My boss is a tool. I enjoy what I do, for the most part, but the imprint that this man leaves on my mental well-being has taken it's toll over the past two years. I'm not claiming to have the worst boss in the world, or looking for pity here. More than anything, I'm just amazed at what a piece of work this guy is.
Every new day, without fail, begins with a "Good MORNING, Princess!" That's me. I'm Princess. So is his four-year old daughter. He says this regardless of the weather, the day of the week, the look on my face, or the amount of thermo-nuclear global wars that have transpired since our last meeting. This makes me want to punch him in the face, which is a good suppressed urge to start each day off with.
This man is a wordsmith of the worst order. In situations where the speaker's subsequent actions might complicate matters, one might say "I'm going to throw a wrench in the gears here..." It's a useful statement, conjuring up imagery of a smoothly running, complex operation being bluntly halted by the egregious misuse of a potentially beneficial item--which is, come to think of it, his preferred management style. In any event, he does not use this phrase, but will instead use his now trademarked version: "I'm going to throw a wrench in the monkey here..." I don't know where the monkey came from, but it needs to go back. I think he had suspected we laughed about this, so one day he caught me rolling my eyes and smirking and asked, "What? Have you never heard that one before?" This was my golden opportunity, and I took it. I carefully explained the correct phrase and imagery heretofore described, and why it makes sense. I also explained why forcefully inserting a wrench into a monkey is imagery that has an altogether different usage. (though I shudder to think of the occasion that would give rise to that usage) He did not conceded that he was wrong, but explained "I guess we just grew up in different areas." To this day he still uses it in meetings with the client and upper management; they roll their eyes and smirk. There's at least two of these colloquial-isn'ts a week, but he seems proud of them--not unlike George Bush.
His philosophy must be something like "work harder NOT smarter." His phrase is "assholes and elbows" which I can make no anatomical sense of, but he uses it when it's time to put in the extra hours. The last 12 or 13 weeks have each individually been the hardest week on the project. I know this because each time he comes to me and says, "this week is a hard week, and we need to put in some extra hours, and maybe even come in on the weekend to get over the hump." Then he reassures me that, "next week we can go back to our regular schedule, and get out of here at a reasonable hour--I hate being here as much as you do." But you wouldn't know it from the schedule he keeps. He gets up every morning at 3:30, leaves his house at 4:00, drives 45 minutes (no traffic) into town, and goes to the gym. He says he goes to the gym, but I am skeptical because he is consistently a 260-pound sloth, and last year his doctor measured his cholesterol at a staggering 400. He gets to work at about 6:00, rarely takes a lunch break, and leaves the office at around 6:00 or 7:00 at night, frequently staying until 8:00 or 8:30. According to him, he's usually in bed by 9:00 or 9:30, which makes me wonder if his wife and two children even remember what he looks like.
It also makes me wonder what the hell he does all day at work. On multiple occasions I've stumbled into his office and been asked to help him with something that takes me about five minutes to explain/fix/laugh at inaudibly. I sometimes get the impression that he's been staring like a caveman at the spreadsheet for about three or four hours before I came in, and I die a little on the inside when I think of how many times this man has been promoted.
Don't even get me started on the useless shit he has me do every day. I could fill volumes with this stuff, but most of it is tedious engineering nonsense that would bore the average person to death. He's also an asshole, but I can tolerate assholes. It's the idiot-factor that just plain hurts. On top of all this, he's incredibly sensitive. I've seen him pout with the intensity of a four-year old when someone implied that his idea was less than perfect. I've seen him resort to name-calling. I've seen him file a formal report with Human Resources that someone keeps taking things off his desk without permission, rather than just asking for his damn stapler back.
The hardest part of all of this, though, is that he LOVES me. I can do no wrong in his eyes. He's never once yelled at me. He hinted for about five minutes, but has ever since been very blunt about the fact that he wants to 'mentor' me, and take me under his wing. I think these were his exact words--and I've heard them in varying forms at least monthly for the last year. I'm too nice to tell him how I really feel--that is, that I think he's consuming valuable oxygen that the rest of us could make better use of. This project ends in about six months (if the gods are merciful), at which point we might get shuffled into different projects. I don't like my odds, though, since he will have a say in what project I get sent to, and thus I am seriously considering a career change, or maybe even going back to school.
Whatever I decide, though, there is a conversation that will have to happen in about six months. It goes a little something like:
"It's not you, it's me"
"You're great and all, but..."
"I think you'll make a great girlfriend/manager for someone, but that someone is not me."
These sorts of conversations are fun for nobody. I've suffered through these before with overly-sensitive teenage and adult women, but have absolutely NO experience with overly-sensitive 40-year-old men.
I just hope he doesn't cry on me.
PS - According to further intense investigative research, even Google bears no evidence of any idiomatic usage of "wrench in the monkey" by anything other than mediocre journalists and other knuckle draggers. Let us finally and absolutely declare, then, that such usage is anomalous to the English language. The PETA-approved counterpart, "monkey in the wrench" can be attributed to Bruce Willis' character John McClane, from the first Die Hard Movie, the hero who describes himself as "A fly in the ointment...The monkey in the wrench. The pain in the ass." This was a screenplay written by two of the most prolific screenwriters in Hollywood, and based on a novel by Roderick Thorpe. My research stopped at this point when my vaporous hooched internet connection faded, with any remaining curiosity on this subject soon to follow suit.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Hands off my Power Crystal, Lady!
Old stuff...From the Taos Vacation last year.
After two days of I'm-not-as-young-as-I-used-to-be skiing, me and the brother decided that a one-hour massage at a mountain spa would be an excellent way to work out the soreness in our legs, and--with hope--walk normally again. Most every place that we called required an appointment save for one...so we chose that one.
My second thoughts began as I was perusing the Licensed Massage Therapists' bio's on the wall on the wall, while waiting for my masseuse to show up, which would be whomever was on the clock at the time. First off, my odds were about 1 in 5 that I'd get a dude...and I just don't like to roll the dice when the stakes are that high. I'd have ended up more tense than when I went in...especially if he was one of those soft-spoken long-haired hippies that Taos is full of. Before my anxiety attack consumed me, a cute, young hispanic/indian woman rounded the corner, and I knew I had a winner. Unlike the other options pictured on the wall, her full name was not "Whiteheart," she wore less than 2000 beads around her neck, she wore close-toed shoes, and not a stitch of hemp, and was one of only two women under 50.
Being my first massage, I didn't really know what to expect, nor did I mentally prepare myself for, "you can remove your clothes and get under the sheet, and I'll return shortly." I didn't know what I was expecting, but for whatever reason, I wasn't ready for that. Y'know, it's not that I'm shy about being naked around strange women...but...yes, yes I am...Yes I very much am.
So there's another heaping glob of anxiety and tension we have to work through...and we were progressing nicely, despite a few close calls on the thigh rubs. Then, almost at the end of the session, while I was laying face up, getting my scalp delicately massaged--and after ZERO conversational exchanges between that point and 'get naked'--I hear "is that your amethyst under there."
I get anxiety attacks when I feel like I'm not the most knowledgeable person in the room, and the people who know me best know that that only happens about 40 or 50 times a day. I certainly knew less about Eastern Medicine, or New Age, or reflexology than this woman. I had no idea what she meant by 'my amethyst.' Are you referring to the bump on the back of my head? My birthstone is a peridot. Is my "amethyst" showing? I started to look down and see if the sheet covering me was still doing it's job. With lots of incredible ideas about what a 'yes' might get me, I figured a 'no' would be safer. She made some vague comment like 'oh, ok' but I didn't hear her for all the 200 psi blood that was shooting through my head. Whatever. The issue seemed closed.
The massage was over in about 2 more minutes, and I was left and told to 'take my time getting up'. I took about 2 seconds. I wanted to get out of that place before Whiteheart was sent in to look at the amethyst that she had been told about. It was in my hurried frenzy to get dressed that I happened to catch a glimpse of something under the table. In the dimly lit room, it looked like some sort of rock. And upon further inspection it was, yes, an amythest. No, it was not mine. Some vindictive asshole put it there to ruin my massage.
After two days of I'm-not-as-young-as-I-used-to-be skiing, me and the brother decided that a one-hour massage at a mountain spa would be an excellent way to work out the soreness in our legs, and--with hope--walk normally again. Most every place that we called required an appointment save for one...so we chose that one.
My second thoughts began as I was perusing the Licensed Massage Therapists' bio's on the wall on the wall, while waiting for my masseuse to show up, which would be whomever was on the clock at the time. First off, my odds were about 1 in 5 that I'd get a dude...and I just don't like to roll the dice when the stakes are that high. I'd have ended up more tense than when I went in...especially if he was one of those soft-spoken long-haired hippies that Taos is full of. Before my anxiety attack consumed me, a cute, young hispanic/indian woman rounded the corner, and I knew I had a winner. Unlike the other options pictured on the wall, her full name was not "Whiteheart," she wore less than 2000 beads around her neck, she wore close-toed shoes, and not a stitch of hemp, and was one of only two women under 50.
Being my first massage, I didn't really know what to expect, nor did I mentally prepare myself for, "you can remove your clothes and get under the sheet, and I'll return shortly." I didn't know what I was expecting, but for whatever reason, I wasn't ready for that. Y'know, it's not that I'm shy about being naked around strange women...but...yes, yes I am...Yes I very much am.
So there's another heaping glob of anxiety and tension we have to work through...and we were progressing nicely, despite a few close calls on the thigh rubs. Then, almost at the end of the session, while I was laying face up, getting my scalp delicately massaged--and after ZERO conversational exchanges between that point and 'get naked'--I hear "is that your amethyst under there."
I get anxiety attacks when I feel like I'm not the most knowledgeable person in the room, and the people who know me best know that that only happens about 40 or 50 times a day. I certainly knew less about Eastern Medicine, or New Age, or reflexology than this woman. I had no idea what she meant by 'my amethyst.' Are you referring to the bump on the back of my head? My birthstone is a peridot. Is my "amethyst" showing? I started to look down and see if the sheet covering me was still doing it's job. With lots of incredible ideas about what a 'yes' might get me, I figured a 'no' would be safer. She made some vague comment like 'oh, ok' but I didn't hear her for all the 200 psi blood that was shooting through my head. Whatever. The issue seemed closed.
The massage was over in about 2 more minutes, and I was left and told to 'take my time getting up'. I took about 2 seconds. I wanted to get out of that place before Whiteheart was sent in to look at the amethyst that she had been told about. It was in my hurried frenzy to get dressed that I happened to catch a glimpse of something under the table. In the dimly lit room, it looked like some sort of rock. And upon further inspection it was, yes, an amythest. No, it was not mine. Some vindictive asshole put it there to ruin my massage.
Nectar of the GODS!
Old Stuff...after the vacation to Taos, NM last year with my brother.
...and have you tried Barley Wine? I had some on my vacation last weekend. This stuff is like so much liquid gold trickling down your throat. It's somewhere between wine and beer, and somewhere between Everest and HEAVEN.
I've never been tempted to drink all day every day, but this stuff could quickly put 12 Steps between me and the normal life I currently enjoy.
...and have you tried Barley Wine? I had some on my vacation last weekend. This stuff is like so much liquid gold trickling down your throat. It's somewhere between wine and beer, and somewhere between Everest and HEAVEN.
I've never been tempted to drink all day every day, but this stuff could quickly put 12 Steps between me and the normal life I currently enjoy.
Top 5
Old stuff...with footnotes.
So I don't guess that me and the girl* have had an official DTR conversation yet, but the other day when my guard was down I let that much-despised word slip out of my mouth... (I must state here that I don't remember the exact context, but it was something like the following)
"...blah, blah, blah...my girlfriend..blah, blah..."
"Did you just say.... ?"
"Yes. Dammit.....I guess I owe you a coke"
Such epithets need be left with the grade-schoolers and angst-ridden teens. We adults need a better and different label that has less connotations of ownership and possession and obligation.
But I digress.
So, as I was saying: no DTR yet, but we did have the 'All Time, Desert Island Top 5 movies' discussion. And if you ask me, this is a far better divining rod for a potential companion than any personality test, premarital counseling, or magic 8-ball. Her top movie: Steel Magnolias. The rest are unimportant for now. The important thing is that, if you have seen the movie, you now have the context for the gem that came from her today upon noticing the track lighting I had installed in my room:
"I saw your track lighting at Home Depot today....Steve." **
Girl - 1. Josh - 0.
*This girl and I finally did have a DTR, dated for two tumultuous months, and finally decided it would be better for us--and for those within striking distance and/or earshot of us--if we were just friends instead. We're excellent friends to this day.
**If you haven't seen the movie, there's a joke among some friends that gay men have track lighting....well of course it's not funny if I have to explain it to you!
So I don't guess that me and the girl* have had an official DTR conversation yet, but the other day when my guard was down I let that much-despised word slip out of my mouth... (I must state here that I don't remember the exact context, but it was something like the following)
"...blah, blah, blah...my girlfriend..blah, blah..."
"Did you just say.... ?"
"Yes. Dammit.....I guess I owe you a coke"
Such epithets need be left with the grade-schoolers and angst-ridden teens. We adults need a better and different label that has less connotations of ownership and possession and obligation.
But I digress.
So, as I was saying: no DTR yet, but we did have the 'All Time, Desert Island Top 5 movies' discussion. And if you ask me, this is a far better divining rod for a potential companion than any personality test, premarital counseling, or magic 8-ball. Her top movie: Steel Magnolias. The rest are unimportant for now. The important thing is that, if you have seen the movie, you now have the context for the gem that came from her today upon noticing the track lighting I had installed in my room:
"I saw your track lighting at Home Depot today....Steve." **
Girl - 1. Josh - 0.
*This girl and I finally did have a DTR, dated for two tumultuous months, and finally decided it would be better for us--and for those within striking distance and/or earshot of us--if we were just friends instead. We're excellent friends to this day.
**If you haven't seen the movie, there's a joke among some friends that gay men have track lighting....well of course it's not funny if I have to explain it to you!
"So we still feelin' pretty good about this, uh, 32-piece set, here?"
Old Stuff...
I have no tolerance for name-droppers, but that doesn't mean I have the self-control to not become one myself. The key is to be blase about it...act like this stuff happens all the time:
So I went with my cousin down to San Marcos to see the Ace in the Hole band (usually plays with George Strait), and the accompanying swarm of musicians--including my cousin, but certainly not myself--that rotate on and off stage all night. It was a good time, and none other than Uncle Rico was in the house. His real name is Jon Gries, and he's a pretty prolific actor...even if people mostly only recognize him from Napoleon Dynamite. For those of you born in the right decade, you'll know him as Laslo, from the movie Real Genius. Anyways, that was my brush with a celebrity for the week.
That brings my celebrity-sightings-consecutive-week total to 1, which exceeds my previous record set back in B.F, New Mexico.
I talked to him for all of two minutes. (Did you know he's a vegetarian, and all the steak he had to eat in the movie was immediately spat out once the camera was off?) Then he started ogling the college girls with the rest of us, went out back to get high with the fiddle player, and started getting introduced to everyone on stage. Later he got up on stage and sang, then said some quote from the movie. I don't think many people realized who he was, because a room full of college students should be going crazy..."UNCLE RICO?!?!" But pandemonium was at an absolute low.
Nonetheless, it was a good time. Them hill country women just know how to dance. Good times.
I have no tolerance for name-droppers, but that doesn't mean I have the self-control to not become one myself. The key is to be blase about it...act like this stuff happens all the time:
So I went with my cousin down to San Marcos to see the Ace in the Hole band (usually plays with George Strait), and the accompanying swarm of musicians--including my cousin, but certainly not myself--that rotate on and off stage all night. It was a good time, and none other than Uncle Rico was in the house. His real name is Jon Gries, and he's a pretty prolific actor...even if people mostly only recognize him from Napoleon Dynamite. For those of you born in the right decade, you'll know him as Laslo, from the movie Real Genius. Anyways, that was my brush with a celebrity for the week.
That brings my celebrity-sightings-consecutive-week total to 1, which exceeds my previous record set back in B.F, New Mexico.
I talked to him for all of two minutes. (Did you know he's a vegetarian, and all the steak he had to eat in the movie was immediately spat out once the camera was off?) Then he started ogling the college girls with the rest of us, went out back to get high with the fiddle player, and started getting introduced to everyone on stage. Later he got up on stage and sang, then said some quote from the movie. I don't think many people realized who he was, because a room full of college students should be going crazy..."UNCLE RICO?!?!" But pandemonium was at an absolute low.
Nonetheless, it was a good time. Them hill country women just know how to dance. Good times.
The Broken Spoke
Old Stuff...
I have something exciting to tell you about.
I went on a date tonight. (believe it or not, that's not the exciting part) We went to the Broken Spoke for some--I'm quoting here--'Hardcore Country' and some good food. That's not the name of the band, because the schedule did not say "Alvin and James with Hardcore Country". The schedule clearly reads "James and Alvin" period "Hardcore Country" period. And Hardcore it was. Not Hardcore like wrestling, but Hardcore as in completely untainted by Nashville commercialism, big city pretentiousness, or fancy cooking. The menu was borrowed from any one of those small Texas po-dunk restaurants that you trip over on your way to the big city. The Chicken Fried Steak, as it is at every one of those places, is the best you've ever had, aside from your mother's.
I'd continue to tell you all about my own experience, but it wouldn't be much use. You'll just have to go yourself, and be sure to adhere to the following guidelines.
- Go on a Tuesday, for "Hardcore Country". I've been on weekends, and it's just not the same.
- Sit next to Carl, if the seat is available. 'Cool Carl' is one of those folks that don't so much have a height and a width as they have a radius and a circumference. He'll be wearing suspenders, and if you so much as glance in his direction, will tell you most, if not all, of the experiences and history he has absorbed in the last 25 years of going to the Broken Spoke every Tuesday night.
- Tour the picture room. (look for the sign that says 'Tourist Trap') You'll see Willie Nelson when he had a crew cut, and a ton of other pictures of celebrities that have visited the Spoke.
- Order the Chicken Fried Steak. Then order the Peach Cobbler with Ice Cream.
- Have a couple of bucks for the 8-year old that hustles the tip jar for the band. Mostly just because you'll feel like a jerk if you have to tell that little Smile that you don't have anything.
- Shake Hands with the Legend himself, James White. He'll be wandering around lookin' to shake yours. He wears shirts flashier than a disco, countrier than my Pappy, and louder than the music. *
- Dance.
*On a subsequent visit, Cool Carl was gone, and I got into a conversation with James about--among other things--Carl. I haven't had that many laughs in awhile. It felt like talking to the old farmers as a kid at the coffee shop when my dad would drag me with him on summer mornings. It's a particular kind of gossip, a laughter at the absentee's expense that's somehow more affectionate than it is mean. I like that place.
I have something exciting to tell you about.
I went on a date tonight. (believe it or not, that's not the exciting part) We went to the Broken Spoke for some--I'm quoting here--'Hardcore Country' and some good food. That's not the name of the band, because the schedule did not say "Alvin and James with Hardcore Country". The schedule clearly reads "James and Alvin" period "Hardcore Country" period. And Hardcore it was. Not Hardcore like wrestling, but Hardcore as in completely untainted by Nashville commercialism, big city pretentiousness, or fancy cooking. The menu was borrowed from any one of those small Texas po-dunk restaurants that you trip over on your way to the big city. The Chicken Fried Steak, as it is at every one of those places, is the best you've ever had, aside from your mother's.
I'd continue to tell you all about my own experience, but it wouldn't be much use. You'll just have to go yourself, and be sure to adhere to the following guidelines.
- Go on a Tuesday, for "Hardcore Country". I've been on weekends, and it's just not the same.
- Sit next to Carl, if the seat is available. 'Cool Carl' is one of those folks that don't so much have a height and a width as they have a radius and a circumference. He'll be wearing suspenders, and if you so much as glance in his direction, will tell you most, if not all, of the experiences and history he has absorbed in the last 25 years of going to the Broken Spoke every Tuesday night.
- Tour the picture room. (look for the sign that says 'Tourist Trap') You'll see Willie Nelson when he had a crew cut, and a ton of other pictures of celebrities that have visited the Spoke.
- Order the Chicken Fried Steak. Then order the Peach Cobbler with Ice Cream.
- Have a couple of bucks for the 8-year old that hustles the tip jar for the band. Mostly just because you'll feel like a jerk if you have to tell that little Smile that you don't have anything.
- Shake Hands with the Legend himself, James White. He'll be wandering around lookin' to shake yours. He wears shirts flashier than a disco, countrier than my Pappy, and louder than the music. *
- Dance.
*On a subsequent visit, Cool Carl was gone, and I got into a conversation with James about--among other things--Carl. I haven't had that many laughs in awhile. It felt like talking to the old farmers as a kid at the coffee shop when my dad would drag me with him on summer mornings. It's a particular kind of gossip, a laughter at the absentee's expense that's somehow more affectionate than it is mean. I like that place.
Bully!
Older stuff....with footnotes.
For the past several months, my (non-beer) drink of choice has been Tequila and Tonic, with a lime. It's a perfect 'summer' drink.* About 4 out of 5 bartenders look at me all googly-eyed when I order it, as if it were ice cream with ketchup. Their eyes say, "Tonic water is for vodka! Conform!" But I'll have none of their communism--I like being unique. While I owe the discovery of this concoction to my brother, in Austin, it's MY drink.
Although I'm not convinced that it will ever drop below 80 degrees in this town, at some point, it will technically be winter. Father Time says it's going to be time for a 'winter' drink, even if Mother Earth is still trying to melt my ass. I figured I'd use the opportunity to branch out, and pick something that will put hair on my chest. What do hairy chested men drink, I wondered to myself?
Enter SCOTCH.
The inspiration came from THIS. I've done some research, both in the glass and on the web. My web-based research told me that scotch is "a toast to civilization. It brings exhilaration and conviviality, stimulation and comfort. In short, it is the finest alcoholic drink ever created by man." Who could say 'no' to that?!
My glass-based research tells me that I don't dislike scotch, but I can see that it is an aquired taste. So that's my mission before winter arriveth: aquire the taste. I want to be able to appreciate scotch, not just force it down my throat to get that hairy chest. I bought a sampler of Johnny Walker scotch, which includes about 200ml each of their Red, Black, Gold, and Blue scotches. In the standard 750ml bottle, these would range from $25 to $200, so I figure I'm getting a good cross-section of quality on my initial foray. **
I have a tasting coorindated with some scotch drinkers in the not-so-distant future which will coincide with my first ever NHL hockey game. But until then, it's all tequila and football.
*This was a full year ago now...I'm all into the scotch nowadays.
**These are blends. I've had a full range of single malts now.
For the past several months, my (non-beer) drink of choice has been Tequila and Tonic, with a lime. It's a perfect 'summer' drink.* About 4 out of 5 bartenders look at me all googly-eyed when I order it, as if it were ice cream with ketchup. Their eyes say, "Tonic water is for vodka! Conform!" But I'll have none of their communism--I like being unique. While I owe the discovery of this concoction to my brother, in Austin, it's MY drink.
Although I'm not convinced that it will ever drop below 80 degrees in this town, at some point, it will technically be winter. Father Time says it's going to be time for a 'winter' drink, even if Mother Earth is still trying to melt my ass. I figured I'd use the opportunity to branch out, and pick something that will put hair on my chest. What do hairy chested men drink, I wondered to myself?
Enter SCOTCH.
The inspiration came from THIS. I've done some research, both in the glass and on the web. My web-based research told me that scotch is "a toast to civilization. It brings exhilaration and conviviality, stimulation and comfort. In short, it is the finest alcoholic drink ever created by man." Who could say 'no' to that?!
My glass-based research tells me that I don't dislike scotch, but I can see that it is an aquired taste. So that's my mission before winter arriveth: aquire the taste. I want to be able to appreciate scotch, not just force it down my throat to get that hairy chest. I bought a sampler of Johnny Walker scotch, which includes about 200ml each of their Red, Black, Gold, and Blue scotches. In the standard 750ml bottle, these would range from $25 to $200, so I figure I'm getting a good cross-section of quality on my initial foray. **
I have a tasting coorindated with some scotch drinkers in the not-so-distant future which will coincide with my first ever NHL hockey game. But until then, it's all tequila and football.
*This was a full year ago now...I'm all into the scotch nowadays.
**These are blends. I've had a full range of single malts now.
Wardrobe Malfunction
Old Stuff...
I don't really know what else I'd wear a denim shirt with. Slacks? Khakis? It just doesn't feel right. And now that my memory is refreshed, a denim shirt doesn't even feel right with denim jeans. However, this is something I manage to forget at least once a year, and subsequently make the mistake I made the other day of wearing the dreaded 'denim on denim'.
There are at least two or three people in the course of the day to point this fact out to me. Some just observant, and others with more sinister motives. There was a brief contest at lunch to see who could skewer me most throroughly. The Russian was in the lead, but then there was a controversy with the French judges. Alas, no decisive winner emerged. Then I walked into my building after a long day at work, and a lady in the lobby--with a face as straight as a ruler--asked me, "Are you here to fix my A/C?"
Kudos, lady in the lobby. Kudos, indeed.
I don't really know what else I'd wear a denim shirt with. Slacks? Khakis? It just doesn't feel right. And now that my memory is refreshed, a denim shirt doesn't even feel right with denim jeans. However, this is something I manage to forget at least once a year, and subsequently make the mistake I made the other day of wearing the dreaded 'denim on denim'.
There are at least two or three people in the course of the day to point this fact out to me. Some just observant, and others with more sinister motives. There was a brief contest at lunch to see who could skewer me most throroughly. The Russian was in the lead, but then there was a controversy with the French judges. Alas, no decisive winner emerged. Then I walked into my building after a long day at work, and a lady in the lobby--with a face as straight as a ruler--asked me, "Are you here to fix my A/C?"
Kudos, lady in the lobby. Kudos, indeed.
As you LIKE it
More old stuff...
Shakespeare wrote the following: (Hamlet, I'm pretty sure)
"What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals! "
He obviously didn't think we humans were actually angels or gods, but he was using a common literary device known as a simile. A simile is like a metaphor (wrap your head around that), in that it is capable of comparing apples to oranges, men to gods, and--in the case of Forrest Gump--of comparing life to a box of chocolates.
A metaphor eschews reality, and would go ahead and tell you that life *IS* a box of chocolates, even though the physicists tell us this is false. The metaphor is a high-brow literary device, and should be handled with care. Misuse around the wrong people could lead to misconceptions about the true nature of things. No, all the world is NOT actually a stage, as some idiot might infer from As You Like It. You are NOT actually "my sunshine, my only sunshine," even though that might send some strict literalists into a mental tailspin. Most people understand metaphors, however, so we can move on.
The simile--austere and reserved--would not lie so boldly. The simile would only tell you on a cold day that your toes are *LIKE* blocks of ice, conveying that you should thaw them out, but that they won't melt. Even strict literalists can't argue with this. 'LIKE' is the key word to surefire comprehension, and on that front, similies are idiot-proof. Usage of similies, however, is not--and this is where my rant officially begins. To be fair, the following are probably not intended as similies, but it is the only valid semantic construction in which they can be interpreted--which doesn't necessarily convey the intended meaning:
"Bob is like the nicest guy you'll ever meet." (They both are really into Pinot Noir, but Bob is an asshole.)
"Last night was like the greatest night of my life." (In both cases, it was a full moon, but I never want to see you again.)
I know you've heard this every day since high school. Starting with Valley girls in the last century, now just about all members of my generation (yes, even me) use these types of statements on a regular basis. You can, like, say what you want about the degradation of the purity of the English language--probably a valid rant in and of itself--but that's not my concern here.
The thorn in my side is that I've become acutely aware of the overuse of the word 'like' in conversational English, and it gnaws at my delicate sanity. The simile abuse, as noted above, is only one version. Only about 10 or 15 words can be spoken before 'like' is uttered in some manner, ringing like a bell in my head each time. 'Like' has become a designated hitter for so many parts of speech, which--much like in baseball--undermines the purity of the game.
Play this game the next time you're in a group of 20-30 year olds: snap your fingers, or tap your toes, (or thump the person next to you who's in on the game) or something everytime you hear the word 'like'. In this manner, I survived a dinner recently with a friend and, like, her cousin from, like, Texas A&M, and her, like, two best friends in, like, the whole world. My thumping, literally, could not keep pace with the conversation at times, and it took no less than 20 seconds of steady thumping before me and my friend were almost in tears laughing so much.
Worse than hearing others use it, is catching myself in the act. I've contracted a couple of friends to punch me in the nose whenever I, like, misuse the word...and I'm getting better.
Some of you might read this and enjoy it, or don't get it at all. That's fine. But if you're slightly OCD and slightly mental like myself, you've probably just been infected, whether you know it or not.
So what do you, like, think of that?
Shakespeare wrote the following: (Hamlet, I'm pretty sure)
"What a piece of work is man! how noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals! "
He obviously didn't think we humans were actually angels or gods, but he was using a common literary device known as a simile. A simile is like a metaphor (wrap your head around that), in that it is capable of comparing apples to oranges, men to gods, and--in the case of Forrest Gump--of comparing life to a box of chocolates.
A metaphor eschews reality, and would go ahead and tell you that life *IS* a box of chocolates, even though the physicists tell us this is false. The metaphor is a high-brow literary device, and should be handled with care. Misuse around the wrong people could lead to misconceptions about the true nature of things. No, all the world is NOT actually a stage, as some idiot might infer from As You Like It. You are NOT actually "my sunshine, my only sunshine," even though that might send some strict literalists into a mental tailspin. Most people understand metaphors, however, so we can move on.
The simile--austere and reserved--would not lie so boldly. The simile would only tell you on a cold day that your toes are *LIKE* blocks of ice, conveying that you should thaw them out, but that they won't melt. Even strict literalists can't argue with this. 'LIKE' is the key word to surefire comprehension, and on that front, similies are idiot-proof. Usage of similies, however, is not--and this is where my rant officially begins. To be fair, the following are probably not intended as similies, but it is the only valid semantic construction in which they can be interpreted--which doesn't necessarily convey the intended meaning:
"Bob is like the nicest guy you'll ever meet." (They both are really into Pinot Noir, but Bob is an asshole.)
"Last night was like the greatest night of my life." (In both cases, it was a full moon, but I never want to see you again.)
I know you've heard this every day since high school. Starting with Valley girls in the last century, now just about all members of my generation (yes, even me) use these types of statements on a regular basis. You can, like, say what you want about the degradation of the purity of the English language--probably a valid rant in and of itself--but that's not my concern here.
The thorn in my side is that I've become acutely aware of the overuse of the word 'like' in conversational English, and it gnaws at my delicate sanity. The simile abuse, as noted above, is only one version. Only about 10 or 15 words can be spoken before 'like' is uttered in some manner, ringing like a bell in my head each time. 'Like' has become a designated hitter for so many parts of speech, which--much like in baseball--undermines the purity of the game.
Play this game the next time you're in a group of 20-30 year olds: snap your fingers, or tap your toes, (or thump the person next to you who's in on the game) or something everytime you hear the word 'like'. In this manner, I survived a dinner recently with a friend and, like, her cousin from, like, Texas A&M, and her, like, two best friends in, like, the whole world. My thumping, literally, could not keep pace with the conversation at times, and it took no less than 20 seconds of steady thumping before me and my friend were almost in tears laughing so much.
Worse than hearing others use it, is catching myself in the act. I've contracted a couple of friends to punch me in the nose whenever I, like, misuse the word...and I'm getting better.
Some of you might read this and enjoy it, or don't get it at all. That's fine. But if you're slightly OCD and slightly mental like myself, you've probably just been infected, whether you know it or not.
So what do you, like, think of that?
High Fidelity
Old stuff....with a foonote or two.
Due to long hours at work, and--this week--the flu, I've not had the energy to do much more than read lately. I've made a dent in 'the stack' which is books I have bought but not read, but 'the list' (books I haven't yet bought) continues to grow. In any case, I finally read 'High Fidelity', by Nick Hornby. This is one of my favorite movies, and reading the book only deepens my appreciation. The book, however, is based in London, while the movie is based in Chicago, among other, more subtle, differences. I was surprised though, at how closely the movie's dialogue matched the book's, even it there was some heavy cut-and-paste with some of it. If you've only read the book, or only seen the movie, I highly recommend you do the other. It makes you appreciate the people who made both.
And now, just because I want to...(this is mostly for my brother, who I think might be the only person in the universe who appreciates the genius of High Fidelity as much as I do*)...the TOP 5 book-to-movie dialogue edits in the film.
1a) Book: Rob (as Narrator): "Marie is pretty, in that nearly cross-eyed American way--she looks like a slightly plumper, post Partridge Family, pre-LA Law Susan Dey--and if you were going to develop a spontaneous and pointless crush on somebody, you could do a lot worse.
1b) Movie: Dick (to Rob): "Marie de Salle's playing. You remember I told you about her. I like her. She's kind of Sheryl Crow-ish crossed with a post-Partridge Family pre-L.A. Law Susan Dey kind of thing, but...you know, uh, black." [and played by Lisa Bonet, who you know as Denise from the Cosby Show]
2a) Book: Barry (to customer): "Because it's sentimental, tacky crap, that's why not. Do we look like the sort of shop that sells f*cking 'I Just Called to Say I Love You;, eh? Now, be off with you, and don't waste our time."
2b) Movie: Barry (to customer): "Well, it's sentimental tacky crap. Do we look like the kind of store that sells I Just Called to Say I Love You? Go to the mall."
3a) Book: Barry (on stage): "We're not called Sonic Death Monkey anymore. We might be on the verge of becoming The Futuristics, but we haven't decided yet. Tonight, though, we're Backbeat. One, Two, Three...WELL SHAKE IT UP BABY..." [Performs 'Twist and Shout']
3b) Movie: Barry (on stage): "We're no longer called Sonic Death Monkey. We're on the verge of becoming Kathleen Turner Overdrive, but just for tonight, we are Barry Jive and his Uptown Five." [Performs 'Let's Get It On']
4a) Book: Rob: "What am I? Average. A middleweight. Not the brightest bloke in the world, but certainly not the dimmest: I have read books like The Unbearable Lightness of Being and Love in the Time of Cholera, and understood them, I think (they were about girls, right?), but I don't like them very much; my all-time top five favorite books are The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler, Red Dragon by Thomas Harris, Sweet Soul Music by Peter Guralnick, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, and, I don't know, something by William Gibson, or Kurt Vonnegut."
4b) Movie: Rob: "Hey, I'm not the smartest guy in the world, but I'm certainly not the dumbest. I mean, I've read books like The Unbearable Lightness of Being and Love in the Time of Cholera, and I think I've understood them. They're about girls, right? Just kidding. But I have to say my all-time favorite book is Johnny Cash's autobiography "Cash" by Johnny Cash."**
5a) Book: Rob: "A good compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do. You've got to kick off with a corker, to hold the attention...and then you've got to up it a notch, or cool it a notch, and you can't have white music and black music together, unless the white music sounds like black music, and you can't have two tracks by the same artist side by side, unless you've done the whole thing in pairs, and....oh, there are loads of rules." [This comes on page 89 of the book, but is used in the closing lines of the movie, coupled with THE closing line from the book.]
5b) Movie: Rob: "The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do and takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick off with a killer, to grab attention. Then you got to take it up a notch, but you don't wanna blow your wad, so then you got to cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules. Anyway... I've started to make a tape... in my head... for Laura. Full of stuff she likes. Full of stuff that makes her happy. For the first time I can sort of see how that is done."
* I'm now dating a girl named Laura, (I know, right?!) who also sees this movie for what it is: the Greatest Story Ever Told.
** I never noticed until now that the movie version of Rob passes on the chance to list his top 5 BOOKS, as he does in the book. What are you trying to tell us John Cusack?! What metaphysical truths lie in the Cash Autobiography?!
Due to long hours at work, and--this week--the flu, I've not had the energy to do much more than read lately. I've made a dent in 'the stack' which is books I have bought but not read, but 'the list' (books I haven't yet bought) continues to grow. In any case, I finally read 'High Fidelity', by Nick Hornby. This is one of my favorite movies, and reading the book only deepens my appreciation. The book, however, is based in London, while the movie is based in Chicago, among other, more subtle, differences. I was surprised though, at how closely the movie's dialogue matched the book's, even it there was some heavy cut-and-paste with some of it. If you've only read the book, or only seen the movie, I highly recommend you do the other. It makes you appreciate the people who made both.
And now, just because I want to...(this is mostly for my brother, who I think might be the only person in the universe who appreciates the genius of High Fidelity as much as I do*)...the TOP 5 book-to-movie dialogue edits in the film.
1a) Book: Rob (as Narrator): "Marie is pretty, in that nearly cross-eyed American way--she looks like a slightly plumper, post Partridge Family, pre-LA Law Susan Dey--and if you were going to develop a spontaneous and pointless crush on somebody, you could do a lot worse.
1b) Movie: Dick (to Rob): "Marie de Salle's playing. You remember I told you about her. I like her. She's kind of Sheryl Crow-ish crossed with a post-Partridge Family pre-L.A. Law Susan Dey kind of thing, but...you know, uh, black." [and played by Lisa Bonet, who you know as Denise from the Cosby Show]
2a) Book: Barry (to customer): "Because it's sentimental, tacky crap, that's why not. Do we look like the sort of shop that sells f*cking 'I Just Called to Say I Love You;, eh? Now, be off with you, and don't waste our time."
2b) Movie: Barry (to customer): "Well, it's sentimental tacky crap. Do we look like the kind of store that sells I Just Called to Say I Love You? Go to the mall."
3a) Book: Barry (on stage): "We're not called Sonic Death Monkey anymore. We might be on the verge of becoming The Futuristics, but we haven't decided yet. Tonight, though, we're Backbeat. One, Two, Three...WELL SHAKE IT UP BABY..." [Performs 'Twist and Shout']
3b) Movie: Barry (on stage): "We're no longer called Sonic Death Monkey. We're on the verge of becoming Kathleen Turner Overdrive, but just for tonight, we are Barry Jive and his Uptown Five." [Performs 'Let's Get It On']
4a) Book: Rob: "What am I? Average. A middleweight. Not the brightest bloke in the world, but certainly not the dimmest: I have read books like The Unbearable Lightness of Being and Love in the Time of Cholera, and understood them, I think (they were about girls, right?), but I don't like them very much; my all-time top five favorite books are The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler, Red Dragon by Thomas Harris, Sweet Soul Music by Peter Guralnick, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams, and, I don't know, something by William Gibson, or Kurt Vonnegut."
4b) Movie: Rob: "Hey, I'm not the smartest guy in the world, but I'm certainly not the dumbest. I mean, I've read books like The Unbearable Lightness of Being and Love in the Time of Cholera, and I think I've understood them. They're about girls, right? Just kidding. But I have to say my all-time favorite book is Johnny Cash's autobiography "Cash" by Johnny Cash."**
5a) Book: Rob: "A good compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do. You've got to kick off with a corker, to hold the attention...and then you've got to up it a notch, or cool it a notch, and you can't have white music and black music together, unless the white music sounds like black music, and you can't have two tracks by the same artist side by side, unless you've done the whole thing in pairs, and....oh, there are loads of rules." [This comes on page 89 of the book, but is used in the closing lines of the movie, coupled with THE closing line from the book.]
5b) Movie: Rob: "The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do and takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick off with a killer, to grab attention. Then you got to take it up a notch, but you don't wanna blow your wad, so then you got to cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules. Anyway... I've started to make a tape... in my head... for Laura. Full of stuff she likes. Full of stuff that makes her happy. For the first time I can sort of see how that is done."
* I'm now dating a girl named Laura, (I know, right?!) who also sees this movie for what it is: the Greatest Story Ever Told.
** I never noticed until now that the movie version of Rob passes on the chance to list his top 5 BOOKS, as he does in the book. What are you trying to tell us John Cusack?! What metaphysical truths lie in the Cash Autobiography?!
Obligatory First Post
OK, readers, if you've made it this far, you've really outdone yourself. If you have perused all the way back through the archives and found me, my hat is off to you. This is the post that will haunt the archival crypt the longest, rattling chains long after this blog has vaulted itself onto the world stage.
I've held out as long as I could, using other outlets for my writing, but eventually, I had to conceed that Blogger was a better option, and join everyone else. Tomorrow apparently everyone is jumping off bridges. See you there.
Several of these first posts will be old stuff that I couldn't bear to let rot in the far reaches of deep MySpace, or the journals that crowd my shelves. Newer stuff will be inspired by my work life (this week it's shitty), something I read (this week it's Bukowski), or something I drank (right now, it's scotch).
(I've had better weeks than this.)
If you enjoy reading this shit half as much as I enjoy writing it, then we'll have a good working relationship on our hands.
I've held out as long as I could, using other outlets for my writing, but eventually, I had to conceed that Blogger was a better option, and join everyone else. Tomorrow apparently everyone is jumping off bridges. See you there.
Several of these first posts will be old stuff that I couldn't bear to let rot in the far reaches of deep MySpace, or the journals that crowd my shelves. Newer stuff will be inspired by my work life (this week it's shitty), something I read (this week it's Bukowski), or something I drank (right now, it's scotch).
(I've had better weeks than this.)
If you enjoy reading this shit half as much as I enjoy writing it, then we'll have a good working relationship on our hands.
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