As I did my rounds this morning, about three, maybe sixteen people groaned the following statement:
“RRR, it’s Monday.”
I have said it many times myself, but I don’t really get why I do. Makes no sense. Why do we hate Monday?
There should be some way to count all the times the world over (the Monday Fearing World that is) that some jerk who’d rather be binge drinking underneath a school bus, uttered that statement. I am surprised that it never gets old, and in many ways replaces, “Hello. How are you?”
Perhaps language instructors should modify their lesson plans to include “RRR, it’s Monday” as an acceptable substitute for the main ones that they throw at you when you learn any language.
Guten morgen!
RRR, es ist Montag.
Just like that. Easy.
I don’t really HATE Mondays. In fact Mondays are the days when my mind is as erased as it’s going to be, and since I have little recollection of the bullshit I left behind from the prior week, I actually feel slightly optimistic about the week ahead. I actually think I’m going to get things done and that things will go my way.
The day that is worse than Monday is by far Sunday. Sunday is for and by assholes. As a kid, my parents made sure to sock it to us early by going to church first thing. Some of you dig this place, I don’t. Not judging you.
I don’t like any place where I have to stew quietly on hard wooden benches for stretches at a time when I was perfectly content in bed. So I stopped going at fourteen. I don’t know how I got around it, but no one seemed to mind out loud. Eliminating the church factor definitely made Sundays a fuckload better, but it seems that space became filled with other free-time zapping Sunday anxiety.
I got no church to hassle with, but I have the all day, looming buzz kill, countdown to sleep and the end of all fun as we know it.
Some people have no beef with Sunday, in fact they LOVE Sunday. Who the hell are you? Puritan hold overs?
Stores don’t stay open as long; the radio is an abomination of public service spots, slow jams, and love songs and dedications; and the whole day just feels like borrowed time.
I don’t turn on the TV on Sunday because I don’t want to see Televised Sports – the quintessential Sunday buzz kill. Again, some people get off on Sunday Televised sports. Not judging you, just silently stabbing myself in the eyes. Growing up, after church, since we only had one TV, we then had to watch our dad watch his televised sports, yelling at the Ref, or at Magic Johnson, spitting bits of fried pork into his mustache, while the hot suburban sun made its full arc from high noon to evening.
“But it’s still a day off for you right?” you might ask.
Yes, of course it is and I would hate to work on Sunday, as I have in the past. I live in the future, that’s why it sucks. When Monday finally arrives, I can deal with it, and since it doesn’t look much different from Tuesday or Wednesday, I’m in the present on Monday. But Sunday is all about anticipation of Monday and I have tried many many approaches to de-criminalizing Sunday, including, but not limited to recreational drugs, hallucinogens, spa days, frat parties, key parties, you name it. The sad sad feeling always rolls in around 5pm.
I have often wondered if I would feel the same way if I didn’t have to work on Monday, and the answer is yes. It’s hard wired. There were many times that I’ve been unemployed -some call it freelancing - for long stretches and it still feels like a life sentence in traffic school with all your favorite dickheads you meet on the road.
Even Morrissey, the person who inspired this blog thinks Sundays suck.
So here I am, it’s RRR Monday and I’m cool with it. I made it through another Sunday.
It would be great if someone in blog-land could tell me of their own Sunday love/hate, but focus on the hate. Yes?
RRR.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Cinch It!
We were originally going to tell you about the fires. We wanted to tell you about the thick blanket of Armageddon that's been choking us all around here, the freeway closures, the endless, heartbreaking stories about people and their horses, how some people are thanking god for sparing their houses, and others are bitterly asking god why them. But all that is trumped by saggin’.
This article on NPR.org reports on the city of Dallas pleading all those who sag to "pull up your pants".
The Article
Why now? Don't you think it's too late? Isn't that a little Stepford?
Employee835: I'm about to pull the Country When Country Wasn't Cool Card, which is to say, my ten year old ass knew full well in the early 80s that saggin’ was not only inconvenient and inappropriate, it was dumb as shit. I, and all of my friends with pants did not need this spelled out to us, although it seemed many at the time did. At the GoKart place in Pomona, CA, item 2 on the dress code specifically and emphatically stated that "Pants must be worn on or above the waist AT ALL TIMES."
The article quotes the Mayor, a dude named Caraway as saying the following:
"This is not just a teenage problem," Caraway says. "There are people sagging ... in their 30s. You know, where's your mind? You're not a teenager."
People in their 30s, sagging? These are my peers. Where did we go wrong? Was it the lack of head start programs?
Dear City of Dallas, Duh. A little GoKart place by the railroad tracks at the corner of Reservoir and State Street had this figured out long before much of this country was down with OPP. By my own estimates, saggin' has been going on for a solid QUARTER CENTURY at least, and you're only now sending out your team of rappers with the message to keep it at the hip? It seems to me that you should post a sign at the perimeter of the City stating the City of Dallas Dress Code.
What’s the big deal?
Foreverever: Well Employee835, you bring up an excellent point that the world maybe reaching Armageddon and that the societal rules of dress codes is something that still plagues some communities like wild fires in SoCal. We know the fires will come, we know they will cause damage but, we just don't know how much damage. Just like baggy pants exposing young men's asses is endangering our communities and causing wild fires of their own.
I feel that I have a really open mind toward fashion, music, etc. but, yes the saggin' pants thing even has me a little worried. But, then it got me thinking about mini-skirts. Which are almost the opposite of saggin' pants. Super short skirts primarily on women showing off the legs and going right up to the ass-line caused their own controversies back in the day. I'm not sure if mini-skirts started in prison but, they may have just like the baggy pants fad. So the saggin' pants is like the reverse of the mini-skirt but, this time we get ass. What do you think?
Employee835: Point taken re the miniskirt. Basically, with one, you are looking UP the ass, and with the other, you are looking DOWN the ass. And I guess that I prefer up the ass - for women and for men. I see your point and I had no idea that saggin' would go down in fashion history as the upside down cousin of the miniskirt.
I'd like to point out though, that the miniskirt was one of the early forms of dress and that it was simply reintroduced to extremely conservative humans in the 60s using cotton, silk, polyester, and spandex. I've seen National Geographic - miniskirts rule in
Africa
(the Maasai Tribe)
Oceania
(the Maori)
and the Americas.
(Chumash Native Americans)
They don't cover much, but the people of the world, throughout time seem to agree, mini, micro, maxi, grass, scraps, etc. that the waist is the proper anchor, and it’s been that way since fig leaves were the miniskirt du jour.
Pants fastened around the thighs makes ZERO sense. Even if you liked the look, you can't run, you can't stand up straight, you can't walk, jump over fences, nothing.
It seems pretty obvious.
Foreverever: Thanks for the expose historical cultural history and anthropological fact finding on this one! You are always good at looking up facts and asses, Employee835. So now that we've seen through human history the exposing of legs and butts is rather common and that the waist line is the suitable place to secure your lower body covering, we need to examine why someone would want to go against societal and almost humanistic properties of dress.
So we all know saggin' is completely dysfunctional. You have to walk slow and hold your pants up and if you drop something you just have to leave it and shuffle away. We know this style came from prisons where belts were forbidden because, of their use for suicide or weapons or whatever. So then it goes into our street culture glorifying violence, drugs, sex, and the prospect of being in jail.
But, i don't think these guys and sometimes girls are wearing saggin' pants to tap into that prison style. They're just doing it to fuck with us. To make us feel uncomfortable as the youth have always been doing since the dawn of time.
I do like the idea of going pantsless. These body legging things coming out of Berlin are cool and when they're flesh colored they make it look like women aren't wearing any pants for a split second. So where is all of this going? Toward a ring in hell possibly. But, it might just be one of those things we think is funny and stupid and i'm kind of content with that.
Employee835: That’s just it, they are fucking with only a few people. I certainly find it born of pure dipshittery, but it’s not my call to tell people to cinch it.
I'm also glad you mentioned prison style. Here is a video of a prisoner warning kids NOT TO SAG. In the first few minutes, he clearly states, "You know what they do to people who sag in jail? They stick they fingers down they butt."
So if saggin' is about bringing the prison to the streets, then it's for those who don't see the need to run, jump, or walk, but could use a random, unsolicited ano/rectal exam once in a while. All the guy is saying is that saggin’ is dumb and it tells others that you may already be someone’s bitch, but he moves on to bigger issues.
The Video
Do you think that the peeps on the streets have severely misinterpreted the meaning of the sag?
Foreverever: Yhea, I think this sag thing like most of our fads and cultural inconsistencies was totally taken out of proportion and then you have the norm kind of freaking out about it. Kids are always going to be trying to one up each other. At first it was just wearing them low so you're butt crack hung out. Then so your butt, hung out, and i guess now they're around your knees. So whatever, if you're doing it to draw attention to yourself then you've succeeded and maybe that's what saggin' is all about.
In jail "saggin" as a way of saying your available and on the streets as a way of saying i'm here, my butt is hanging out, and i'm walking really slow?
Employee835: My original question was this, 25 years ago, it was obvious to many kids that it was dumb, but we went with it, and for a time, some of us got on board with the House Music and the Rave wear, but ultimately a number of us went back to form fitting clothing. I'm just wondering why it is only now that cities like Dallas are making anything about it, and why it matters so much.
In the NPR article, the Mayor says: "The No. 1 mission is very simple: pulling up your pants. That's all we want, we don't want to throw folks in jail because they wear their pants low. So we're going to make it man's law and not city law."
It feels like WE ARE AT A CRISIS. WE HAVE TO LEGISLATE. WE HAVE TO STOP IT. Someone is going to sit their naked ass on a Bus!
Foreverever: I think what's happening in Dallas is that the Mayor and town council people or whoever are stupid. Like really, 1000's of kids are going around like this causing havoc? Traffic comes to a halt, people jumping out of windows, rap songs and billboards need to be utilized to make dudes pull their pants up? They need to worry about teen pregnancy, guns, and hardcore drug use. WTF? This is exactly what's happening in our country at a national and local level. Picking something stupid to worry about. Just let kids do what they do and you know they'll grow out of it or trip and fall in front of some girl they like and then pull their pants up. It takes a while for style trends to reach the Midwest and south. They're about 10 years behind the times when it comes to style. Dallas is going at it the wrong way. When you make something an issue it totally makes it gain more attention. And then more people will be pulling their pants down. If they made all the cops sag their pants for a month I bet all those kids will pull their pants up and start getting Gumby cuts.
It just comes funneling down from the stupid government. People have always been doing stupid shit and then other people have to worry about them and make it a huge deal. Where are our freedoms to sag and look stupid? Next they'll be kicking bikes off the road in LA based on "man's law" I really like that. "man's law" could you be anymore sexiest and hypocritical?. . .ha ah aha ha ha ha. .. Next time you see me I'll be saggin.
*****
And we’ll close with this word from Notthead.
We could go on, but we are going to leave the last word to you.
Thank you for checking in with us, and whether up or down, keep your pants clean for work, you wouldn’t want them to think you weren’t serious about your office job.
This article on NPR.org reports on the city of Dallas pleading all those who sag to "pull up your pants".
The Article
Why now? Don't you think it's too late? Isn't that a little Stepford?
Employee835: I'm about to pull the Country When Country Wasn't Cool Card, which is to say, my ten year old ass knew full well in the early 80s that saggin’ was not only inconvenient and inappropriate, it was dumb as shit. I, and all of my friends with pants did not need this spelled out to us, although it seemed many at the time did. At the GoKart place in Pomona, CA, item 2 on the dress code specifically and emphatically stated that "Pants must be worn on or above the waist AT ALL TIMES."
The article quotes the Mayor, a dude named Caraway as saying the following:
"This is not just a teenage problem," Caraway says. "There are people sagging ... in their 30s. You know, where's your mind? You're not a teenager."
People in their 30s, sagging? These are my peers. Where did we go wrong? Was it the lack of head start programs?
Dear City of Dallas, Duh. A little GoKart place by the railroad tracks at the corner of Reservoir and State Street had this figured out long before much of this country was down with OPP. By my own estimates, saggin' has been going on for a solid QUARTER CENTURY at least, and you're only now sending out your team of rappers with the message to keep it at the hip? It seems to me that you should post a sign at the perimeter of the City stating the City of Dallas Dress Code.
What’s the big deal?
Foreverever: Well Employee835, you bring up an excellent point that the world maybe reaching Armageddon and that the societal rules of dress codes is something that still plagues some communities like wild fires in SoCal. We know the fires will come, we know they will cause damage but, we just don't know how much damage. Just like baggy pants exposing young men's asses is endangering our communities and causing wild fires of their own.
I feel that I have a really open mind toward fashion, music, etc. but, yes the saggin' pants thing even has me a little worried. But, then it got me thinking about mini-skirts. Which are almost the opposite of saggin' pants. Super short skirts primarily on women showing off the legs and going right up to the ass-line caused their own controversies back in the day. I'm not sure if mini-skirts started in prison but, they may have just like the baggy pants fad. So the saggin' pants is like the reverse of the mini-skirt but, this time we get ass. What do you think?
Employee835: Point taken re the miniskirt. Basically, with one, you are looking UP the ass, and with the other, you are looking DOWN the ass. And I guess that I prefer up the ass - for women and for men. I see your point and I had no idea that saggin' would go down in fashion history as the upside down cousin of the miniskirt.
I'd like to point out though, that the miniskirt was one of the early forms of dress and that it was simply reintroduced to extremely conservative humans in the 60s using cotton, silk, polyester, and spandex. I've seen National Geographic - miniskirts rule in
Africa
(the Maasai Tribe)
Oceania
(the Maori)
and the Americas.
(Chumash Native Americans)
They don't cover much, but the people of the world, throughout time seem to agree, mini, micro, maxi, grass, scraps, etc. that the waist is the proper anchor, and it’s been that way since fig leaves were the miniskirt du jour.
Pants fastened around the thighs makes ZERO sense. Even if you liked the look, you can't run, you can't stand up straight, you can't walk, jump over fences, nothing.
It seems pretty obvious.
Foreverever: Thanks for the expose historical cultural history and anthropological fact finding on this one! You are always good at looking up facts and asses, Employee835. So now that we've seen through human history the exposing of legs and butts is rather common and that the waist line is the suitable place to secure your lower body covering, we need to examine why someone would want to go against societal and almost humanistic properties of dress.
So we all know saggin' is completely dysfunctional. You have to walk slow and hold your pants up and if you drop something you just have to leave it and shuffle away. We know this style came from prisons where belts were forbidden because, of their use for suicide or weapons or whatever. So then it goes into our street culture glorifying violence, drugs, sex, and the prospect of being in jail.
But, i don't think these guys and sometimes girls are wearing saggin' pants to tap into that prison style. They're just doing it to fuck with us. To make us feel uncomfortable as the youth have always been doing since the dawn of time.
I do like the idea of going pantsless. These body legging things coming out of Berlin are cool and when they're flesh colored they make it look like women aren't wearing any pants for a split second. So where is all of this going? Toward a ring in hell possibly. But, it might just be one of those things we think is funny and stupid and i'm kind of content with that.
Employee835: That’s just it, they are fucking with only a few people. I certainly find it born of pure dipshittery, but it’s not my call to tell people to cinch it.
I'm also glad you mentioned prison style. Here is a video of a prisoner warning kids NOT TO SAG. In the first few minutes, he clearly states, "You know what they do to people who sag in jail? They stick they fingers down they butt."
So if saggin' is about bringing the prison to the streets, then it's for those who don't see the need to run, jump, or walk, but could use a random, unsolicited ano/rectal exam once in a while. All the guy is saying is that saggin’ is dumb and it tells others that you may already be someone’s bitch, but he moves on to bigger issues.
The Video
Do you think that the peeps on the streets have severely misinterpreted the meaning of the sag?
Foreverever: Yhea, I think this sag thing like most of our fads and cultural inconsistencies was totally taken out of proportion and then you have the norm kind of freaking out about it. Kids are always going to be trying to one up each other. At first it was just wearing them low so you're butt crack hung out. Then so your butt, hung out, and i guess now they're around your knees. So whatever, if you're doing it to draw attention to yourself then you've succeeded and maybe that's what saggin' is all about.
In jail "saggin" as a way of saying your available and on the streets as a way of saying i'm here, my butt is hanging out, and i'm walking really slow?
Employee835: My original question was this, 25 years ago, it was obvious to many kids that it was dumb, but we went with it, and for a time, some of us got on board with the House Music and the Rave wear, but ultimately a number of us went back to form fitting clothing. I'm just wondering why it is only now that cities like Dallas are making anything about it, and why it matters so much.
In the NPR article, the Mayor says: "The No. 1 mission is very simple: pulling up your pants. That's all we want, we don't want to throw folks in jail because they wear their pants low. So we're going to make it man's law and not city law."
It feels like WE ARE AT A CRISIS. WE HAVE TO LEGISLATE. WE HAVE TO STOP IT. Someone is going to sit their naked ass on a Bus!
Foreverever: I think what's happening in Dallas is that the Mayor and town council people or whoever are stupid. Like really, 1000's of kids are going around like this causing havoc? Traffic comes to a halt, people jumping out of windows, rap songs and billboards need to be utilized to make dudes pull their pants up? They need to worry about teen pregnancy, guns, and hardcore drug use. WTF? This is exactly what's happening in our country at a national and local level. Picking something stupid to worry about. Just let kids do what they do and you know they'll grow out of it or trip and fall in front of some girl they like and then pull their pants up. It takes a while for style trends to reach the Midwest and south. They're about 10 years behind the times when it comes to style. Dallas is going at it the wrong way. When you make something an issue it totally makes it gain more attention. And then more people will be pulling their pants down. If they made all the cops sag their pants for a month I bet all those kids will pull their pants up and start getting Gumby cuts.
It just comes funneling down from the stupid government. People have always been doing stupid shit and then other people have to worry about them and make it a huge deal. Where are our freedoms to sag and look stupid? Next they'll be kicking bikes off the road in LA based on "man's law" I really like that. "man's law" could you be anymore sexiest and hypocritical?. . .ha ah aha ha ha ha. .. Next time you see me I'll be saggin.
*****
And we’ll close with this word from Notthead.
We could go on, but we are going to leave the last word to you.
Thank you for checking in with us, and whether up or down, keep your pants clean for work, you wouldn’t want them to think you weren’t serious about your office job.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Why is the Indian Still Crying?
"And in honor of Bobbi Klein, we will now have the Bobbi Klein Memorial Recycling Program," proudly proclaimed the Owner of the company.
I don't make this shit up, my imagination does not stretch as far as reality.
Bobbi Klein was a coworker who crept slowly into her untimely death. I knew the following things about her:
She loved her Nat Sherman MCDs. She set up a wicker chair outside in a little nook by the transformers where she and others took turns for private, uninterrupted smoke time. As the others, she extinguished her life support butts into the decades old gallon can of Folgers, filled with ancient, water-logged butts of varying brands.
She drove an early nineties Ford Probe bearing a personalized license plate that indicated to any 12-stepper that she was in at least one program. EZDUZIT. Don’t get it? Good.
She loved to shop. Loved collecting shit. Couldn’t control it.
Her desk was positioned in a corner, but it felt and sounded like it was in the center of the room.
She spoke many languages LOUDLY over the phone. This made everyone laugh and ponder such worldliness.
She was lovely and hilarious, and an extremely talented actress in her time.
Her poodle was her world.
And she recycled.
As if her life weren’t busy enough, she took it upon herself to recycle as much as she could of the white paper trash our office generated. She set up a large, blue, wheelie bin in the hall for such a purpose, in addition to supplying the office with the smaller blue recycling bins that fit neatly under desks. At the end of each week, she would take her tired ass around the office to gather up the waste paper, she’d wheel out the big bin and load her car with our trash, then take it home, cram it all in her own recycling bins, and you know the drill.
This was her deal.
When she left the office on disability, the big blue wheelie bin disappeared, the recycling ended, and we began the practice of hanging dolphin carcasses from six pack rings, along the hallways and in every office, as well as in the break room. We started using polar bear paws as ashtrays, we’d have water balloon wars using balloons filled with antifreeze, and my favorite, skeet shooting using actual pigeons.
I don’t know much of her life after she left the office. I don’t know if anyone told her that we all got busy reenacting our own living version of the Garden of Earthly Delights. She rested, sold the bulk of her things, and in a space of time much longer than what her doctor predicted, she deteriorated and died.
A few months ago, the owner, a good friend of Bobbi’s gathered all of the employees to make the sad announcement of her passing. He told us with head hung low. And in honor of her life, we are now recycling.
*****
Dawn, Sam, and another former Dolphin Hunter yelled at me and berated me when they caught me casually throwing away paper, lots of paper into a regular black trash can.
"Is that how you are? What the hell are you doing? We recycle here!" Barked one or more of the good witches, I can't remember, their horrified faces all blended together as one swirling hallucination. I wasn't in the mood for a fight, so I plucked my volumes of paper from my trash can, coffee drips included, and recycled just like a good earth lover.
I have not ever followed the new recycling program rules. When no one is looking, I continue to use the blue bins as if they were trash cans, and the trash cans as if they were blue bins.
I don't hate the earth and the children of the future, I love penguins and dragonflies. Just hear me out.
So when Sam and Dawn chided me again last week for throwing my ding dong leftovers in the blue recycling bin, I told them to talk to Jerry.
Sam came back barely able to breathe, laughing so hard that he could not tell the story without an inhaler.
"Jerry just told me that he dumps all of the recycling in the DUMPSTER! He was told to do that until they signed us up for an actual recycling program! And they haven't done a thing about it since we started. The Bobbi Klein Memorial Recycling Program is the same as trash."
No shit. You should team up with M. Knight Shymalan to create his next plot twist.
We have three windows that I peer out of all day, dreaming of my time in Eden, before all of this pesky knowledge broke out and we all realized that we were NAKED and therefore we'd have to work to cover our stinky parts with designer jeans and handsome coats from the Banana Republic Heritage Collection. On one such peer-out, I saw Jerry hoist the contents of the big blue wheelie bin over his shoulder and into the dumpster. I did not gasp and puke at the big reveal a la the Crying Game, I just rolled my eyes and blessed the dead.
And that's why the Indian is still crying.
I don't make this shit up, my imagination does not stretch as far as reality.
Bobbi Klein was a coworker who crept slowly into her untimely death. I knew the following things about her:
She loved her Nat Sherman MCDs. She set up a wicker chair outside in a little nook by the transformers where she and others took turns for private, uninterrupted smoke time. As the others, she extinguished her life support butts into the decades old gallon can of Folgers, filled with ancient, water-logged butts of varying brands.
She drove an early nineties Ford Probe bearing a personalized license plate that indicated to any 12-stepper that she was in at least one program. EZDUZIT. Don’t get it? Good.
She loved to shop. Loved collecting shit. Couldn’t control it.
Her desk was positioned in a corner, but it felt and sounded like it was in the center of the room.
She spoke many languages LOUDLY over the phone. This made everyone laugh and ponder such worldliness.
She was lovely and hilarious, and an extremely talented actress in her time.
Her poodle was her world.
And she recycled.
As if her life weren’t busy enough, she took it upon herself to recycle as much as she could of the white paper trash our office generated. She set up a large, blue, wheelie bin in the hall for such a purpose, in addition to supplying the office with the smaller blue recycling bins that fit neatly under desks. At the end of each week, she would take her tired ass around the office to gather up the waste paper, she’d wheel out the big bin and load her car with our trash, then take it home, cram it all in her own recycling bins, and you know the drill.
This was her deal.
When she left the office on disability, the big blue wheelie bin disappeared, the recycling ended, and we began the practice of hanging dolphin carcasses from six pack rings, along the hallways and in every office, as well as in the break room. We started using polar bear paws as ashtrays, we’d have water balloon wars using balloons filled with antifreeze, and my favorite, skeet shooting using actual pigeons.
I don’t know much of her life after she left the office. I don’t know if anyone told her that we all got busy reenacting our own living version of the Garden of Earthly Delights. She rested, sold the bulk of her things, and in a space of time much longer than what her doctor predicted, she deteriorated and died.
A few months ago, the owner, a good friend of Bobbi’s gathered all of the employees to make the sad announcement of her passing. He told us with head hung low. And in honor of her life, we are now recycling.
*****
Dawn, Sam, and another former Dolphin Hunter yelled at me and berated me when they caught me casually throwing away paper, lots of paper into a regular black trash can.
"Is that how you are? What the hell are you doing? We recycle here!" Barked one or more of the good witches, I can't remember, their horrified faces all blended together as one swirling hallucination. I wasn't in the mood for a fight, so I plucked my volumes of paper from my trash can, coffee drips included, and recycled just like a good earth lover.
I have not ever followed the new recycling program rules. When no one is looking, I continue to use the blue bins as if they were trash cans, and the trash cans as if they were blue bins.
I don't hate the earth and the children of the future, I love penguins and dragonflies. Just hear me out.
So when Sam and Dawn chided me again last week for throwing my ding dong leftovers in the blue recycling bin, I told them to talk to Jerry.
Sam came back barely able to breathe, laughing so hard that he could not tell the story without an inhaler.
"Jerry just told me that he dumps all of the recycling in the DUMPSTER! He was told to do that until they signed us up for an actual recycling program! And they haven't done a thing about it since we started. The Bobbi Klein Memorial Recycling Program is the same as trash."
No shit. You should team up with M. Knight Shymalan to create his next plot twist.
We have three windows that I peer out of all day, dreaming of my time in Eden, before all of this pesky knowledge broke out and we all realized that we were NAKED and therefore we'd have to work to cover our stinky parts with designer jeans and handsome coats from the Banana Republic Heritage Collection. On one such peer-out, I saw Jerry hoist the contents of the big blue wheelie bin over his shoulder and into the dumpster. I did not gasp and puke at the big reveal a la the Crying Game, I just rolled my eyes and blessed the dead.
And that's why the Indian is still crying.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Another Day, Another Receptionist
It’s not as bad as Murphy Brown, but we just can’t keep a receptionist and we all know why – the receptionist is located perfectly at the intersection of countless, incessant, sundry Douche Bag vectors. When I say we, I mean those of us who stand detached, on the sidelines watching men clubbing seals.
Can’t do a thing about it from our Alanon boat. We're just here keeping our side clean.
They all pretty much start out the same - optimistic, eager, wide eyed, on-time. The phone list seems like a type of Schindler's List. They page people with a question mark.
Stanley? You have a call on 103?
After a while they get teeth, and the more toothy ones page like you just roofied their child, the Math Whiz. Some page with flirtation. The guy who elevated it to an art form made the men feel extremely uncomfortable. Terry (you naughty boy), you have a call (implied giggle) on 102 (end with a silent, but heavy smirk). Each has had their own special style and flair. No one can do phones like the receptionist.
Each is a natural born listener and entertainer. That's the person's job. They are anchored to a desk, prone to any wandering, bored, stir crazy asshole who is tired of YouTube and just needs another human to pretend to care.
Receptionists provide us with mental CPR, but they don't necessarily like being the company shrink.
And as such, they hold your endless stories about your kid, your prosthetic butthole, your dumb spaniel, your drunken boyfriend, your ex-wife, your doctor's office, your insurance company and all the bullshit you are going through, they know which of your balls is fake and which is real, they know which of your kids is a crack head, and which one is dating the coach. If you can create drama, the receptionist receives it. The receptionist knows a lot about a lot so you better be careful.
At my company, we are careless. We can't keep them. I don't need to tell you why. I'd rather have you imagine a herd of moose trying to open a bottle of Corona, it's a better image than the amazing feats of micromanagement and inconsistency that I witness at the front desk. Many many years ago when I was new to my post, the outgoing receptionist took me aside, made a grave face - you've seen this face, it's ghastly, it warns the Indiana Jones guy not to proceed or he'll get his head chopped off. She gave me this face and said, "You better be careful, they're going to FUCK you." It's not yet my turn, and I see she was right.
No one has been kind enough to warn our new person. Some of us already have a small wager going that in 7 months, we are going to get the email that ends in: and we wish her well in her new endeavors.
For now though, I wish her well in her current endeavors.
Can’t do a thing about it from our Alanon boat. We're just here keeping our side clean.
They all pretty much start out the same - optimistic, eager, wide eyed, on-time. The phone list seems like a type of Schindler's List. They page people with a question mark.
Stanley? You have a call on 103?
After a while they get teeth, and the more toothy ones page like you just roofied their child, the Math Whiz. Some page with flirtation. The guy who elevated it to an art form made the men feel extremely uncomfortable. Terry (you naughty boy), you have a call (implied giggle) on 102 (end with a silent, but heavy smirk). Each has had their own special style and flair. No one can do phones like the receptionist.
Each is a natural born listener and entertainer. That's the person's job. They are anchored to a desk, prone to any wandering, bored, stir crazy asshole who is tired of YouTube and just needs another human to pretend to care.
Receptionists provide us with mental CPR, but they don't necessarily like being the company shrink.
And as such, they hold your endless stories about your kid, your prosthetic butthole, your dumb spaniel, your drunken boyfriend, your ex-wife, your doctor's office, your insurance company and all the bullshit you are going through, they know which of your balls is fake and which is real, they know which of your kids is a crack head, and which one is dating the coach. If you can create drama, the receptionist receives it. The receptionist knows a lot about a lot so you better be careful.
At my company, we are careless. We can't keep them. I don't need to tell you why. I'd rather have you imagine a herd of moose trying to open a bottle of Corona, it's a better image than the amazing feats of micromanagement and inconsistency that I witness at the front desk. Many many years ago when I was new to my post, the outgoing receptionist took me aside, made a grave face - you've seen this face, it's ghastly, it warns the Indiana Jones guy not to proceed or he'll get his head chopped off. She gave me this face and said, "You better be careful, they're going to FUCK you." It's not yet my turn, and I see she was right.
No one has been kind enough to warn our new person. Some of us already have a small wager going that in 7 months, we are going to get the email that ends in: and we wish her well in her new endeavors.
For now though, I wish her well in her current endeavors.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Drum Roll? Puh-lease.
Crispin B commented on our post, BIO CUBICLES, reporting on the phenomenon in her office, of the unconscious drum roll in passing, executed mainly by men.
This is not an isolated incident.
In the old office, my desk was positioned in such a way to indicate GATE KEEPER, PEOPLE TRACKER, and TREE OF KNOWLEDGE. The main thing that would happen is that someone would burst into my space looking rather dazed and windblown, one hand still hanging onto the door jamb, as if they were resisting being sucked into the Poltergeist Doorway of Evil Light, and that person would ask very urgently, “Where’s Jerry?”
I’m busy watching auctions, I don’t know where Jerry is. Are you new here? It’s not my job to keep track of Jerry. Jerry gets up from his desk to oversee, manage, trouble shoot, meet with clients, talk to vendors, piss, get coffee, talk privately on his cell phone about 328 times in any given day. I gots no clue. Come back later, use the phone, page the guy, leave a post-it, do whatever it takes to get in touch, but don’t have me relay the message, and above all else, don’t let the tree swallow you whole. Get out of here Carol Anne.
I wrote this to indicate to you that, even if I don’t know where the fuck Jerry is, I notice a great deal of everything, even when I don’t want to. Included in that is the walking drum roll in its various forms.
The one I found infinitely fascinating was drum solo walk by, courtesy of this dude Mike F. This was his routine: Knuckle drum roll with right hand on the open door when entering, one step, two step, reach out with left hand, fingertip paradiddle on black free standing two drawer hanging file cabinet. On a particularly punchy day, he might do a two-finger flam as an added bonus, atop Carrie’s cubicle, but only when in a really good mood though. And then finally, a triplet on his desk.
Another person does a Joe Morello drum solo on the same handrail, using what sounds to me like a Pilot V-ball roller ball pen. How do I know? The tapping goes plastic plastic metal.
I don’t drum, I prefer my right hand as Land Speeder, skating along the handrail in the main hall, complete with whooshing sound.
I have not yet seen a woman do a walking drum solo.
It’s not clear to me why the gender divide. Is it that men are more in touch with their inner ape?
Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve never seen a woman air drum by herself or make the accompanying noises. Do you guys like drums? Or is it a more internal moon rhythm that you guys groove on? On a similar note, I also don’t think I have ever seen a woman do a machine gun or helicopter or a really big blast, but now I’m digressing.
You tell me. I’d love to hear your reports of walking drum rolls, tap tap tapping, knocking, humming, blasting, what have you.
This is not an isolated incident.
In the old office, my desk was positioned in such a way to indicate GATE KEEPER, PEOPLE TRACKER, and TREE OF KNOWLEDGE. The main thing that would happen is that someone would burst into my space looking rather dazed and windblown, one hand still hanging onto the door jamb, as if they were resisting being sucked into the Poltergeist Doorway of Evil Light, and that person would ask very urgently, “Where’s Jerry?”
I’m busy watching auctions, I don’t know where Jerry is. Are you new here? It’s not my job to keep track of Jerry. Jerry gets up from his desk to oversee, manage, trouble shoot, meet with clients, talk to vendors, piss, get coffee, talk privately on his cell phone about 328 times in any given day. I gots no clue. Come back later, use the phone, page the guy, leave a post-it, do whatever it takes to get in touch, but don’t have me relay the message, and above all else, don’t let the tree swallow you whole. Get out of here Carol Anne.
I wrote this to indicate to you that, even if I don’t know where the fuck Jerry is, I notice a great deal of everything, even when I don’t want to. Included in that is the walking drum roll in its various forms.
The one I found infinitely fascinating was drum solo walk by, courtesy of this dude Mike F. This was his routine: Knuckle drum roll with right hand on the open door when entering, one step, two step, reach out with left hand, fingertip paradiddle on black free standing two drawer hanging file cabinet. On a particularly punchy day, he might do a two-finger flam as an added bonus, atop Carrie’s cubicle, but only when in a really good mood though. And then finally, a triplet on his desk.
Another person does a Joe Morello drum solo on the same handrail, using what sounds to me like a Pilot V-ball roller ball pen. How do I know? The tapping goes plastic plastic metal.
I don’t drum, I prefer my right hand as Land Speeder, skating along the handrail in the main hall, complete with whooshing sound.
I have not yet seen a woman do a walking drum solo.
It’s not clear to me why the gender divide. Is it that men are more in touch with their inner ape?
Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve never seen a woman air drum by herself or make the accompanying noises. Do you guys like drums? Or is it a more internal moon rhythm that you guys groove on? On a similar note, I also don’t think I have ever seen a woman do a machine gun or helicopter or a really big blast, but now I’m digressing.
You tell me. I’d love to hear your reports of walking drum rolls, tap tap tapping, knocking, humming, blasting, what have you.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Clear as Douche, Part Twat
The going away party was sadly anemic because members of the Douchebag Alliance who, earlier in the week, were among the most enthusiastic about the event were conspicuously busy doing other things at lunch, like going to lunch with other people at other places with or without buffets.
We heard the fired person's side of the story, and to be honest, I'm not sure what to believe, but the story did leave the few party goers feeling rather cross at THE MAN, and all things THE MAN. No one mentioned members of the Alliance, but I did notice that all of the party goers had passed my preliminary Douchebag Detection Test that I had administered in secret, from afar, using historical data of their individual behavior. In other words, yesterday, I made a quick list of Douche or Not Douche and all of the people at the party fell squarely into the Not Douche section, despite my other hang ups about them. This was comforting.
I feel that it's only fair that I should acknowledge that I have behaved as a Douchebag at times, but I certainly do not have a laminated Douchebag Alliance membership card with stars and feces smeared all over it. So my Douchebag Detection Test may not be the most reliable in the industry, but I try my best to keep it all above board. That's what you do when you are a lost soul, just trying to make your way, earning your living, as part of the machine. I'm far from righteous - I show up late, I file reports to this blog when I should be making money for the company, I roll my eyes during company meetings, and, AND, I'm on ebay a lot. I don't buy anything, I just browse. And with all this in mind, I don't carry the card.
*****
At the end of the day, my group was informed by the Uber Uberboss, that the company was forced to let someone else go for uncorrected, chronic, underperformance and poor attendance, despite the company's efforts to assist the person in righting himself. Another sad cloud cruised in, although this one seems to have little to do with the Douchebag Alliance, and more to do with a single person probably just feeling numb and fed up, but showing up anyway for lack of better imagination. I know. I am this person.
This numb person, a long time ago, was my supervisor, and when I was new and heartbreakingly inexperienced, he took the time to help me cultivate some semblance of skills as well as confidence in myself. As the years turned, I surpassed him in some ways, and I found myself managing him from time to time. There were times when I felt frustrated with him, but I could never ever forget what he had done for me. For the last two years, I noticed him surrender gradually to a place of quiet, isolated, mental quicksand. (note: I've never seen quicksand myself, just heard fantastic stories about it, the first of which was featured on Scooby Doo. In case you need to, here is how to get out of it. Be safe.) He had become more and more numb and resigned, stuck, tired and wilted from whatever the fuck was going on inside his secret life, at his work station, in his heart, in his love of toys, but I never thought he'd let himself go so far that suspensions and interventions couldn't free him, or at least jar him into wakefulness.
I feel for these people, they are my friends and I have come to rely on them in the face of all of their shortcomings and personal difficulties. The person for whom we threw the party became overwhelmed with emotion as we all shuffled out of the restaurant. I know that that person will be a great deal happier in the new work place. For the numb person, I am sending my best. We've had many good times douching around together, and I will miss them both.
We heard the fired person's side of the story, and to be honest, I'm not sure what to believe, but the story did leave the few party goers feeling rather cross at THE MAN, and all things THE MAN. No one mentioned members of the Alliance, but I did notice that all of the party goers had passed my preliminary Douchebag Detection Test that I had administered in secret, from afar, using historical data of their individual behavior. In other words, yesterday, I made a quick list of Douche or Not Douche and all of the people at the party fell squarely into the Not Douche section, despite my other hang ups about them. This was comforting.
I feel that it's only fair that I should acknowledge that I have behaved as a Douchebag at times, but I certainly do not have a laminated Douchebag Alliance membership card with stars and feces smeared all over it. So my Douchebag Detection Test may not be the most reliable in the industry, but I try my best to keep it all above board. That's what you do when you are a lost soul, just trying to make your way, earning your living, as part of the machine. I'm far from righteous - I show up late, I file reports to this blog when I should be making money for the company, I roll my eyes during company meetings, and, AND, I'm on ebay a lot. I don't buy anything, I just browse. And with all this in mind, I don't carry the card.
*****
At the end of the day, my group was informed by the Uber Uberboss, that the company was forced to let someone else go for uncorrected, chronic, underperformance and poor attendance, despite the company's efforts to assist the person in righting himself. Another sad cloud cruised in, although this one seems to have little to do with the Douchebag Alliance, and more to do with a single person probably just feeling numb and fed up, but showing up anyway for lack of better imagination. I know. I am this person.
This numb person, a long time ago, was my supervisor, and when I was new and heartbreakingly inexperienced, he took the time to help me cultivate some semblance of skills as well as confidence in myself. As the years turned, I surpassed him in some ways, and I found myself managing him from time to time. There were times when I felt frustrated with him, but I could never ever forget what he had done for me. For the last two years, I noticed him surrender gradually to a place of quiet, isolated, mental quicksand. (note: I've never seen quicksand myself, just heard fantastic stories about it, the first of which was featured on Scooby Doo. In case you need to, here is how to get out of it. Be safe.) He had become more and more numb and resigned, stuck, tired and wilted from whatever the fuck was going on inside his secret life, at his work station, in his heart, in his love of toys, but I never thought he'd let himself go so far that suspensions and interventions couldn't free him, or at least jar him into wakefulness.
I feel for these people, they are my friends and I have come to rely on them in the face of all of their shortcomings and personal difficulties. The person for whom we threw the party became overwhelmed with emotion as we all shuffled out of the restaurant. I know that that person will be a great deal happier in the new work place. For the numb person, I am sending my best. We've had many good times douching around together, and I will miss them both.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Clear as Douche
First, sorry to the Doucheblog. I'm not trying to co-opt your theme. Douchebags just happen to be the main participants in my day as well.
*****
In a moment of shocking clarity, I saw something today that I had been ignoring since 2003. There is a strong and very united Douchebag Alliance operating inside of this company, some of whom are my own friends.
It’s the same kind of conspiracy clarity that Tom Cruise seems to be prone to in his movies. You know how it goes, a brotha is just minding his own, and next thing he knows, he realizes that all of his seemingly righteous efforts toward equity and fairness have been slowly and gradually accumulated to work against him. Haha noble guy, you’ve been punk’d.
The main difference in my situation is that I'm hardly noble, more Ferris Bueller as Dawn pointed out today.
I have zero evidence to support my assertions, just a certain sixth sense that flashed when one of the suspect douchebags walked by and caught my gaze. I saw the circuitry under his skin for just a few milliseconds. This D-Bag, by the way, has been fired before for a major violation of the rules, and has been, and is currently at the heart of many glaring conflicts of interest. This person, and another person in another capacity, make up a DoucheBag all star team that can do no wrong. These people meet regularly in closed-door sessions and leave them looking unnaturally self-satisfied, more so than any mutual masturbation session can do.
And of course the alliance has support staff. I see them and I seethe.
Here is what is confusing to me – what is their mission?
A quick note - I have often relegated these thoughts to your good old, basic paranoia, but lately I’ve seen bullshit that can only be the work of a determined gang of assholes working to strike fear in all of the employees’ hearts.
And that may be their mission. I’ve been such a chump. I have more research to do, or I might just ignore it altogether as I have been attempting for so long.
More to come. I’m sure.
*****
This is the email combo that I received shortly after the clarity.
Re: New [Employee]
In anticipation of our new [employee] starting Monday, effective immediately [the old person] is no longer working for [the Company].
We wish [it the] best on [it’s] new endeavor.
If you have any questions, please see [Poo-head].
Thank you,
[Poo-head]
Followed by:
Re: I am gone
Hello all,
By now or maybe not you will learn that they got rid of me today. I am truly hurt.....NOT!!!! I didn't expect anything less. I will be at [the Restaurant where the going away party is planned] tomorrow still. I will miss all of you and wish you all the best.
Keep in contact. My number is XXX-XXX-XXXX.
See ya.....off to the mall!!!!!!!!!
[the Old Person]
*****
I know nothing of this situation, just smells like the Alliance.
*****
In a moment of shocking clarity, I saw something today that I had been ignoring since 2003. There is a strong and very united Douchebag Alliance operating inside of this company, some of whom are my own friends.
It’s the same kind of conspiracy clarity that Tom Cruise seems to be prone to in his movies. You know how it goes, a brotha is just minding his own, and next thing he knows, he realizes that all of his seemingly righteous efforts toward equity and fairness have been slowly and gradually accumulated to work against him. Haha noble guy, you’ve been punk’d.
The main difference in my situation is that I'm hardly noble, more Ferris Bueller as Dawn pointed out today.
I have zero evidence to support my assertions, just a certain sixth sense that flashed when one of the suspect douchebags walked by and caught my gaze. I saw the circuitry under his skin for just a few milliseconds. This D-Bag, by the way, has been fired before for a major violation of the rules, and has been, and is currently at the heart of many glaring conflicts of interest. This person, and another person in another capacity, make up a DoucheBag all star team that can do no wrong. These people meet regularly in closed-door sessions and leave them looking unnaturally self-satisfied, more so than any mutual masturbation session can do.
And of course the alliance has support staff. I see them and I seethe.
Here is what is confusing to me – what is their mission?
A quick note - I have often relegated these thoughts to your good old, basic paranoia, but lately I’ve seen bullshit that can only be the work of a determined gang of assholes working to strike fear in all of the employees’ hearts.
And that may be their mission. I’ve been such a chump. I have more research to do, or I might just ignore it altogether as I have been attempting for so long.
More to come. I’m sure.
*****
This is the email combo that I received shortly after the clarity.
Re: New [Employee]
In anticipation of our new [employee] starting Monday, effective immediately [the old person] is no longer working for [the Company].
We wish [it the] best on [it’s] new endeavor.
If you have any questions, please see [Poo-head].
Thank you,
[Poo-head]
Followed by:
Re: I am gone
Hello all,
By now or maybe not you will learn that they got rid of me today. I am truly hurt.....NOT!!!! I didn't expect anything less. I will be at [the Restaurant where the going away party is planned] tomorrow still. I will miss all of you and wish you all the best.
Keep in contact. My number is XXX-XXX-XXXX.
See ya.....off to the mall!!!!!!!!!
[the Old Person]
*****
I know nothing of this situation, just smells like the Alliance.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Co-worker Annoyance Substance Abuse Interaction: Part 1
So it’s Friday afternoon. Bored at work and I was thinking today about an interesting office occurrence. This phenomenon I can only described as Co-worker Annoyance Substance Abuse Interaction or C.A.S.A.I. This is the first installment in these co-worker descriptions.
Coffee + Sugar = Insanity
This is by far is the most common and deadly C.A.S.A.I. It is what happens when a coworker consumes 3 Starbuck grande mocha pumpkin frappachinos, with 3 Stevita sweeteners each, and touch of half and half along with 2 blueberry muffins, a package of Twix, and a handful of mini-dove bars or any other combination of caffeine based substances with sugar based substances.
They are instantly transported to this other level of human reasoning where they can’t keep from getting up and walking around the office constantly. When they return to their cubicle they always bump into something because, they’re so wired and giddy. You hear the familiar whinny ouchhhhhhhhh, snickering and strange kind of muffled grunting sounds that occur after they’ve hit their knee on their desk and you know that it’s totally started and you have no way of escaping the onslaught. As they sink themselves into their chair you can begin to hear the rustling of pens, paper, computer keyboard, mouse pad, stapler, food wrappers, phone being turned on speaker phone, etc., as they commence to rearrange their desk over and over again for the next 15 minutes you know now would be a good time if you were a smoker to go outside and puff. Also during this time impromptu singing and humming usually takes place. The worst thing that can happen at this moment is that either the phone rings or somebody comes by to talk to them.
What happens next can only be described as what it looks like when a 16 year old is in drama class acting out a skit on drug abuse for a school drug awareness program and they’re trying to dramatize the affects of speed, cocaine, and pot all at the same time. The ironic thing is that the 16 year old is actually high and that in their over acting they begin to over act even more so, due to the effects of the bong hit they had in their parents mini-van before school started. They start being aware of their drug use and they will name what drugs they are on (sugar/caffeine) and then quickly deny it and say they were joking. They also for some reason will begin to have an English or Australian accent and start using words for no apparent reason such as instead of saying, “okay, sounds good.” They’ll say, “Yes Madame, thank you missy miss, righty-O, that’s marvelous, want some chocolate, just kidding it's 8:20am. . .haa ha ha ha ha ha ha haha*.”
*actual ha haha hahaha ha haha ha ha ha is said, not laughter. . .
Coffee + Sugar = Insanity
This is by far is the most common and deadly C.A.S.A.I. It is what happens when a coworker consumes 3 Starbuck grande mocha pumpkin frappachinos, with 3 Stevita sweeteners each, and touch of half and half along with 2 blueberry muffins, a package of Twix, and a handful of mini-dove bars or any other combination of caffeine based substances with sugar based substances.
They are instantly transported to this other level of human reasoning where they can’t keep from getting up and walking around the office constantly. When they return to their cubicle they always bump into something because, they’re so wired and giddy. You hear the familiar whinny ouchhhhhhhhh, snickering and strange kind of muffled grunting sounds that occur after they’ve hit their knee on their desk and you know that it’s totally started and you have no way of escaping the onslaught. As they sink themselves into their chair you can begin to hear the rustling of pens, paper, computer keyboard, mouse pad, stapler, food wrappers, phone being turned on speaker phone, etc., as they commence to rearrange their desk over and over again for the next 15 minutes you know now would be a good time if you were a smoker to go outside and puff. Also during this time impromptu singing and humming usually takes place. The worst thing that can happen at this moment is that either the phone rings or somebody comes by to talk to them.
What happens next can only be described as what it looks like when a 16 year old is in drama class acting out a skit on drug abuse for a school drug awareness program and they’re trying to dramatize the affects of speed, cocaine, and pot all at the same time. The ironic thing is that the 16 year old is actually high and that in their over acting they begin to over act even more so, due to the effects of the bong hit they had in their parents mini-van before school started. They start being aware of their drug use and they will name what drugs they are on (sugar/caffeine) and then quickly deny it and say they were joking. They also for some reason will begin to have an English or Australian accent and start using words for no apparent reason such as instead of saying, “okay, sounds good.” They’ll say, “Yes Madame, thank you missy miss, righty-O, that’s marvelous, want some chocolate, just kidding it's 8:20am. . .haa ha ha ha ha ha ha haha*.”
*actual ha haha hahaha ha haha ha ha ha is said, not laughter. . .
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