Why would anyone sling mud into the ocular orifice of a drinking buddy? This cliché might be more appropriately used in anger. Rather than actually throwing a drink in the face of someone who has given offense, one might retort "Oh yeah? Well, here's mud in your eye!" and then walk away. I would argue that it conveys the appropriate level of anger and disgust, without wasting a perfectly good drink or exposing the wielder to the danger of getting a dry-cleaning bill later on.

The fourth category of clichés consist of phrases that seem to say the opposite of their intended meaning. The most notorious, by far, is the relatively recent "I could care less". This is, of course, merely a distortion of the original "I couldn't care less" which makes a lot more sense than the newer cliché. The phrase is meant to convey extreme indifference; however, anyone who "could care less" is not all that indifferent at all, since he or she obviously does care to some degree. Grammatical distortions such as this are, in my opinion, simply the result of mental sloppiness on the part of those who couldn't care less about proper diction, grammatical precision and the preservation of the English language.

A similar cliché is the sarcastic "Tell me about it!" This is generally used by those who are already fully aware of the situation referred to by "it". As such, there is, in fact, no need to tell the speaker about "it" at all.

I said that I had actually identified five categories of clichés. The fifth category would be clichés that are grammatically and lexically normal, their only flaw being their grotesque over-use; clichés such as "Don't count your chickens before they're hatched", "It never rains, but it pours" or "All good things must end", and so must this particular post. After all, I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome, though the time spent writing these things does seem to pass in the blink of an eye.

I hereby resolve henceforth to avoid the use of clichés like the plague, and may lighting strike me down if I... ZZZZAP!!!

The Laddie Fancies Himself A Poet

Those famous words from Pink Floyd's "The Wall" once applied to me. In my younger days, I wrote many poems. There was a time when I even dreamed of becoming a famous poet. Hey, it seemed better than working for a living!

My poems usually rhymed, because I happen to like rhyming poems. During my adolescent years, the high school English teachers who read my work often suggested that I focus more on non-rhyming poems. I sensed a kind of snobbery that seemed to suggest that rhyming poems were of a lower order than non-rhyming ones, more suited for greeting cards and other such common frivolities. Hmph! Tell that to Poe, Byron, Wordsworth or even Shakespeare!

Well, I never did become a famous poet and the poems of my youth are now hidden away from the world in an obscure attic drawer ... or, at least, they were until now. At risk of seeming presumptuous, I've decided to use this blog as an exhibit for a few modest examples of what I consider to be among my better poetic works. I thank you, Dear Reader, in advance for your kind forbearance, and I invite your comments, as always.

We begin with a poem that was inspired by something that I once saw. There used to be a derelict CF-105 fighter aircraft rusting away in a field in my home town. I discovered it while riding my bicycle one summer and I immediately clambered all over it. While doing so, I noticed a dead baby bird lying on the ground beneath one of the wings. It seems that its mother had unwisely chosen to build her nest inside the wing, just in front of the aileron. The nest had probably fallen out of the wing and the baby met its fate when some curious passer-by had moved the aileron up and down, dislodging the nest in the process. The poignancy of the sight inspired this:

Brought Down

In a wide and lonely field
A fighter aircraft stands
A touch of glory past it yields
Made by human hands

Its wings no longer touch the sky
Its engines roar no more
The plane which once flew fast and high
Brought down by raging war

Beneath its wing a dead bird lies
In quiet, grassy lands
Eternal peace within its eyes
Made by Gods own hands

Its wings no longer touch the sky
Its body cold as stone
This creature that was born to fly
Brought down by death alone

I'm sure most people are familiar with "Footprints In The Sand", about a person walking along the beach with God. I decided that it would be even better if it were put to rhyme...

Footprints In The Sand

I had a dream the other night, like none I've had before;
I dreamed that I was walking on a beach beside our Lord.
My life flashed by across the sky as we walked hand in hand,
And as we walked I saw that we left footprints in the sand.

And as the story of my life flashed by in front of me,
I noticed something else becoming very plain to see;
We left two sets of footprints during times of joy and fun,
But during times of pain and sorrow, I saw only one.

This troubled me and so I said, "Lord, I don't understand
The mystery that lies behind those footprints in the sand.
You said that, if I followed You, You always would stay close,
So why did You desert me when I needed You the most?"

The Lord replied, "My precious child, I never left your side.
You see two sets of footprints when life left you satisfied,
But when your life was hardest you see one instead of two,
For in those times of suffering, t'was then I carried you."

Here's a short, whimsical verse reminiscent of Ogden Nash, if I may be so bold...

Question

René Descartes: Philosopher. A wise and learned man
Said "I can prove that I exist. I think, therefore I am!"
I'd like to pose a question, though, that puts him on the spot:
A table doesn't think, so does that mean that it is not?

...and, finally, a bit of musing on the dangers of the cold war era, appropriately entitled...

The End

I saw the jets go flying
First one, then two, then three
And found myself admiring
Man's vast technology

I watched them go in wonder
Till I saw them no more
And then, like distant thunder
I heard a growing roar

I saw the mushroom rising
It belched forth scarlet flames
And found myself despising
Those horrid silver planes

Okay, so "New car, caviar, four star draydream" it's not. Still, I hope you enjoyed them.

The Norwich Cattle Roundup

Earlier this week, I was listening to one of my favorite radio stations, CKDK-FM (a.k.a. "The Hawk") on my way to work. CKDK-FM is a classic rock/oldies station (yes, I realize I'm showing my age). Because their target audience is mainly baby boomers such as myself, they play heavily on nostalgia. "If your record collection is bigger than your CD collection, then you've found your radio station" boasts one of their promos.

The Hawk's morning show features a daily contest called "Stuck on Forty-fives". The announcer plays a short snippit of some classic hit song which repeats several times, like a scratched 45-rpm record might. Listeners call the station and try to identify the title of the song and the artist in exchange for fabulous prizes.

As I said, I was tuned in when the time for the daily contest came along one day last week. A listener called the station, correctly identified "Clap For The Wolfman" by The Guess Who, and won the fabulous prize ... two passes to the Norwich Cattle Roundup.

I cannot convey how relieved I was that I chose not to call the station and try my hand at their contest. Dear God! The Norwich Cattle Roundup? I try to picture myself returning home later that afternoon, had I called the station and proven successful, throwing open the door and proudly announcing to my wife and daughter, "Yeeee-HAAAAAA!!! Clear yer weekend schedules, ladies! We're a-goin' to the NORWICH CATTLE ROUNDUP!" I would now be either a born-again bachelor or the newest resident of the nearest sanitorium. Perhaps both.

Understand that I had never heard of the Norwich Cattle Roundup before that very moment, but it sure didn't sound like something that I would want to waste two of the very limited number of days in my life experiencing. I don't need to experience certain things in order to know that they're not my cup of tea; things like novocaine-free root canals, prison sex, getting pepper-sprayed and a weekend spent at the Norwich Cattle Roundup.

The prize might have been understandable were CKDK-FM a country music station, but it isn't! I'm guessing that a large percentage of their listening audience would be just as horrified as I to win such a prize. A better strategy might have been to threaten to send the caller a pair of tickets if they incorrectly guessed the record's title and artist, sparing them only if they got it right. Of course, then no-one would have called the station, so the announcer would have to be careful not to spring this on the caller until after he had them on the line and had taken their home address, telephone and social insurance number. In the words of Jack Nicholson as the Joker (yes, I know that was my last post, but I like to milk these things), "Better be sure!"

Now, I pride myself on not judging anything until I know something about it, so I've since looked up the Norwich Cattle Roundup on the internet (as can you by simply clicking the link that I've just thoughtfully provided). The web site proclaims it to be "THE WORLD'S GREATEST CATTLE ROUND-UP" Somehow, I find that less than reassuring. I wouldn't care to go and see "THE WORLD'S GREATEST TOENAIL FUNGUS SYMPOSIUM" either. Some things get acknowledged as the "World's Greatest" simply because the bar had been set pretty low to start with.

The web site describes the event as "The New Seventh Annual Norwich World Roundup". I don't quite follow. If it's the seventh one, then what's new about it? Was there a previous seventh annual Norwich World Roundup and, if there was, then wouldn't this be the eighth annual Norwich World Roundup? Perhaps not a single soul attended the first seventh annual Norwich World Roundup, so the organizers decided to pretend it never happened, which is why this year's became dubbed the "new" seventh annual Norwich World Roundup.

According to the web site, this annual event commemorates a catastrophic fire which broke out at the Vankerrebroeck Ranch back in August 2002. During the fire, 300 cattle escaped into the surrounding countryside. It took more than 15 cowboys over 40 days to lasso the cattle and return them to temporary penning after which someone apparently said "That was fun! Let's do it again next year!" The rest, I suppose is history.

Browsing around the rest of the website, it becomes clear that this event is really more of a rodeo. I humbly suggest that the organizers might improve attendance if they simply called it that. "Rodeo" evokes images of cattle rustling, bronco bucking, bull riding, clowns and other enjoyable cowboy pastimes. "Cattle Roundup" evokes images of watching a whole lot of cows being herded around a field.

I also suggest that the management of CKDK-FM needs to have a heart-to-heart talk with their marketing people.

Who's Your Favorite Joker?

I recently watched "The Dark Knight" for at least the fifth time. It's the character of the Joker that compels me to keep dropping that DVD into my player's tray over and over again.

My daughter watched with me and, as we watched, I made some comment comparing Heath Ledger's Joker to Jack Nicholson's. That was when Jessica pointed out that she had never seen Tim Burton's "Batman" and, therefore, had never seen Jack Nicholson's portrayal of the Joker either. This problem proved easy enough to rectify, as Tim Burton's take on the Caped Crusader also holds a place in our DVD collection. I only was surprised that Jessica had never seen fit to watch it. And so, Jessica and I watched Tim Burton's "Batman", starring Michael Keaton and Jack Nicholson.

When the film was over, I asked Jessica which Joker she liked better; Heath Ledger or Jack Nicholson. To my surprise, she preferred Jack Nicholson's Joker. After some consideration, I have to say that agree with her.

In my opinion, Jack Nicholson's Joker is, on the whole, more faithful to the comic book villain than is Heath Ledger's. To begin with, the look is definitely closer to that of the Joker portrayed in comic books. Beyond that, Nicholson's Joker is simply ... well ... funnier than Ledger's.

Heath Ledger's joker is, arguably, the scariest, most sinister take on the Joker to date. He not only kills people, he messes with their minds. He endangers the lives of two people (Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes) and then forces those who care about them to choose which one lives and which one dies. He turns his victims against each other, such as when he rigs two passenger-laden ferries with explosives and then gives each of the detonators to the people aboard the other ferry.

And he knows no fear. He walks into a meeting of underworld bosses from whom he's just stolen millions of dollars and calls them all impotent for letting the Batman erode their power and control. When they attempt to turn on him, he produces a live hand grenade and makes good his escape. He endures a brutal interrogation by the Batman and simply laughs while being beaten. He can't be controlled by the threat of physical pain. After mutilating Harvey Dent, he hands him a loaded gun, giving Dent the opportunity to kill him there and then. He is cold, remorseless and absolutely insane.

His motives are a mystery. He incinerates an Asian kingpin by burning the pile of cash atop which he sits, so he's clearly not interested in money. He compares himself to a dog chasing cars down the street; "I wouldn't know what to do if I ever caught one!" The story of how he got his facial scars changes with each telling. He appears to take pleasure from the misery of others for its own sake.

For all this, however, he's really not very funny. The Joker, as his name suggests, should be a clown; a prankster. Ledger's Joker uses few gags and doesn't crack many jokes. He doesn't even laugh all that much. The closest he comes to a gag is when he offers to show the underworld bosses a "magic trick" and then makes a pencil "disappear" by driving it into the forehead of one of the bodyguards.

None of this is intended as a criticism of Ledger's portrayal of the villain. Both Ledger and director Chris Nolan clearly intended to offer the audience a darker, grittier, more sinister Joker, and in this they succeeded marvelously. I only question whether this portrayal is in keeping with the original character concept.

Jack Nicholson's Joker is much truer to his moniker. He's bristling with gags, from his megawatt joy buzzer to his acid-spewing lapel flower to his handgun with the ridiculously long barrel to his classic telescopic boxing glove. He also boasts a much more amusing repertoire of whimsical one-liners than does Ledger.

"Never rub another man's rhubarb!"

"Can somebody tell me what kind of world we live in where a man dressed up as a bat gets all my press?"

"This town needs an enema!"

"Where does he get those wonderful toys?"

"I'm gonna need a minute or two alone, boys!" (right after shooting his most trusted henchman).

And Nicholson's Joker laughs. From his maniacal laughter after first seeing his own disfigured face in a mirror to his gleeful cackling as he takes his vengeance on Boss Grissom, electrocutes an uncooperative crime boss, terrorizes Vicky Vale and wreaks general havoc throughout Gotham City, there's nary a moment when Nicholson's Joker isn't yucking it up. Even after his fatal plummet at the end of the film, an electronic novelty gadget in his breast pocket manages to keep laughing for him.

Yet, for all of his maniacal humor, Nicholson's Joker still manages to come across as dangerous, insane and frightening. Most of his gadgets are lethal. Even his telescopic boxing glove hits with enough force to destroy a TV set. Scenes such as the one in which he sits in the midst of a collage of newspaper and magazine clippings lamenting "So much to do, so little time" reveal the depths of his insanity. And there are brief moments when he stops clowning around just long enough to let the audience catch a glimpse of his mean streak, such as the scene in which he briefly loses his smile, assumes a dead earnest expression and declares "Wait'll they get a load of me."

Yes, all things considered, I have to conclude that Jack Nicholson's Joker is much more faithful to the comic book vision without seeming campy or ridiculous and, on that basis, I prefer this portrayal of the character over Heath Ledger's.

How about you? Which Joker do you prefer? Nicholson or Ledger? Or perhaps you're an old-timer who likes Cesar Romero's Joker. I would argue that Romero's Joker, like Nicholson's, is truer to the comic book character than is Ledger's. Romero's Joker is, of course, a little campier than Nicholson's but that's because the "Batman" television series for which he was created was itself much sillier and campier than the more recent films. One might even argue that Romero's Joker was the most credible character in the show if only because, as the Joker, one expects him to be silly, unlike Batman and his sidekick.

Let's take a vote. Leave a comment stating which of the three Jokers is your favorite and, if you like, a short explanation as to why.

Two Minute Project Management Seminar

A particularly insightful manager of mine once explained that every project has three basic goals: The end result, whatever the project's purpose, should be of a high quality, it should be completed quickly and at minimum expense. More succinctly, it should be good, fast and cheap.

Pretty self-evident, yes? He then added something that's perhaps not quite as obvious. "Pick any two," he said, "but you won't get the third."

If you want it to be done fast and done right, it won't be cheap. If you want it to be done right without spending a lot of money, it will take some time. If you insist on having it done both cheaply and quickly, you can bet the end result won't be good. Sadly, it's been my experience that this third option is the one that many organizations often end up choosing.

What my discerning manager didn't add is that sacrificing any one of the three doesn't necessarily guarantee that you'll get the other two, although I'm sure he understood that too.

Clutter

HBO featured a science fiction/thriller/horror series called "Ray Bradbury Theatre" from 1985 through 1992. Each episode was based on the writings of Ray Bradbury, usually on one of his short stories. The introduction to each episode consisted of footage showing Ray Bradbury arriving in his studio, which was cluttered with posters, photos, notes and every sort of tchotchke imaginable. Bradbury explained in a voice over, as he took his seat at a typewriter near the center of the flotsam,, that this studio is where he gets his ideas.

"I'm surrounded on every side by my magician's toy shop," explains Bradbury, "I'll never starve here!"

I have a home office something like that. My home office, or perhaps "den" is a better word, is an attic room. I claimed it as my den when we bought the house because it features lots of shelving and cabinet space, which I knew I would need. Even so, every available surface in the room is occupied by books, binders, boxes, discs, caricatures, miniatures and brick-a-brack of every kind.

Clutter rules my life. Sometimes I see this as a bad thing. I admonish myself to be more organized. I remind myself to get rid of the old stuff that I no longer need. What's the rule? If you haven't looked at it in 2 or more years, you can probably throw it out.

However, the introduction to the Ray Bradbury Theatre suggests that clutter isn't always a bad thing. Some of it has to do with surrounding yourself with things that make you happy. Looking around my den, it quickly becomes obvious that I'm a big fan of The Simpsons and Star Wars, and that I love airplanes, computer games and books. Spending time there tends to make me feel good because I look around me and see my favorite things. (Not to worry; I'm not about to start prancing about the room and singing, Julie Andrews style).

Beyond just making one feel good, clutter can serve to inspire. It can help to set the creative juices in motion by bringing dormant ideas to the forefront and sometimes highlighting obscure associations. In Ray Bradbury's case, the clutter in his studio helped to inspire some of his renowned literary works. In my case, well, it gave me something to blog about this week.

It's also possible to be too neat and organized. One of my favorite quotes about computer programming suggests that "structured programming is for compulsive neurotics who were prematurely toilet-trained, wear neckties and carefully line up pencils on otherwise
clear desks". Speaking of which, I think that most people, when they see a co-worker sitting at a clean, uncluttered desk, assume that person must have no work to do. Clutter suggests busy-ness.

Perhaps the happy medium lies in eliminating the clutter that comes from simply not putting things in their place or throwing out the unneeded, but keeping those things whose presence stimulates and inspires, even if they have no obvious practical use.