You know how in really bad sci-fi movies that came out last year starring Nicole Kidman and Daniel Craig, the protagonists are always piecing together seemingly unrelated clues and minor details that, when you think about it, all point to an apocalyptic end to mankind as we know it? I hate that. It's so... unrealistic. At least that's what I used to think.
As for me, my life is devoid of dramatic music in the background to let me know when I'm on to something, but I'm still a very astute observer, and I've discovered too many irrational things in the last 24 hours to keep quiet about them anymore. What follows below is the first of several examples that prove we are hurtling head-long towards the end of mankind. If these examples represent the direction our society is headed, the wheels are gonna come off long before the four horsemen ever ride over the horizon.
When I say "Carnival Food", it probably conjures up memories of riding the Himalaya on a hot summer night, right after you watched the carney wipe up some corn-dog-and-cotton-candy vomit off of your seat with an old towel, filled with a wierd mix of apprehension and exhilaration. (Just me? OK) Nevertheless, unspeakable cravings overcome me when I'm standing in front of the bright yellow food vendor stands, and the no-nonsense price list, and the sleeveless, bearded men and women who make it happen. Corn dogs that would make a porn star flinch. Nachos as big as your face. Turkey legs, dripping with delicious goodness.
But those were the old days. Sure, there was guilt the next morning for violating your diet, but you swore not to do it for about a year, hopped on the treadmill, and all was right with the world again. The kind of food they serve now at carnivals is of a caliber that makes me feel guilty as soon as I hand my money over. Fried twinkies, fried coke (wtf?), fried candy bars. I saw pizza on a stick. I've heard legend of a corn dog with chili on the inside. Nothing, however, prepared me for what I saw last night.
HOT BEEF SUNDAE (no really, here's proof: http://www.iabeef.org/Docs/Hot_Beef_SundaePR.pdf)
Try that on for size--doesn't your skin just feel greasy because you're thinking about it? The actual ingredients (beef, mashed potatoes, cheese, gravy, cherry tomato on top) aren't so bad. No, it is the Marketing department who is playing God by giving this thing such an excruciating name. The concept of "beef as dessert" won't just leave you with a twinge of guilt. No, this is a mind-fuck that will sink you into self-loathing and gravy addiction long after you've digested the 3,000 calories. This is beyond the scope of our fearless chefs-sans-sleeves and their 'stick it and fry it' mentality. This is surely the work of an evil genius, and proof positive that the antichrist will be a charismatic carney.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Junk Mail
Due to the unusually small mailboxes in my building, I'm disproportionately annoyed by the amount of junkmail that I get (2-3 pieces a day). If I'm not otherwise occupied, I try to call whoever sent me the mail, thank them profusely, and politely request to be taken off their mailing list. Well, that's only partially true.
The thing about telemarketers and customer service reps is that they sold their soul long ago to serve as the cold, uncaring face of corporate America, so I don't feel so bad for unleashing mild amounts of annoyance and sarcasm on them. I can't talk to some hotshot, asshole VP of Marketing for Netflix, who's job it actually was to walk into a meeting and say
"why don't we just send Josh 3 Netflix offers a week until he caves?"
"Conserve Paper?!? Environment?!?!....Did someone say 'Applebee's for lunch'?....lets go get some FAJITA SHOOTERS and FRIED SUSHI STICKS."
(sorry...I must have missed lunch today)
So instead I get to talk to poor Erin, who's chipper and has nothing to do with Asshole VP. She promises to take me off the list within 30 days, and I promise to bind all of the Netflix offers in a keepsake album, dote on them daily, and call as soon as I am ready for a DVD-Direct-To-Home relationship again. She apologizes for any inconvenience, and I apologize for calling her a useless hand-puppet of an evil corporate machine. OK, again, this is only partially true.
Today, however, I reached the coupon mailer company after hours. I stopped just seconds shy of leaving a scathing voicemail, and opted instead to make use of more advanced technology. The following is excerpted from the Comments section of my 'Don't want no more Shitty Coupons' address removal request form, located on the company's website.
I appreciate the Pizza Hut coupons, I really do, but I keep forgetting to use last weeks coupons, and then it becomes infuriating when the new coupons show up in the mail. (Is it Tuesday already? ARGGGG! I paid FULL PRICE for pizza just yesterday!) Add to that the environmental devastation caused by piles and piles of unused coupons that I must now throw in a landfill somewhere, and my anxiety becomes overwhelming. The Long John Silver coupons though....you'd have done us both a favor if you had just kept them in the first place.
The name I gave above ("Resident") is the moniker by which you've addressed me in all mailings. Your fine print requires that I give my full name, but I hesitate to do so, having seen what you can do with just my address. If you need my full legal name (for some reason that only God or Johnnie Cochran could fathom) please contact me at the email address below, and we can roll up our sleeves and deal with the issue properly, regardless of how many hours it might take. Otherwise, just remove my address from your database, and any other databases you have access to.
JoshW_17@hotmail.com
DO NOT, however, use my email address for spam mailings. Despite the lack of environmental devastation, electronic junkmail is still pretty fuckin' annoying.
Sincerely,
Josh "Doesn't like Junk Mail" _W17
...and somewhere in metropolitain Milwaukee, Asshole VP curses the one that got away.
"Shots are on me, guys. Who likes Apple Pucker?! YEAH!"
The thing about telemarketers and customer service reps is that they sold their soul long ago to serve as the cold, uncaring face of corporate America, so I don't feel so bad for unleashing mild amounts of annoyance and sarcasm on them. I can't talk to some hotshot, asshole VP of Marketing for Netflix, who's job it actually was to walk into a meeting and say
"why don't we just send Josh 3 Netflix offers a week until he caves?"
"Conserve Paper?!? Environment?!?!....Did someone say 'Applebee's for lunch'?....lets go get some FAJITA SHOOTERS and FRIED SUSHI STICKS."
(sorry...I must have missed lunch today)
So instead I get to talk to poor Erin, who's chipper and has nothing to do with Asshole VP. She promises to take me off the list within 30 days, and I promise to bind all of the Netflix offers in a keepsake album, dote on them daily, and call as soon as I am ready for a DVD-Direct-To-Home relationship again. She apologizes for any inconvenience, and I apologize for calling her a useless hand-puppet of an evil corporate machine. OK, again, this is only partially true.
Today, however, I reached the coupon mailer company after hours. I stopped just seconds shy of leaving a scathing voicemail, and opted instead to make use of more advanced technology. The following is excerpted from the Comments section of my 'Don't want no more Shitty Coupons' address removal request form, located on the company's website.
I appreciate the Pizza Hut coupons, I really do, but I keep forgetting to use last weeks coupons, and then it becomes infuriating when the new coupons show up in the mail. (Is it Tuesday already? ARGGGG! I paid FULL PRICE for pizza just yesterday!) Add to that the environmental devastation caused by piles and piles of unused coupons that I must now throw in a landfill somewhere, and my anxiety becomes overwhelming. The Long John Silver coupons though....you'd have done us both a favor if you had just kept them in the first place.
The name I gave above ("Resident") is the moniker by which you've addressed me in all mailings. Your fine print requires that I give my full name, but I hesitate to do so, having seen what you can do with just my address. If you need my full legal name (for some reason that only God or Johnnie Cochran could fathom) please contact me at the email address below, and we can roll up our sleeves and deal with the issue properly, regardless of how many hours it might take. Otherwise, just remove my address from your database, and any other databases you have access to.
JoshW_17@hotmail.com
DO NOT, however, use my email address for spam mailings. Despite the lack of environmental devastation, electronic junkmail is still pretty fuckin' annoying.
Sincerely,
Josh "Doesn't like Junk Mail" _W17
...and somewhere in metropolitain Milwaukee, Asshole VP curses the one that got away.
"Shots are on me, guys. Who likes Apple Pucker?! YEAH!"
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Personality Tests
I had the chance to tell the HR lady exactly what I thought of her damn personality test today. But I didn't. According to my test I like to 'avoid conflict.' Plus, she didn't do anything to deserve it. They nailed that one, though: 'avoid conflict.'
I could have done worse: in situations where I avoid conflict, my coworkers range from--I'm quoting the actual tests here--'verbal attack' to 'dictatorial steamroller.' I don't like these kinds of tests. I want tests that further establish my position on the right side of the bell curve. (Ah, but gone are the days of my youth, churning productively in the public education system between the 98th and 99th percentiles, unaware that my reward/fate was to have to work for one of the morons plucked from the fat middle.)
Unlike my logorrheic steamroller of a boss, I 'bottle things up.' I'm so glad you could make it here to the uncorking. Those seated in the front row are asked to put their goggles on now. The elderly and managers of any kind are asked to leave at this time, lest their little hearts implode.
Personality tests are a sham. Sometime in the 40s or 50s, this psychologist named Forer did an experiment. He gave a group of people a 'personality test' and handed each their 'results,' asking them to rate from 0 to 5 how accurate it was. The average score was better than 4. The catch was that the results were the same for all of the people, and consisted of text assembled from horoscopes.
Further studies indicated that people gave higher ratings when 1) the perceived credibility of the test/proctor was higher, 2) they thought the results were personalized especially for them, and 3) the results listed mainly positive traits. You'll be hard-pressed to find a personality test that doesn't explicity aim for these three criteria.
Here's how my test worked: I told the computer that on a scale of 1 to 5, I'm a 5 on independent, and a 4 on introvert, and on and on down the list of 40-50 different traits. Then it tells me things like "you prefer working alone," and I'm not any smarter than I was when we began this little dance.
A: "Do you like vanilla and dairy products?"
B: "Yes!"
A: "You must eat ice cream on at least an infrequent basis."
B: "That is so true! How did you know?"
A: "I'm a wizard."
B: "You must be."
So when the HR lady says, "Isn't it amazing how accurate these things are?" I want to set her straight with some vociferous verbal fury. I instead choose to 'avoid conflict,' and give a "yeah, wow." (notice the lack of capital letters and exclamations from my 'wow')
Comparing reports with my co-workers, it seems clear that there are three separate paragraphs for each category, of which you get dealt one or two, based on your answers. So you think you're getting a custom-computer-generated analysis of your personality with several details and nuances, but in reality, you're getting stuffed into one of three generalized boxes. But so many of the terms they use are vague and subjective anyway, so you're going to agree with a statement that you're 'blue' whether you're clinically depressed, really into Jazz, or are a Smurf.
A: "Do you have access to standard Western amenities, like shelter, hot water, Air conditioning, etc?"
B: "Yes, but how did you..."
A: "I'd say you like your showers hot....but not TOO hot."
B: "That's absolutely TRUE! I hate cold showers, and don't like being scalded either."
A: "I can nail that one twenty out of twenty times."
B: "You're amazing, like some kind of psychic."
A: "Wizard dammit."
Now, next Tuesday, this lady is going to come in from Atlanta, armed with six twenty-page personality reports so we can discuss these things as a group. The implication is that two of the others in the office will no longer need to call her or anyone else in the HR department to report our boss for saying inappropriate or thoughtless things, or for generally being a bad manager and for running the project into the ground, ruining relationships with clients and subcontractors alike, and smearing the company's reputation. Now that we know he's a "Doer not a thinker" and has an "Agressive Teller" leadership style, it will be all strippers and cotton candy until the job is finished. Meanwhile our "Doer" still opens his mouth before he thinks, and still only listens for about 3-4 seconds before he gets lost in thought (you can tell by looking at his face) or interrupts you to tell you what he just thought of in the last 3-4 seconds.
A: "Your communication style is 'Efficient Listener.'"
B: "That's right on! I only need to listen to the first 3-4 seconds to know that someone is going nowhere with their train of thought."
A: "Right. Just use the term "EF," and leave it at that. Overall, you fit the "Penile Cerebrum" profile."
B: "Dickhead?"
A: "Exactly. A "PC," as we say."
B: "Can you help me with that?"
A: "Well, now you know what your personality type is, and like they say: knowing is ALL of the battle. You've won."
B: "But you're a wizard, can't help me become a better manager, and learn some basic people skills? Can't we discuss the real problems at hand instead of skirting them with this HR/Personality Test charade?"
A: "I....uh....LOOK! OVER THERE!!! A BABY WOLF!!!!"
B: "Where'd he go?"
I could have done worse: in situations where I avoid conflict, my coworkers range from--I'm quoting the actual tests here--'verbal attack' to 'dictatorial steamroller.' I don't like these kinds of tests. I want tests that further establish my position on the right side of the bell curve. (Ah, but gone are the days of my youth, churning productively in the public education system between the 98th and 99th percentiles, unaware that my reward/fate was to have to work for one of the morons plucked from the fat middle.)
Unlike my logorrheic steamroller of a boss, I 'bottle things up.' I'm so glad you could make it here to the uncorking. Those seated in the front row are asked to put their goggles on now. The elderly and managers of any kind are asked to leave at this time, lest their little hearts implode.
Personality tests are a sham. Sometime in the 40s or 50s, this psychologist named Forer did an experiment. He gave a group of people a 'personality test' and handed each their 'results,' asking them to rate from 0 to 5 how accurate it was. The average score was better than 4. The catch was that the results were the same for all of the people, and consisted of text assembled from horoscopes.
Further studies indicated that people gave higher ratings when 1) the perceived credibility of the test/proctor was higher, 2) they thought the results were personalized especially for them, and 3) the results listed mainly positive traits. You'll be hard-pressed to find a personality test that doesn't explicity aim for these three criteria.
Here's how my test worked: I told the computer that on a scale of 1 to 5, I'm a 5 on independent, and a 4 on introvert, and on and on down the list of 40-50 different traits. Then it tells me things like "you prefer working alone," and I'm not any smarter than I was when we began this little dance.
A: "Do you like vanilla and dairy products?"
B: "Yes!"
A: "You must eat ice cream on at least an infrequent basis."
B: "That is so true! How did you know?"
A: "I'm a wizard."
B: "You must be."
So when the HR lady says, "Isn't it amazing how accurate these things are?" I want to set her straight with some vociferous verbal fury. I instead choose to 'avoid conflict,' and give a "yeah, wow." (notice the lack of capital letters and exclamations from my 'wow')
Comparing reports with my co-workers, it seems clear that there are three separate paragraphs for each category, of which you get dealt one or two, based on your answers. So you think you're getting a custom-computer-generated analysis of your personality with several details and nuances, but in reality, you're getting stuffed into one of three generalized boxes. But so many of the terms they use are vague and subjective anyway, so you're going to agree with a statement that you're 'blue' whether you're clinically depressed, really into Jazz, or are a Smurf.
A: "Do you have access to standard Western amenities, like shelter, hot water, Air conditioning, etc?"
B: "Yes, but how did you..."
A: "I'd say you like your showers hot....but not TOO hot."
B: "That's absolutely TRUE! I hate cold showers, and don't like being scalded either."
A: "I can nail that one twenty out of twenty times."
B: "You're amazing, like some kind of psychic."
A: "Wizard dammit."
Now, next Tuesday, this lady is going to come in from Atlanta, armed with six twenty-page personality reports so we can discuss these things as a group. The implication is that two of the others in the office will no longer need to call her or anyone else in the HR department to report our boss for saying inappropriate or thoughtless things, or for generally being a bad manager and for running the project into the ground, ruining relationships with clients and subcontractors alike, and smearing the company's reputation. Now that we know he's a "Doer not a thinker" and has an "Agressive Teller" leadership style, it will be all strippers and cotton candy until the job is finished. Meanwhile our "Doer" still opens his mouth before he thinks, and still only listens for about 3-4 seconds before he gets lost in thought (you can tell by looking at his face) or interrupts you to tell you what he just thought of in the last 3-4 seconds.
A: "Your communication style is 'Efficient Listener.'"
B: "That's right on! I only need to listen to the first 3-4 seconds to know that someone is going nowhere with their train of thought."
A: "Right. Just use the term "EF," and leave it at that. Overall, you fit the "Penile Cerebrum" profile."
B: "Dickhead?"
A: "Exactly. A "PC," as we say."
B: "Can you help me with that?"
A: "Well, now you know what your personality type is, and like they say: knowing is ALL of the battle. You've won."
B: "But you're a wizard, can't help me become a better manager, and learn some basic people skills? Can't we discuss the real problems at hand instead of skirting them with this HR/Personality Test charade?"
A: "I....uh....LOOK! OVER THERE!!! A BABY WOLF!!!!"
B: "Where'd he go?"
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Writing Under the Influence
I'm reading On The Road, by Kerouac. I've wanted to read this for awhile now--mostly because it's so highly regarded, but also because everything that I know about Kerouac points to the fact that he's my kind of writer. Now, I must admit that my knowledge is limited at this point, but the fact that he draws on his own life and experiences for the majority of his work really sucks me in.
According to the book's intro, Kerouac struggled with his writing for several years--trying more than a few different versions of the book--before settling on a draft he was happy with. His fictional counterpart, however didn't have any evidences or that struggle. I wonder if he just had enough perspective afterwards to realize that it's part of the process. Then again, he didn't mention his personal drug use beyond "tea" (marijuana) when (rumor has it) he ultimately typed the book's first draft in a three week, benezedrine-fueled fury. But hey, that's apparently just part of the process too. (A note, gentle reader: yr. corresp. promises only to write under the influences of red wine and/or emotion, and to edit and post afterwards, while sober)
It's cathartic to get everything out at once, and be able to rearrange the non-linear mess of human experience into something more reasoned and logical. When you discover that your parents are getting divorced, you don't think of it as part of your character development or any kind of symbolism about your fractured persona, but it helps to get all of that out on paper and get a simpler, two-dimensional perspective on things, instead of continuing to spin in a three-dimensional cloud of fists and debris. That's why I write.
According to the book's intro, Kerouac struggled with his writing for several years--trying more than a few different versions of the book--before settling on a draft he was happy with. His fictional counterpart, however didn't have any evidences or that struggle. I wonder if he just had enough perspective afterwards to realize that it's part of the process. Then again, he didn't mention his personal drug use beyond "tea" (marijuana) when (rumor has it) he ultimately typed the book's first draft in a three week, benezedrine-fueled fury. But hey, that's apparently just part of the process too. (A note, gentle reader: yr. corresp. promises only to write under the influences of red wine and/or emotion, and to edit and post afterwards, while sober)
It's cathartic to get everything out at once, and be able to rearrange the non-linear mess of human experience into something more reasoned and logical. When you discover that your parents are getting divorced, you don't think of it as part of your character development or any kind of symbolism about your fractured persona, but it helps to get all of that out on paper and get a simpler, two-dimensional perspective on things, instead of continuing to spin in a three-dimensional cloud of fists and debris. That's why I write.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
I no longer laugh at Dilbert, but I do sometimes cry
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.
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 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.
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