On a day indistinguishable from so many others during my summer of sweeping depletion, I plopped myself on park bench on Plaza Street and awaited the menagerie of local homecomers.
Yuppies, with their smug smiles as they returned from self-imagined victories on the battlefield of white collar chicanery. (Ok, I may have seen them through a lens of alcoholism and self-loathing.)
The endless parade of West Indian nannies returning white children to their castles.
A slew of slow-moving vagabonds who never really came or went anywhere; they just shuffled back and forth in a familiar narcotic haze, drawn to their next fixes like moths to flame.
Of course, there was also the kids.
The kids, clad in pressed slacks (skirts for the girls) and green cardigans, were the lifeline of a Roman Catholic parochial school system that had long since fallen out of favor with its Irish and Italian contingents. Plucked from black neighborhoods to fill empty seats in white neighborhoods, the kids seemed joyful to skip through a marginally good neighborhood on their sojourn back to the hood.
At the time, I was painfully unaware that I was probably some persistent visual outtake for the generally affluent Prospect Heighters to set their gaze upon. Maybe they looked at me and noticed I was rarely without a nearly phallic glass container, nestled in a brown bag and filled with my daily bread: malt liquor produced by a variety of labels but always with a patently crude taste. Or maybe they noticed my lack of sartorial variance. (My dress code only changed as often as my state of inebriation emboldened me to shoplift new duds from the Atlantic Center Mall.) Always believing the best in people, I have to imagine most passersby looked at me with a sense of pity for a pretty common looking fellow with hollow eyes and an empty stare.
On this particular day, I had company riding the pine. There was Shante, the subterranean sage who suffered from a crippling neuromuscular condition that claimed him to gyrate oddly and often as he sat on the bench; he'd blamed the condition on bad chicken he had received 5 years prior in a local soup kitchen, but I always suspected the true culprit was something less than culinary in nature: the weather.
Next to Shante sat Juice, a local crackhead who derived his nickname from a sobriquet for his beloved amphetamine. I guess you are what you eat--or smoke. And at the very end of the bench sat Simba, a formerly homeless lesbian who often stopped by to swap stories with us. Simba often bought us food and never chided us for having made some painfully bad choices in life. She was often gone for weeks at a time, tending to her successful career as a freelance journalist--a career that took her to war-torn countries whose inhabitants were having a far worse go at it than some addicts on a park bench.
As Juice caught a nap in between an almost full-time schedule of hustling and smoking, a group of kids descended on the block, heading toward Grand Army Plaza subway station. We all sat, talking about nothing and noticing nothing--a moment of relaxation in a cauldron of discontent. One boy, who I surmised was pack leader based on how far ahead he was of the rest of the boys (and also the fact that he was holding a giant stick), approached Juice on the bench with a look that suggested imminent mischief. Without any warning, the boy jabbed Juice in the ribs, a maneuver that caused the assailant and his cronies to chuckle wildly and without a sense of guilt.
Juice's eyes almost immediately popped open and bulged outward in a way you might only think capable of cartoon druggies. As Juice retaliated with some obscenities, his attackers, possibly bored with their victim, moved toward down the line and took aim at Shante.
A gentle soul if there ever was one, Shante simply sat and moved his body in that familiar 360-degree motion. Situated just below his tangled dreadlocks and above scruffy salt and pepper beard was a pair of eyes that longed for nothing more than tranquility. And on this day, Shante had met a bevy of uncaring eyes that refused to abide by his unwavering yearning for peace and quiet.
The pack leader moved within inches of Shante and began to mock his debilitated body.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he shouted at Shante. "Why the fuck are you like that?" Shante looked up and shook his head at the boy with a combination of disapproval and sadness. In a final display of utter heartlessness, the pack leader began to once again mock Shante's involuntary movements, only this time goading his minions to follow suit in the perverted mimicry.
At this point, I'd seen my fair share of abuse at the hands of this misguided little pieces of shit.
I rose from the bench and approached the pack leader. I was beyond considering the repercussions of striking down what was probably a middle-school-aged child, a probable result of my rage and intoxication. Standing within inches of the pack leader's face, I chided him for his actions.
"You need to learn some manners," I scolded, "and you need to apologize to my friend."
As we stared at each other in what was hardly, in my eyes, an epic showdown, the pack leader turned his head a few degrees to the left. Then, without any warning, he cocked his fist back and swung his at my jaw. A veteran at getting pummeled, I simply gritted my teeth immediately and absorbed the impact.
Yes, I'd just socked in the face by a child who was probably rapidly approaching his bedtime.
As my fermented brain tried to process what had just transpired, the pack leader likely used this brief passage of time to celebrate with his cronies. I turned toward the pack leader and ran at him, and he and his followers took off running. As I picked up the pace, I was painfully unaware that the jeans I was wearing were no longer braced to my emaciated hips. While trying to keep up the pace, my pants had slowly worked their way down to just above my knees. Far too full of adrenaline to notice the increasingly southern locale of my pants, I continued to pursue the pack leader with fierce determination.
Right as the pack leader began to descend the subway steps, I made one last lunge for the boy who had already ruined a really shitty day. As my body thrusted forward, my pants finally fell down to my ankles, causing me to crash to the floor in a broken pile of indignity. It was over.
Shante and Simba both helped me up off the gravel in a show of respect for a wounded, albeit drunk, warrior.
"Bro, I gotta thank you for standing up for me," Shante said as I finally got to my feet. He took a wad of cash out of his pocket and clumsily peeled off 3 singles. "Take this and get yourself a beer."
At the corner store, I chose my beer and didn't wait to open it before leaving the store. On this day, I felt I had earned the ride to not hide in shame. Exiting the store, I massaged the knot that was forming on my face. I started to imbibe my salvation and felt the despair and rage leave my body and evaporate into the humid summer night.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Eyes and ears (but mostly eyes)
I'm of the school of thought that being a good talker requires one to be a good listener; I'm pretty confident I've always been both, but perception is a very subjective thing.
When my parents convinced me to forego the glory of Ivy League academics--in all fairness, my grades played a part, too--I was left with a single option: City University of New York.
I'd achieved the minimum SAT score to gain entrance to the CUNY school of my choice, a feat unbelieved by the college counselor who told me I'd "be better off aiming for the realistic options offered by trade schools like Chubb Institute and Devry." Not many bigger buzz kills than being told you're only fit to enter the highly intellectual world of the free toolbox mafia.
I settled on Brooklyn College because I was resigned to living at home with my parents until an undetermined date. On the day of my orientation, the incoming freshman were feted by the department chairs, who were all decked out in absurd Hogwartian robes, sashes, and, most ridiculous of all, an organ player fumbling his way through Pomp & Circumstance to an auditorium full of denim-clad post-high schoolers.
Later, we made our way out to the quad to sample the club offerings of BC. Almost without any hesitation, I gravitated to the table for WBCR, the college radio station. A club spokesperson mentioned the need for new blood, so I signed up right away.
The station became my home for the next 3.5 years. I met my first real girlfriend there. I learned how to not be afraid to talk. More importantly, I learned how to listen.
Flash forward to 2004, when I was heartbeat away from homelessness, crashing on the bedbug-infested couch of my former boss, a gay opera singer named Jonathan. One night, during one of many nights of wanton disregard for common decency brought on by consumption of illicit substances, Jonathan said, "You used to be a good listener, but now you're as good as deaf." I guess I didn't realize it at the time, but he was absolutely correct. One of my more prized attributes had been jettisoned from my body, a heavy price for placing faith in Alexei vodka and generic Robitussin.
I think I've changed quite a bit since then. In the course of regaining my sense of self, I realized that I could finally be a good listener again. Stupid, I know. But what some people have to say to me--the good, bad, and ugly--means everything to me. I don't always have the answers, but I always have a pair of ears and an open heart for anyone needing to unburden themselves.
Monday, October 15, 2012
The nights where the air is thin as your ego
On a stormy morning in 1984, I was reborn as a labored breather in the eye of Hurricane Gloria. The name of the storm was as benign as the countless old ladies who shared its namesake. Maybe only Hurricane Gladys would have struck less fear in the hearts of New Yorkers unaccustomed to such storms.
As the Cape Verde winds bore down on the 5 boroughs, my brother and I awoke with a sense of excitement usually reserved for Christmas morning. With nature playing Santa and hurling a gift right at our new storm windows, my brother and I watched with anticipation. Except my excitement quickly morphed into terror as I found myself gasping for air.
My parents agreed that I was a bit too young to try and wait this sudden malady out, so my father got ready to take me to the hospital. Getting ready meant shaving, and each stroke at his stubble with his disposable razor seemed like an eternity.
Compounding matters, my older brother was significantly more concerned with the fate of my uneaten pancakes. His persistent badgering was causing me even more anxiety, so I laid my head gently on his shoulder and sank my teeth into his arm. His scream spurred my father into action as he scooped me up and dashed out the door.
At the hospital, I was given a very large shot of epinephrine, which provided one of the most ecstatic feelings I've ever experienced. I could breathe again.
Three weeks later, I was discharged from the hospital. Almost immediately after leaving, I was sent to an allergist for evaluation. An allergy panel revealed allergies ranging from cats to mold. To ease the asthma symptoms, I was prescribed Marax cough syrup, a vile concoction that tasted like old Nyquil.
As my asthma attacks increased, so did my Marax intake. My mother refused me an inhaler because she'd read that they encouraged "dependency"; instead, I spent many nights laying awake for hours, unable to get back to sleep. During those many sleepless hours, my mind would wander to thoughts of self worthlessness. I could not comprehend the fairness of not being able to sleep while the rest of my family slumbered soundly. To me, it meant I had been plucked from the universal norms and seated in a corner of the cosmos reserved for those underserving of peace.
As it turns out, Marax was a cough medicine based in ephedra, the precursor to methamphetamine. Hardly the ideal medication for a grade schooler--which the FDA recognized when they eventually banned Marax.
When I finally got an inhaler, I think my mother saw it as an act of rebellion against her sense of superior judgement.
I just wanted to breathe.
I did. And I haven't stopped since. The nighttime pontifications on my place in the universe continue, though. Sometimes, I still feel like an anomaly in the grand patchwork of existence. It comes and goes. But it's there.
It's too bad there isn't a portable medical dispenser that can rescue you from those moments.
As the Cape Verde winds bore down on the 5 boroughs, my brother and I awoke with a sense of excitement usually reserved for Christmas morning. With nature playing Santa and hurling a gift right at our new storm windows, my brother and I watched with anticipation. Except my excitement quickly morphed into terror as I found myself gasping for air.
My parents agreed that I was a bit too young to try and wait this sudden malady out, so my father got ready to take me to the hospital. Getting ready meant shaving, and each stroke at his stubble with his disposable razor seemed like an eternity.
Compounding matters, my older brother was significantly more concerned with the fate of my uneaten pancakes. His persistent badgering was causing me even more anxiety, so I laid my head gently on his shoulder and sank my teeth into his arm. His scream spurred my father into action as he scooped me up and dashed out the door.
At the hospital, I was given a very large shot of epinephrine, which provided one of the most ecstatic feelings I've ever experienced. I could breathe again.
Three weeks later, I was discharged from the hospital. Almost immediately after leaving, I was sent to an allergist for evaluation. An allergy panel revealed allergies ranging from cats to mold. To ease the asthma symptoms, I was prescribed Marax cough syrup, a vile concoction that tasted like old Nyquil.
As my asthma attacks increased, so did my Marax intake. My mother refused me an inhaler because she'd read that they encouraged "dependency"; instead, I spent many nights laying awake for hours, unable to get back to sleep. During those many sleepless hours, my mind would wander to thoughts of self worthlessness. I could not comprehend the fairness of not being able to sleep while the rest of my family slumbered soundly. To me, it meant I had been plucked from the universal norms and seated in a corner of the cosmos reserved for those underserving of peace.
As it turns out, Marax was a cough medicine based in ephedra, the precursor to methamphetamine. Hardly the ideal medication for a grade schooler--which the FDA recognized when they eventually banned Marax.
When I finally got an inhaler, I think my mother saw it as an act of rebellion against her sense of superior judgement.
I just wanted to breathe.
I did. And I haven't stopped since. The nighttime pontifications on my place in the universe continue, though. Sometimes, I still feel like an anomaly in the grand patchwork of existence. It comes and goes. But it's there.
It's too bad there isn't a portable medical dispenser that can rescue you from those moments.
Friday, October 12, 2012
The Price is Wrong
When Myspace was still rocketing toward its apex (circa 2002), I met an online friend named Phillip. Phillip took a liking to the Classic Concentration group I created; it was my extremely banal attempt at passing the time. Through several chats via AIM, I came to discover that Phillip was not only a Classic Concentration enthusiast but a batshit crazy game show fanatic.
While my only claim to prize-winning glory was 3rd place in a "Why Your Mom is the Best Mom" contest in 1988, Phillip managed to drink from the holy grail of game show victory: he won a car on The Price is Right. Over the next few months, Phillip spoke in glowing terms of Bob Barker, the Barker Beauties, and the unique fraternity he'd joined by winning "The Big Prize." I grew bored of these conversations, and maybe old Phil sensed that--because he one day stopped talking about game shows and instead started talking about slippers.
Yes. Slippers.
I'd already found the one man who loved game shows more than all of the others, so I was a bit surprised to learn of his passion for evening footwear. More torturous than enduring a verbatim recap of the episode of The Price is Right where a dowdy homebody named Myrna managed to win an RV AND a washer & dryer (a real Middle American coup, I suppose) was an at-length AIM chat about the pros and cons of Isotoner slippers. Longing for the days of Phil's astonishing total recall of specific game show episodes, I gave the boy the social network "kiss of death" and blocked him on Myspace and AIM. Problem solved.
About a year later, I accidentally unblocked a bunch of people on AIM. Phil pinged me right away, almost as if 365+ days hadn't elapsed since our last exchange. What follows is a sad record of what happens when you give a slipper fetishist one more shot:
BigPhil32000 (1:47:43 PM): Hi.
SymptomsofMadrid (1:47:56 PM): hey phil! what's shaking?
BigPhil32000 (1:48:02 PM): Not a lot...you?
SymptomsofMadrid (1:48:54 PM): working working...you know the drilkl
SymptomsofMadrid (1:48:57 PM): drill*
BigPhil32000 (1:49:00 PM): I do
BigPhil32000 (1:49:12 PM): I've been browsing at random stuff
BigPhil32000 (1:50:43 PM): http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&Item=230361540197&Category=63850&_trkparms=algo%3DLVI%26its%3DI%26otn%3D2
SymptomsofMadrid (1:51:14 PM): those are really swanky, man...good price, too
BigPhil32000 (1:51:26 PM): you'd look cool in them
SymptomsofMadrid (1:54:13 PM): I haven't owned slippers in ages! maybe I should get a pair
BigPhil32000 (1:54:52 PM): You think you might wear them with socks or without?
SymptomsofMadrid (1:56:48 PM): I'm thinking without...socks would probably make my feet overheat with the slippers
BigPhil32000 (1:56:59 PM): Smart man
SymptomsofMadrid (1:57:37 PM): Thanks! 10 bucks is a really good price
BigPhil32000 (1:58:02 PM): I wish they'd come back in style
BigPhil32000 (2:01:45 PM): http://i.ebayimg.com/09/!BZCgpLg!mk~$(KGrHgoOKisEjlLl7pG)BKkuECRu8g~~_12.JPG
BigPhil32000 (2:08:33 PM): How about those, Ryan?
SymptomsofMadrid (2:09:26 PM): they're ok. a bit round, though.
BigPhil32000 (2:09:36 PM): Yeah, the first pair I showed you are better
SymptomsofMadrid (2:10:23 PM): much better
BigPhil32000 (2:11:04 PM): do you think you'd like them tight or loose?
SymptomsofMadrid (2:12:10 PM): loose...I mean, who really wants to come home and take off some tightly tied shoes and replace them with another pair of tight footwear
BigPhil32000 (2:12:17 PM): smart move
BigPhil32000 (2:13:26 PM): You seem like the halfway on/off relaxed person
BigPhil32000 (2:14:00 PM): You're watching GSN, and you're playing with the slippers with the bare soles popping out of them.
BigPhil32000 (2:15:28 PM): What if one falls off your foot?
SymptomsofMadrid (2:16:27 PM): I guess you could just put it back on
BigPhil32000 (2:16:50 PM): That'll work
BigPhil32000 (2:17:23 PM): I'd like to have a roommate like you in those
Needless to say, I blocked Phil immediately and took a bath. It's not a bad thing to go with your gut. And if your gut tells you that your being hit on by a guy whose idea of fun would be dressing you up in slippers and probing you with the Bob Barker microphone, you need to heed that instinct. And run.
While my only claim to prize-winning glory was 3rd place in a "Why Your Mom is the Best Mom" contest in 1988, Phillip managed to drink from the holy grail of game show victory: he won a car on The Price is Right. Over the next few months, Phillip spoke in glowing terms of Bob Barker, the Barker Beauties, and the unique fraternity he'd joined by winning "The Big Prize." I grew bored of these conversations, and maybe old Phil sensed that--because he one day stopped talking about game shows and instead started talking about slippers.
Yes. Slippers.
I'd already found the one man who loved game shows more than all of the others, so I was a bit surprised to learn of his passion for evening footwear. More torturous than enduring a verbatim recap of the episode of The Price is Right where a dowdy homebody named Myrna managed to win an RV AND a washer & dryer (a real Middle American coup, I suppose) was an at-length AIM chat about the pros and cons of Isotoner slippers. Longing for the days of Phil's astonishing total recall of specific game show episodes, I gave the boy the social network "kiss of death" and blocked him on Myspace and AIM. Problem solved.
About a year later, I accidentally unblocked a bunch of people on AIM. Phil pinged me right away, almost as if 365+ days hadn't elapsed since our last exchange. What follows is a sad record of what happens when you give a slipper fetishist one more shot:
BigPhil32000 (1:47:43 PM): Hi.
SymptomsofMadrid (1:47:56 PM): hey phil! what's shaking?
BigPhil32000 (1:48:02 PM): Not a lot...you?
SymptomsofMadrid (1:48:54 PM): working working...you know the drilkl
SymptomsofMadrid (1:48:57 PM): drill*
BigPhil32000 (1:49:00 PM): I do
BigPhil32000 (1:49:12 PM): I've been browsing at random stuff
BigPhil32000 (1:50:43 PM): http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&Item=230361540197&Category=63850&_trkparms=algo%3DLVI%26its%3DI%26otn%3D2
SymptomsofMadrid (1:51:14 PM): those are really swanky, man...good price, too
BigPhil32000 (1:51:26 PM): you'd look cool in them
SymptomsofMadrid (1:54:13 PM): I haven't owned slippers in ages! maybe I should get a pair
BigPhil32000 (1:54:52 PM): You think you might wear them with socks or without?
SymptomsofMadrid (1:56:48 PM): I'm thinking without...socks would probably make my feet overheat with the slippers
BigPhil32000 (1:56:59 PM): Smart man
SymptomsofMadrid (1:57:37 PM): Thanks! 10 bucks is a really good price
BigPhil32000 (1:58:02 PM): I wish they'd come back in style
BigPhil32000 (2:01:45 PM): http://i.ebayimg.com/09/!BZCgpLg!mk~$(KGrHgoOKisEjlLl7pG)BKkuECRu8g~~_12.JPG
BigPhil32000 (2:08:33 PM): How about those, Ryan?
SymptomsofMadrid (2:09:26 PM): they're ok. a bit round, though.
BigPhil32000 (2:09:36 PM): Yeah, the first pair I showed you are better
SymptomsofMadrid (2:10:23 PM): much better
BigPhil32000 (2:11:04 PM): do you think you'd like them tight or loose?
SymptomsofMadrid (2:12:10 PM): loose...I mean, who really wants to come home and take off some tightly tied shoes and replace them with another pair of tight footwear
BigPhil32000 (2:12:17 PM): smart move
BigPhil32000 (2:13:26 PM): You seem like the halfway on/off relaxed person
BigPhil32000 (2:14:00 PM): You're watching GSN, and you're playing with the slippers with the bare soles popping out of them.
BigPhil32000 (2:15:28 PM): What if one falls off your foot?
SymptomsofMadrid (2:16:27 PM): I guess you could just put it back on
BigPhil32000 (2:16:50 PM): That'll work
BigPhil32000 (2:17:23 PM): I'd like to have a roommate like you in those
Needless to say, I blocked Phil immediately and took a bath. It's not a bad thing to go with your gut. And if your gut tells you that your being hit on by a guy whose idea of fun would be dressing you up in slippers and probing you with the Bob Barker microphone, you need to heed that instinct. And run.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
WWJD? WTF?
Ever notice how the unabashedly religious folk like to flaunt their love of deities in the oddest ways? For example, I was being whisked up and down one of Norcal's many nondescript highways the other day, and I happened to notice a slew of bumper stickers containing various odes to Jesus. It's not that Jesus isn't deserving of praise--especially if he's your "guy"--but it would seem an odd tribute to display praise for him on the part of a car most likely to be damaged in a fender bender. Would any significant damage to the Jesus fish sticker be enough to shatter unwavering faith in the almighty? I'm guessing no.
I also find humor in how some baseball players (usually of the Latino variety), in an almost self-deprecating manner, cross themselves after an on-field accomplishment. It's as if they are saying, "My hard work, training, and determination had nothing to do with stealing that base. It was actually the luge-like spirit of Christ that propelled me to base-stealing glory." I can't buy that. Why, then, should crediting God or Jesus or whomever be limited to feats accomplished in the arena of professional athletics? Do these same individuals cross themselves after a completing a particularly difficult level of a video game? Or maybe even after overcoming the tyranny of constipation? Surely, the aforementioned examples of overcoming great obstacles are divine, not personal, accomplishments.
In pondering these many questions is where I usually find myself at loggerheads with Christian doctrine. Way too much hypocrisy and contradictory behavior by the so-called "leaders." The Vatican has openly chastised rappers and other celebrities for decorating themselves with glitzy crucifixes and such. Yet, the Pope lives in an opulent palace that is such a flamboyant display of florid excess, you would be hard pressed to find its connection to a man who was supposedly born in a barn on a bed of hay, garnered a paltry sum as a carpenter, and was left to die on a cross that probably didn't meet his personal standards of quality carpentry.
I know Catholics who will speak ill of the lavish lifestyles and money-getting ploys of "born again" and evangelical sects of Christianity. But is the papal lifestyle, or even that of priests and nuns, really so modest by comparison? I known priests who frequented baseball games and bars, movies and fancy restaurants, and just about any other luxury that probably qualifies as excessive for a member of the Roman Catholic clergy. How's that vow of poverty working out for you, Father?
Of course, who am I to say that Jesus won't fulfill the prophecies heralded by Revelations and one day walk this land again--only maybe he'll return completely blinged out and pissed off that his philosophy was misinterpreted by the modern pontiffs? Or perhaps Jesus will promptly locate this blog and excoriate me for an act of heresy--which would mean that he misinterpreted my philosophy. Oh Jesus.
I also find humor in how some baseball players (usually of the Latino variety), in an almost self-deprecating manner, cross themselves after an on-field accomplishment. It's as if they are saying, "My hard work, training, and determination had nothing to do with stealing that base. It was actually the luge-like spirit of Christ that propelled me to base-stealing glory." I can't buy that. Why, then, should crediting God or Jesus or whomever be limited to feats accomplished in the arena of professional athletics? Do these same individuals cross themselves after a completing a particularly difficult level of a video game? Or maybe even after overcoming the tyranny of constipation? Surely, the aforementioned examples of overcoming great obstacles are divine, not personal, accomplishments.
In pondering these many questions is where I usually find myself at loggerheads with Christian doctrine. Way too much hypocrisy and contradictory behavior by the so-called "leaders." The Vatican has openly chastised rappers and other celebrities for decorating themselves with glitzy crucifixes and such. Yet, the Pope lives in an opulent palace that is such a flamboyant display of florid excess, you would be hard pressed to find its connection to a man who was supposedly born in a barn on a bed of hay, garnered a paltry sum as a carpenter, and was left to die on a cross that probably didn't meet his personal standards of quality carpentry.
I know Catholics who will speak ill of the lavish lifestyles and money-getting ploys of "born again" and evangelical sects of Christianity. But is the papal lifestyle, or even that of priests and nuns, really so modest by comparison? I known priests who frequented baseball games and bars, movies and fancy restaurants, and just about any other luxury that probably qualifies as excessive for a member of the Roman Catholic clergy. How's that vow of poverty working out for you, Father?
Of course, who am I to say that Jesus won't fulfill the prophecies heralded by Revelations and one day walk this land again--only maybe he'll return completely blinged out and pissed off that his philosophy was misinterpreted by the modern pontiffs? Or perhaps Jesus will promptly locate this blog and excoriate me for an act of heresy--which would mean that he misinterpreted my philosophy. Oh Jesus.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Not sure why I'm only now thinking about Christmas parties, but why not?
Every year, someone asks me if I'll be going to the office holiday party. This year, like all years past, my answer was a resounding "No!" Unfortunately, I've found no tactful way to decline without sounding like a prude, a recluse, a killjoy, an old man, or all of the above. That I no longer drink certainly factors into my annual decision to forgo the holiday festivities; however, I think it's less a decision than a subconscious effort to remove myself from a type of celebration that has, in the past, caused me undue grief. To recap a brief of history of my celebratory failures:
2001
I was working at the time for a courier company named Eastern Connection. Sine I was working the graveyard shift, the company's holiday party was held at the über-festive hour of 3am, in the presence of several bitter and discontent co-workers and a cluster of archaic computers. Beverages consisted of a bottle of Southern Comfort, a 6-pack of Löwenbraü, and the precarious vestige of a Jack Daniels magnum. Three Löwenbraüs and a few shots of SoCo and I was professing my undying love to a data entry clerk named Josephine. Not the best of times.
2002
Thanks to the kindness of a co-worker/Jehovah's Witness adherent (those folks don't do holiday parties), I was able to finesse a 2-hour open bar into a 3-hour display of irresponsible intoxication and moral incompetence. I'm told there was a girl and that I was kissing this girl. This girl and I ended up getting separated by some lawyers who undoubtedly felt that our drunken display of lust was escalating to unseen heights. Mostly, I remember this as the party where I ended up getting pummeled by a group of guys right after the party ended. In spite of my bruised and battered body, I managed to make it back to the office to give my Ecuadorian co-worker, Luis, a plate of cookies. Upon re-entering the office, my blood-caked lips were mistaken by Luis for a bright shade of red lipstick. Well, at least I made good on promise to bring back cookies. My drinking that night resulted in a blackout so bad, I couldn't even recall the name or face of the unfortunate party with whom I locked lips. Weeks after the party, I narrowed down the field to 2 administrative assistants. I eliminated all attorneys from contention, because what white collar professional in her right mind would lower her standards to make out with a fax machine operator? Never did locate the object of my drunken desire. Probably better that way.
2003
Same company, skipped the party, much to the chagrin of pretty much everyone in the firm. You see, there's an expectation that the person who made the biggest ass of himself at the previous year's party will embrace his incumbency with renewed fervor. I was all too happy to disappoint my adoring public.
Well, between 2004 and 2007, I was temping on and off and was not invited to any of the office parties. My current company (I've been with them for a little over 5 years) occasionally has champagne toasts to celebrate new business wins, but I never attend. About 3 years ago, I stopped into my company's Christmas party. Between the sea of inebriates elbowing their way to the bar and the obnoxious Christmas music bellowing from the speakers, I quickly decided it was a wrap for me.
Now it's 2012, and I still have yet to devote more than 15 minutes to any holiday function put on by my company. A couple of years ago, there was even an Oktoberfest celebration, complete with German beer and bratwurst. I don't drink and I'm not a fan of bratwurst. I decided to sit that one out, too.
The moral of this tale is that you if you spend more than 30 minutes at a holiday party, especially one serving alcohol, you will get fucked up. There's no shame in allowing your peers to gleefully march toward certain hangovers while you sit it out on the sidelines. Anyone who has a problem with you not going and feeds you that "You're not a team player" line of shit is probably an alcoholic--or just an asshole who's uncomfortable in his or her own skin.
Every year, someone asks me if I'll be going to the office holiday party. This year, like all years past, my answer was a resounding "No!" Unfortunately, I've found no tactful way to decline without sounding like a prude, a recluse, a killjoy, an old man, or all of the above. That I no longer drink certainly factors into my annual decision to forgo the holiday festivities; however, I think it's less a decision than a subconscious effort to remove myself from a type of celebration that has, in the past, caused me undue grief. To recap a brief of history of my celebratory failures:
2001
I was working at the time for a courier company named Eastern Connection. Sine I was working the graveyard shift, the company's holiday party was held at the über-festive hour of 3am, in the presence of several bitter and discontent co-workers and a cluster of archaic computers. Beverages consisted of a bottle of Southern Comfort, a 6-pack of Löwenbraü, and the precarious vestige of a Jack Daniels magnum. Three Löwenbraüs and a few shots of SoCo and I was professing my undying love to a data entry clerk named Josephine. Not the best of times.
2002
Thanks to the kindness of a co-worker/Jehovah's Witness adherent (those folks don't do holiday parties), I was able to finesse a 2-hour open bar into a 3-hour display of irresponsible intoxication and moral incompetence. I'm told there was a girl and that I was kissing this girl. This girl and I ended up getting separated by some lawyers who undoubtedly felt that our drunken display of lust was escalating to unseen heights. Mostly, I remember this as the party where I ended up getting pummeled by a group of guys right after the party ended. In spite of my bruised and battered body, I managed to make it back to the office to give my Ecuadorian co-worker, Luis, a plate of cookies. Upon re-entering the office, my blood-caked lips were mistaken by Luis for a bright shade of red lipstick. Well, at least I made good on promise to bring back cookies. My drinking that night resulted in a blackout so bad, I couldn't even recall the name or face of the unfortunate party with whom I locked lips. Weeks after the party, I narrowed down the field to 2 administrative assistants. I eliminated all attorneys from contention, because what white collar professional in her right mind would lower her standards to make out with a fax machine operator? Never did locate the object of my drunken desire. Probably better that way.
2003
Same company, skipped the party, much to the chagrin of pretty much everyone in the firm. You see, there's an expectation that the person who made the biggest ass of himself at the previous year's party will embrace his incumbency with renewed fervor. I was all too happy to disappoint my adoring public.
Well, between 2004 and 2007, I was temping on and off and was not invited to any of the office parties. My current company (I've been with them for a little over 5 years) occasionally has champagne toasts to celebrate new business wins, but I never attend. About 3 years ago, I stopped into my company's Christmas party. Between the sea of inebriates elbowing their way to the bar and the obnoxious Christmas music bellowing from the speakers, I quickly decided it was a wrap for me.
Now it's 2012, and I still have yet to devote more than 15 minutes to any holiday function put on by my company. A couple of years ago, there was even an Oktoberfest celebration, complete with German beer and bratwurst. I don't drink and I'm not a fan of bratwurst. I decided to sit that one out, too.
The moral of this tale is that you if you spend more than 30 minutes at a holiday party, especially one serving alcohol, you will get fucked up. There's no shame in allowing your peers to gleefully march toward certain hangovers while you sit it out on the sidelines. Anyone who has a problem with you not going and feeds you that "You're not a team player" line of shit is probably an alcoholic--or just an asshole who's uncomfortable in his or her own skin.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
If all goes right
I'm discovering that work, while an obvious necessity, has the potential to be a huge pain-in-the-ass at the most inconvenient of times. Haley and Owen are on Long Island, but back at home, 2 hungry cats and a hungry dog are waiting for me. And I'm stuck here at work for God knows how long, waiting for 2 jobs that don't appear to be any closer to my desk than they were 3 hours ago.
I've had to stay late a few days this week because our night editor, an ordinarily reliable fellow, has gone MIA. Well, not exactly MIA, but he's been absent for the last 3 weeks with self-diagnosed insomnia. Each time he's called out—which has been almost every day this week—he informs my boss that he has a "call-in with my doctor," which is antithetical to common sense and completely ignores modern medical conveniences such as hospitals and walk-in clinics. This man is not stupid, but maybe he thinks we are.
Wonky work schedule aside, I'm really happy with how things are going. Owen is just the most amazing baby. Every day he shows us a new side of his personality. Whether it's a laugh, a smile, or a facial reaction to gas, he's just providing Haley and me with so much joy and happiness. I also can't forget that as hard as it is to work late at my job, Haley is always fully engaged in her job as the best mommy in the world. I'm grateful to her for all she does.
Right now, I'm going to check out the Rutgers course catalog and see if there are any nondegree classes I can take in preparation for applying to their MA-English program.
I've had to stay late a few days this week because our night editor, an ordinarily reliable fellow, has gone MIA. Well, not exactly MIA, but he's been absent for the last 3 weeks with self-diagnosed insomnia. Each time he's called out—which has been almost every day this week—he informs my boss that he has a "call-in with my doctor," which is antithetical to common sense and completely ignores modern medical conveniences such as hospitals and walk-in clinics. This man is not stupid, but maybe he thinks we are.
Wonky work schedule aside, I'm really happy with how things are going. Owen is just the most amazing baby. Every day he shows us a new side of his personality. Whether it's a laugh, a smile, or a facial reaction to gas, he's just providing Haley and me with so much joy and happiness. I also can't forget that as hard as it is to work late at my job, Haley is always fully engaged in her job as the best mommy in the world. I'm grateful to her for all she does.
Right now, I'm going to check out the Rutgers course catalog and see if there are any nondegree classes I can take in preparation for applying to their MA-English program.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)