For those of you who don’t already know, Mr. Shankly is a character featured in the Smiths song, Frankly Mr. Shankly. It’s about a person who feels trapped in his job - a job that pays the bills, that may have offered some kind of fulfillment and relief at some point – and this person now feels this burning desire to be his fabulous self, rather than continuing to work for Mr. Shankly.
These are the lyrics:
Frankly, Mr. Shankly, this position I've held
It pays my way, and it corrodes my soul
I want to leave, you will not miss me
I want to go down in musical history
Frankly, Mr. Shankly, I'm a sickening wreck
I've got the 21st century breathing down my neck
I must move fast, you understand me
I want to go down in celluloid history, Mr. Shankly
Fame, Fame, fatal Fame
It can play hideous tricks on the brain
But still I'd rather be Famous
Than righteous or holy, any day
Any day, any day
But sometimes I'd feel more fulfilled
Making Christmas cards with the mentally ill
I want to live and I want to Love
I want to catch something that I might be ashamed of
Frankly, Mr. Shankly, this position I've held
It pays my way and it corrodes my soul
Oh, I didn't realise that you wrote poetry
I didn't realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry, Mr. Shankly
Frankly, Mr. Shankly, since you ask
You are a flatulent pain in the arse
I do not mean to be so rude
Still, I must speak frankly, Mr. Shankly
Oh, give us your money !
*****
A few of us here in the workplace have assigned this, and other monikers to the owner of the company.
He is my Mr. Shankly.
He is a pain in the ass. I enjoy mocking him. I enjoy taunting him. He’s also a big kid, just like me.
*****
During the holiday break, a new hot project came in, one that needs to be done in record time, as directed by Mr. Shankly. On the day we returned, I was busy contributing to the project, under pressure to submit something to the client. Mr. Shankly stopped me while on my way to complete an urgent task related to the project, he still grinning from a YouTube video that he had just shown my supervisor and everyone in our team.
Mr. Shankly: Hey, wasn’t that YouTube thing funny?
Employee835: It was funny because it was so well executed.
Mr. Shankly: Have you seen the Britney one?
Employee835: Not sure I know it.
Mr. Shankly: It’s this guy acting like a woman, he’s, well you’ll see. Let’s check it out in my office.
Employee835: Wellll, I’d like to, but I need to submit this, remember? Your thing?
Mr. Shankly: Oh yeah. Aww come on, it’ll be only for a second.
We go to his office and I’m pouring over the numbers for the project, pulled up in a chair next to him while he fruitlessly searches YouTube
Mr. Shankly: We are about to get into a lot of trouble.
Employee835: HR?
Mr. Shankly: Big TIME, if I can find it.
His trusted assistant, Friday walks in, stands at the doorway.
Friday: Mr.Shankly, they’re all ready in the conference room.
Mr. Shankly: I’ll be right there. Where is it? I can’t remember the name of the video, it’s funny as hell.
Friday: Mr. Shankly, James is in the conference room with Robert. They’re ready.
Mr. Shankly: Yeah yeah, I’ll be right there.
Employee835: Shankly! Time to go. There’s a money making opportunity in the conference room, what the fuck are you doing on YouTube?
Mr. Shankly: I know I know, I just need to show you this HILARIOUS video.
Employee835: You need to go. Why don’t you call me when you find it after the meeting?
Mr. Shankly: It’s right here, I just can’t find it.
Employee835: Shankly, I gotta go.
Mr. Shankly: [Calling over shoulder] I’ll call you when I find it.
Friday shakes head and leaves.
He found the video toward the end of the day and played it on full volume. It was that guy, Chris Crocker with a bedsheet as background crying and screaming to the world to leave Britney alone. You know the one. We’ve all seen it.
And he was bitterly disappointed that I had already seen it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHmvkRoEowc
*****
Five years ago, I started working at this company in another capacity, laboring on the shop floor. My interactions with Mr. Shankly were at best, annoying. A few months later, under the recommendation of his partner, I was promoted to a much better position and have grown within the company in ways I could never have imagined during my first months here. My paycheck has also swelled to reflect my growth.
In the fall of 2003, I introduced my supervisor to the Meyers Briggs personality test, which he loved. His enthusiasm swept the office as he insisted that everyone take it. As more people read their own results, naturally, we compared notes on our profiles, seeking and bonding with those with our own. A number of people had an INTJ party, some ENTPs wove friendship bracelets on the spot. I had no match.
My supervisor insisted of course that Mr. Shankly take the test. Right as he pondered, “I wonder what poor bastard has Mr. Shankly’s profile,” Mr. Shankly came running down the hall to our team, screaming, “ENFP! Who has ENFP?” They doubled over as if hyenas were licking their asses, laughing so fucking heartily, all pointing at me.
I was so dismayed, yet Mr. Shankly and I began comparing notes immediately, and it was as if our two minds were one. We finished each other's sentences with vigor and recognition. He would start off by saying, “Do you ever…”
And I’d cut him off emphatically, “get bogged down by your own efforts toward perfection?”
YES. YESS. MEE TOO. We’d say in unison.
It was startling to the entire staff. And we hugged as old friends separated by lifetimes, alone in the vast sea of personalities.
I remember going home that day thinking it so sadly ironic that the most caustic person in the whole organization, the Boss, also has my personality profile, and that he gets me, and I get him. I’m so lame.
Today, I caught him in passing and I stopped him to have a talk. We stepped into his office and I began by saying, “I’m approaching you because I know that you are the only one in this organization that will understand me when I tell you this. I love it here and I’m so grateful to have this job. It allows me to have so many experiences that I would have never had. But have you ever felt like you’ve hit a plateau and feel so damned bored with your life? I’ve been cruising like this for the last two and a half years.”
His eyes widened in deep identification, he took a deep breath, and said “here, let’s sit.” And we sat as he told me of the many times he’s had such an experience. It was uncanny, I felt uncomfortable, relieved, and understood.
He went on to tell me about certain struggles and achievements and his own existential dread. In our exchange I shared about the gaping hole into which I’ve been throwing people, things, cars, and clothes, and how it persists.
He knew.
And if he knew that I was blogging about all the work shine-ola, he would be so heart broken.
So this is my last blog entry. I’ve come to realize that it’s not really serving me to bitch about the workplace, sarcasm flowing like anal leakage from eating too many fat free potato chips; of all the rampant douchery that goes on here, when in truth, I like where I work, and I love my team mates.
I think I am corroding my own soul.
Mr. Shankly acknowledged that I do my job well, but that I had bigger things on the horizon and suggested that I pursue a number of projects in parallel to my work here until such time as I reach a critical mass and have to make a decision about one or the other. “You should have fun,” he urged, ”no matter what it is.”
It’s possible that I just signed my own walking papers but I have to say, it felt great to talk with Shankly, because he understood me clearly, without any need on my part to elaborate.
I'd like to thank foreverever for his hilarious contributions, posts, and comments, his ability to properly categorize cubicles, employee profiles and the like. I wish we could post our behind the blog emails as they are what made my days here in between all the shit I was putting off in the name of the Blog Father, the Blog Son and the Bloggy Ghost.
And I thank all of you Shankly fans for your generous support, emails, and comments. I will return to the blogosphere to share my incisive notes on other things, at a time TBD. In the meantime, I wish you total enjoyment in whatever you do, and of course, all the free range douchery your heart desires.
Yours truly,
Employee835
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Monday, January 7, 2008
Baby. Whatever.
I’m more than willing to acknowledge that when it comes to certain things, I am a full time asshole who volunteers during the weekends as the lead counselor at dickhead day camp.
This certain thing involves babies and the jerks who love to make them and then share endless photos of them doing poor impressions of sea sponges.
Last week, one member of our team emailed each of us our regular ration of cute photos of his newest daughter. The whole team oooohd and cooed at them, while I found them as cute, as endearing, and as funny as photos of a rock.
I have nothing against babies and all things baby, just keep the photos to a minimum, as I have no viable way of faking my indifference. I’m absolutely sure that my responses and opinions would be different if I had my own child. I’d probably ask when she last pooped, how often they empty out the diaper bin, how often does the older one attempt murder, or if brandy on the gums works, and I’d probably make a joke about how I prefer to smear vodka on my own gums, wacka wacka wacka. And we’d have a perfect mommy and me bonding moment while we tittered about the joys of parenthood over our café au lait. For the moment though, I say go fuck yourselves, all of you, and the SUVs you rode in on.
Why so harsh you ask? Because I feel like it. And actually, I don’t have animosity toward babies or baby havers, just those times when the baby haver’s enthusiasm for his or her own ability to perpetuate the species – an ability that is the principal reason rents are so high - comes in the form of weekly flickr photo streams chronicling in 140 photos, such enthralling events as a child laying in a bed, staring.
I thought we got past last weeks photos, and that I suffered through it without causing too much insult to the sperm donor. This morning, we received the VIDEO version. At last! I’ve been having trouble finding the bootleg version on the internet. So this is great news. Sam was the first to pull it up and the heartiest of chucklers. I know Sam, he is very supportive always, but if I hadn’t known any better, I’d think that he was partially retarded for finding a video of a staring baby, doing the Robocop, on a grey bed sheet, funny. The father watched us watching the video, guiding us through its complex narrative, making sure to point out exactly what was on the funny horizon.
Later I’m going to buy Dawn lunch for being the Guest Bitchy Judge on America's Next Top Baby Model. She looked at the video, looked at the father, inhaled with a wrinkled nose, and barked, “That is a weird baby! That is so weird! She looks like some kind of weird alien baby! Jeeezus, what the hell is up with her?”
Finally, some other reasonable asshole speaks.
This certain thing involves babies and the jerks who love to make them and then share endless photos of them doing poor impressions of sea sponges.
Last week, one member of our team emailed each of us our regular ration of cute photos of his newest daughter. The whole team oooohd and cooed at them, while I found them as cute, as endearing, and as funny as photos of a rock.
I have nothing against babies and all things baby, just keep the photos to a minimum, as I have no viable way of faking my indifference. I’m absolutely sure that my responses and opinions would be different if I had my own child. I’d probably ask when she last pooped, how often they empty out the diaper bin, how often does the older one attempt murder, or if brandy on the gums works, and I’d probably make a joke about how I prefer to smear vodka on my own gums, wacka wacka wacka. And we’d have a perfect mommy and me bonding moment while we tittered about the joys of parenthood over our café au lait. For the moment though, I say go fuck yourselves, all of you, and the SUVs you rode in on.
Why so harsh you ask? Because I feel like it. And actually, I don’t have animosity toward babies or baby havers, just those times when the baby haver’s enthusiasm for his or her own ability to perpetuate the species – an ability that is the principal reason rents are so high - comes in the form of weekly flickr photo streams chronicling in 140 photos, such enthralling events as a child laying in a bed, staring.
I thought we got past last weeks photos, and that I suffered through it without causing too much insult to the sperm donor. This morning, we received the VIDEO version. At last! I’ve been having trouble finding the bootleg version on the internet. So this is great news. Sam was the first to pull it up and the heartiest of chucklers. I know Sam, he is very supportive always, but if I hadn’t known any better, I’d think that he was partially retarded for finding a video of a staring baby, doing the Robocop, on a grey bed sheet, funny. The father watched us watching the video, guiding us through its complex narrative, making sure to point out exactly what was on the funny horizon.
Later I’m going to buy Dawn lunch for being the Guest Bitchy Judge on America's Next Top Baby Model. She looked at the video, looked at the father, inhaled with a wrinkled nose, and barked, “That is a weird baby! That is so weird! She looks like some kind of weird alien baby! Jeeezus, what the hell is up with her?”
Finally, some other reasonable asshole speaks.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
I Regret That I Forget
Tara, a regular commenter to this blog pointed out that I omitted a key detail of my visit to SF.
Sushi Boat.
Don’t ask me to name this restaurant, as this is not a restaurant review. This is a report of the delicate, luscious, and open-ended gorging that occurs when you sit me in front of beautifully prepared seafood corsages, floating by at 3 nautical miles per hour. There is nothing more savory and delicious than the irony of fresh raw fish, sitting pretty in miniature boats, cruising by in linear armada, ripe for the plucking by vultures in hipster clothing.
That was me and Tara on Church Street, on the night of December 28th. It was more me and less Tara, as she was rightly fettered by certain food limitations, leaving me alone and unchecked in my tour of duty in at least four of the seven deadly sins.
I just saw the season finale of the Biggest Loser on the plane. I cried throughout and also wondered how a person could possibly eat a whole pizza in one sitting and have room for more. I learned how on this night, but I wasn't crying, I was silently mooing in blinding pleasure.
Some hottie made wanton eyes at Tara on our way out, but sadly we did nothing about it. We made our way instead to the Safeway for skittles, whoopee cushions, and Doritos. I suppose in some blend of Christian fundamentalism/saving-yourself-for-marriage and 90s-fear-of-bodily-fluids-throw-saran-wrap-on-everything logic, if you mix these purchases all together, they make a suitable alternative to a cold rainy night of hot steamy sex. I could be wrong on this one.
Sushi Boat.
Don’t ask me to name this restaurant, as this is not a restaurant review. This is a report of the delicate, luscious, and open-ended gorging that occurs when you sit me in front of beautifully prepared seafood corsages, floating by at 3 nautical miles per hour. There is nothing more savory and delicious than the irony of fresh raw fish, sitting pretty in miniature boats, cruising by in linear armada, ripe for the plucking by vultures in hipster clothing.
That was me and Tara on Church Street, on the night of December 28th. It was more me and less Tara, as she was rightly fettered by certain food limitations, leaving me alone and unchecked in my tour of duty in at least four of the seven deadly sins.
I just saw the season finale of the Biggest Loser on the plane. I cried throughout and also wondered how a person could possibly eat a whole pizza in one sitting and have room for more. I learned how on this night, but I wasn't crying, I was silently mooing in blinding pleasure.
Some hottie made wanton eyes at Tara on our way out, but sadly we did nothing about it. We made our way instead to the Safeway for skittles, whoopee cushions, and Doritos. I suppose in some blend of Christian fundamentalism/saving-yourself-for-marriage and 90s-fear-of-bodily-fluids-throw-saran-wrap-on-everything logic, if you mix these purchases all together, they make a suitable alternative to a cold rainy night of hot steamy sex. I could be wrong on this one.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
The Second Day of the Rest of Your Year
Happy New Year Assholes! and welcome back to your jobs that pull you out of your comfortable, hangover friendly, featherbeds and comforters, where you languish pining for the glorious life you could be having in between taps of the snooze button.
I had intended to write on the PET SHOP party, but the holidays got in the way, so I'll tell you more about it later.
Poodle M and I flew to rural Connecticut for the whitest Christmas ever. It satisfied the 13 year old in me - the kid who wondered what it would be like to step through the TV into snowy Bedford Falls. The light was sublime and the trees whispered old stories of the many generations of people who 'tarded out in New England before me. There was so much ye olde history hanging from the trees, clanging from bell towers, and clacking through covered bridges, that If I stood still and quiet, I could almost smell the first puritans’ B.O. – a mix of burning witches and cinnamon tar.
Snow makes everything look so delicious. I had fantasies of being a giant with the munchies, hopping from town to town, nibbling on the living gingerbread houses with their iced roofs, iced cars, little sugary snowmen, to the horror of the townspeople, but hey, that’s what insurance is for.
Dunkin Donuts? Fuck Yeah!
I don’t want to get into the details of what I might have heard on the police scanner, or the dinner with all fixins, or wrapping presents while watching It’s a Wonderful Life, so I’ll spare you by letting you know that I had a great time and I’m curious to return in the spring by motorcycle in full Armageddon wear.
We returned to LA for one night, then off to San Francisco for a few days. Nothing special happened to me other than my fateful discovery of the best shoe inserts ever made, while shopping at the new mega plex hyper mall downtown.
New Year’s eve was quiet and nice, not much to talk about.
Now I’m back in the work hole with a slightly sunnier disposition. It’s nice to see Sam’s hot new car and dark new jeans. I’m not one for resolutions, thank god. I’m thinking I’m just going to cruise through this one day by day, much like I’ve been going, with some highs, some lows and I’m hoping for a lot more hott sex.
I’m wishing you the same or better.
I had intended to write on the PET SHOP party, but the holidays got in the way, so I'll tell you more about it later.
Poodle M and I flew to rural Connecticut for the whitest Christmas ever. It satisfied the 13 year old in me - the kid who wondered what it would be like to step through the TV into snowy Bedford Falls. The light was sublime and the trees whispered old stories of the many generations of people who 'tarded out in New England before me. There was so much ye olde history hanging from the trees, clanging from bell towers, and clacking through covered bridges, that If I stood still and quiet, I could almost smell the first puritans’ B.O. – a mix of burning witches and cinnamon tar.
Snow makes everything look so delicious. I had fantasies of being a giant with the munchies, hopping from town to town, nibbling on the living gingerbread houses with their iced roofs, iced cars, little sugary snowmen, to the horror of the townspeople, but hey, that’s what insurance is for.
Dunkin Donuts? Fuck Yeah!
I don’t want to get into the details of what I might have heard on the police scanner, or the dinner with all fixins, or wrapping presents while watching It’s a Wonderful Life, so I’ll spare you by letting you know that I had a great time and I’m curious to return in the spring by motorcycle in full Armageddon wear.
We returned to LA for one night, then off to San Francisco for a few days. Nothing special happened to me other than my fateful discovery of the best shoe inserts ever made, while shopping at the new mega plex hyper mall downtown.
New Year’s eve was quiet and nice, not much to talk about.
Now I’m back in the work hole with a slightly sunnier disposition. It’s nice to see Sam’s hot new car and dark new jeans. I’m not one for resolutions, thank god. I’m thinking I’m just going to cruise through this one day by day, much like I’ve been going, with some highs, some lows and I’m hoping for a lot more hott sex.
I’m wishing you the same or better.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)