Lately I am feeling especially chatty, and yet I do not want to alienate people on Facebook, so I turn to you, my friendly and ever-patient blog audience of, I don't know, three? Anyway, let's get started.
Honking
Is it just me or are people honking more lately in D.C.? Is it because it's the holidays? Is it because of the end of daylight savings? Is it Republicans? I was walking by an intersection and some town car driver had spaced on a green light and the guy behind him, who was in some fancy-looking silver car, was really peeved about it. He leaned on the horn a good five seconds to let this guy know, "Hey, you are a real jerk for not immediately putting your foot on the gas pedal for this green light, and I am not going to stand for it one more second. I am personally OFFENDED by your lack of urgency, and I am lodging a protest right here." The best part was that, when the town car finally got moving, both cars turned right into another red light (this was at that weird Flatiron-building-like spot in DC by the bank converted into a Starbucks where Connecticut meets N and 18th Streets), and the honker had to slam on his brakes when he realized that for all of his effort he had moved a mere six feet only to wait at a new red light, which the town car would presumably extend once again for an agonizing three seconds.
I always like to try to get a good look at people who behave this way (and I try to remember that as a former car commuter, I almost certainly have behaved this way more than once). The yoga-practicing and Buddhism-dabbling side of me knows that I should be sending this person good vibes and really hoping that they can breathe out some of their Suffering and maybe like if I dedicate my Open Flow practice to them or some bs like that, they will find it within themselves not to honk the horn so obnoxiously tomorrow. But really I am just curious to see what people look like when they go buck wild for a really small reason. Some people are visibly upset and cursing silently behind their windows. Some are yelling audibly, usually with an arm/hand gesture to match. But some -- like this guy today -- are just blank-faced masks. They could be listening to NPR or they could be contemplating a sunrise, or they could be unleashing the full fury of their car horn on a hapless fellow driver. You would never know from their expressions. These last people, I'm convinced, are psychopathic.
As much as I do not like exposure to blaring horns, there is a level on which witnessing another person's rage eases my own. There were probably at least six things I was angry about when tonight's honker interrupted my reverie, giving me a break. Thank you, rageful honker.
My coworker was apologizing to me yesterday for constantly talking to herself because she is upset about our other coworker's noise. But I had been so rageful about our other coworker's noise that I hadn't even noticed her talking. Now that she told me she mutters to herself about it, I spend (just slightly) more time noticing that and being amused about it than I do being enraged by our speakerphone-dialing, outburst-producing, loud-conversation-having cohort. Thank you, partner in rage!
Winter Uniform
In the Whole Foods tonight there were so many white chicks with straight hair, puffy jackets and black workout leggings that I was glad Sir UncMo wasn't there because he could have left with the wrong woman by accident. It is a little weird to realize that you are wearing a uniform/personifying a stereotype and yet are too old and complacent to really care or do anything about it.
Coco
I'll just say it: I like Coco Austin (and yes, I looked up her last name) of Ice Loves Coco. Judge. Judge away! Have you watched the show? If not, leave me be. If so, tell me you are not in her corner. I realize I am now talking to zero people. But what I like about her is that, like Dolly Parton, she is all facade but no pretense. She looks fake but comes across real. She married a black man and is friends with black people, and yet she never once sounds like anything but a white girl, even though she lives in a world filled with white people who try to sound like black people because they apparently think it makes them cool. She unabashedly admits that she does not want kids at 33 (I have a soft spot for that) and unabashedly admits that she IS 33 and unabashedly admits that she always wanted to be a meteorologist but she doesn't "know the words." What's not to like? (Side note: I once interviewed Ice T in his hotel room and he started off the interview but asking me -- I think I am remembering this right -- what I thought of two women together., or something along those lines. I would like to hate him for trying to rattle me like that, but I took it in stride at the time and he was perfectly agreeable after that, and this was before he was with Coco, so I don't really bear him any ill will.)
Black Friday
Are you a Black Friday person? Were you ever a Black Friday person? Like, before it was Black Friday? I used to get a perverse pleasure out of heading to Montgomery Mall, my home mall, on the day after Thanksgiving. Everyone already knew at that point (in the '90s) that it was just plain stupid to head out shopping on that day. But it didn't have a name yet. For me, it wasn't about deals. It was about wading in, about opening the floodgates, allowing oneself to be smacked in the face (in a good way) by the holidays. Back then, it wasn't a marketing event called Black Friday. It was just good old-fashioned masochism. I miss that.
This is the funniest thing I have read in a long time. To recap: experiencing someone else's anger often eases mine. Thank you Facebook and Deborah Wassertzug.
Music: "Don't Judge Me"
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Moments.
Just because I've been completely MIA doesn't mean I haven't been thinking about posting here for quite some time.
The fact is, I'm as lost and neurotic as ever. It's just that, as I get older, I get more isolated about it.
But enough about that. Here's a selection of photos from the past few months.
This photo was taken during SXSW in Austin, Texas, this year. Some people who have not been to SXSW will say, "Wow, you went to SXSW? Cool, how was it?" These people do not understand a few things: a) I was there for the interactive conference, which is WAY less cool than the music conference; b) it rained the entire time, relentlessly; c) it was so overcrowded that people were waiting in line for half a day (no exaggeration) to pick up their badges so that they could go listen to people hype themselves in onstage events with names like "Gamify and Socialize: Beyond the Buzzwords"; d) it was so overcrowded that many of us had to stay in amazing airbnb situations (mine involved colored lightbulbs, black towels and unfortunate carpeting). Many people (such as myself) cope with this situation by consuming unhealthy amounts of barbecued meats, TexMex and alcohol. So much so that a street sign offering "health food" attracts my interest and confusion, until I see that "health food" in Austin means "chile rellenos, chalupas and chilaquiles."
Chilaquiles was my last dish upon leaving Austin. Boarding the plane, I gripped a shopping bag full of almonds, apples and other wholesome snacks from Whole Foods. The bag was given to me by a vegetarian acquaintance who felt she needed to intervene.
This picture is of an Angry Little Girls tote at a Japanese store in DC. I like that it is angry and cute and expresses an emotional reality.
If you ever go to San Francisco, it is imperative that you go to Japantown. The above image, from one location of the Maido stationery store (visit both, located in the mall) is one reason why. There, you will find amazing karaoke, superlative stickers and notebooks (see lower image), and BANAO, the elite banana. We know how you feel.
This is a porno carrot. It is all natural. No enhancements.
In 2011, a mama duck took up residence at National Geographic with her ducklings. It was a dismal spring overall, and the duck family brightened my spirits immensely. As winter transitioned to spring this year, I waited for the mama duck to return. She did, but just hours after this shot she escaped to the White House lawn. I was so sad when the family left. The staff at Nat Geo had even made a ramp to the water for the ducklings, as you can see.
This is a terrible piece of "art" in a window in Austin. It grabs your attention first my startling you with its ugliness, then intriguing you with the real-life photo next to it. Keep Austin Weird? Hm.
Tragically, Sheila was near the window during Hurricane Sandy and developed frightening growths of mold, so she had to be retired the day before Halloween. Sheila, you brightened our lives for the short time that you were here.
Music: "Bloodstream"
Monday, September 10, 2012
Bang.
Gilbert Indoor Range sits at the end of a cul de sac in Rockville, Md., about a half hour from Washington, D.C., and a short detour off Rockville Pike, a traffic-clogged, obscenely ugly strip of big-box stores and car dealerships. The low, concrete building sits on a side street that is very quiet except for the persistent, startling "pop" sounds that become audible once you get to the parking lot.
Did you know that shooting a gun is so commonplace and accessible in America that there are Groupons for it? I didn't, until my sister gave Sir UncMo one as a gift for his birthday: a shooting range experience for two, value $123, for just $45. My sister, who lives in Gaithersburg, married a gun lover over a decade ago and has since become certified as a gun range marshal (can't remember whether it's at Gilbert's or another range). I don't really know what this means, other than I probably shouldn't ever anger my sister.
Sir UncMo's interest in shooting is just one of the many ways he has endeared himself to members of my family, and my sister's gift was a thoughtful one. So despite my antipathy toward gun ownership, and my complete lack of interest in firing anything unless it is a gas stove or an aromatherapy candle, we were bound for Gilbert's. I put off booking our appointment for so long that the Groupon had expired by the time I called, but Gilbert's was so overwhelmed with response to the Groupon that it extended the expiration date to accommodate everyone.
In case you haven't guessed as much by now, I was kind of dreading this whole thing. I pictured going into a gross industrial building (accurate), sitting through some training that would be painfully boring (partially accurate), making some kind of horrible or embarrassing mistake or, worse, beng the victim of one (not accurate), hanging around a bunch of pasty, pants-hitching, middle-aged males (partially accurate), witnessing something or someone really creepy (accurate) and/or generally losing my shit in response to some previously unknown deep emotional response to firing a deadly weapon (not accurate). I was hiding these thoughts from Sir UncMo and staying mostly upbeat because it was his birthday present and he was looking forward to it. My inauthenticity made it that much more stressful.
We walked in and approached the front desk. Picture the last time you went bowling, ice-skating or mini-golfing, and you've got the sign-in at Gilbert's: crummy, expansive front desk with cubbies, stain-proof industrial carpeting, affable staff dudes who have seen a million jokers just like you come through the door, death-and-injury waivers that you don't read, rental equipment that you hope has been thoroughly sanitized but probably hasn't.
So far, pretty unremarkable. The relentless gunfire sounds receded into the background as we focused on signing in. After the paperwork, we were directed to room where we would watch a safety video, take a quiz on said video, and receive some training. On the way to the room, we saw this:
.JPG)
Those squares under the animal heads are photos of Mr. Gilbert, I presume, with the original kill. All of the photos looked like they were from the 80s. The man in the photos held the freshly killed animal intimately, as if it were a lover.
Here was the element of "gun culture" that I anticipated and feared. I am completely ignorant about gun culture. But when I allow my ignorance to overtake my perception of how gun enthusiasts must think, I picture either something like this or something like Columbine. Something like a higher regard for destruction and artificial glory than for living things.
The class consisted of one teddy-bear-like black guy, two giggling black women in scrubs, a quiet Asian couple, Sir UncMo and me (Asian and white). I break all this down because I will admit to being mildly surprised that there were not more white dudes.
Goggles and protective headphones were distributed. We were all handed wipe-off markers and a multiple-choice quiz in laminated plastic. The vestigial part of me that did well in school wanted to go ahead and answer all the questions before watching the video, sure that I was smart enough to guess at these questions without watching the video. I mean, how hard could it be? Sir UncMo had the same impulse, knowing a ton about guns. But as we watched the poor-quality video being projected from a laptop on Windows Media Player, we realized we had some wrong guesses. We couldn't figure out the proper order among the multiple choice answers for unloading a handgun on our own, and they had some other tricky questions in there about the rules. The quiz wasn't "hard," but enough to make you pay attention if you're tempted to be an arrogant jerk like I was.
After the video, a jocular guy came in (I think someone else said it was Mr. Gilbert, who I think was also the one in the photos with the animals, but there was no way of connecting for sure the '80s safari guy in the photos with the smallish, older man in black who talked to us), went over the quiz answers (no one checked to see whether we had gotten any wrong), and shared enough anecdotes about people waving their guns around and holding their guns improperly that we all laughed knowingly and internally vowed not to be the one who shoots oneself in the face or injures a thumb because of an improper grip.
We were informed that we would be shooting .22 caliber handguns. "Don't worry," Sir UncMo reassured me. "A .22 is like a BB gun. It's nothing." He smiled with confidence. I stared blankly, not reassured. Couldn't a .22 still kill someone if misused?
At one point the instructor asked whether we knew which eye was dominant, and then told us how to judge: set your sight on one thing in the distance, cup your hands around that thing like you're making a viewfinder, and then close each eye to see which one got it right. I got put on the spot and was totally flustered, raising my right hand instead of my left, covering the wrong eye, etc. It was not looking good for me. If I couldn't even tell my right from my left, how could I be entrusted with a dangerous weapon?
The instructor seemed not at all concerned about our mental acuity. He made jokes and seemed utterly relaxed as he left us rubes to handle handguns for the very first time.
Finally, it was time to shoot. As instructed, we filed into the range with guns pointed down and fingers off the trigger. We filed into gray plastic blinds like you file into when you take a computerized driving test. At each station, a paper bullseye target was taped over the silhouette of a man, his crotch visible beneath the black rings. Sir UncMo handed me some bullets. I had learned in class how to fill a magazine, which was like a Pez dispenser, as the instructor said, and yet was the hardest part of the whole process because it was not easy for me to keep the lever pressed down with my thumb while I filed in the bullets with the other hand.
I pushed the magazine into the gun and cocked it. I allowed myself to imagine being in an action movie while doing this. I was careful to keep my thumbs on one side of the gun, as instructed, to avoid getting my thumb sliced by the action as it retracted. Slowly, breathlessly, I put my finger on the trigger, and squeezed it.
I braced hard for a recoil, but with my lightweight pistol, there really wasn't much of one. I squinted ahead, but it was impossible to tell whether I'd even hit the target -- or anything. It was disconcertingly anticlimactic. I reeled in the target: Most of my first shots fell outside the target range, but a few of them did hit the paper. Sir UncMo told me to be sure to line up the front sight with the marker at the back of the gun -- with that, I was landing a slew of shots near the bullseye (below).
.JPG)
Sir UncMo, of course, was tearing up the paper. He had experience and it showed. As I stepped over to see how he was doing, I noticed that the shells from his gun were flying off onto the floor where my flip-flop-bearing feet had been in the next stall. Had they just missed me before, or had I not even felt them?
I became absorbed in becoming a better shot, lining up my sights on the gun and then reeling in the target, pleased to see I was getting better and better. Part of me felt empowered and imagined fending off intruders, bad guys... while the other part of me remained fully aware that in all likelihood, in a real-life situation, I would lose all composure and this newfound know-how along with it.
For me, the sound of gunshots ripping through the air never completely lost unpleasantness, but otherwise, it felt recreational and safe. After we had shot our box of ammo, we both were ready to go.As we checked out, Sir UncMo noted that I had shot much better than one of the guys from our class. I tried not to mentally pursue the scenarios in which our single male cohort might actually fire a gun and whether his being a poor shot was reassuring or scary.
I had steeled myself for how intense and alien it would be to shoot a gun, to be armed with a deadly weapon. As it turned out, it was all too easy.
Music: "Bang"
Did you know that shooting a gun is so commonplace and accessible in America that there are Groupons for it? I didn't, until my sister gave Sir UncMo one as a gift for his birthday: a shooting range experience for two, value $123, for just $45. My sister, who lives in Gaithersburg, married a gun lover over a decade ago and has since become certified as a gun range marshal (can't remember whether it's at Gilbert's or another range). I don't really know what this means, other than I probably shouldn't ever anger my sister.
Sir UncMo's interest in shooting is just one of the many ways he has endeared himself to members of my family, and my sister's gift was a thoughtful one. So despite my antipathy toward gun ownership, and my complete lack of interest in firing anything unless it is a gas stove or an aromatherapy candle, we were bound for Gilbert's. I put off booking our appointment for so long that the Groupon had expired by the time I called, but Gilbert's was so overwhelmed with response to the Groupon that it extended the expiration date to accommodate everyone.
In case you haven't guessed as much by now, I was kind of dreading this whole thing. I pictured going into a gross industrial building (accurate), sitting through some training that would be painfully boring (partially accurate), making some kind of horrible or embarrassing mistake or, worse, beng the victim of one (not accurate), hanging around a bunch of pasty, pants-hitching, middle-aged males (partially accurate), witnessing something or someone really creepy (accurate) and/or generally losing my shit in response to some previously unknown deep emotional response to firing a deadly weapon (not accurate). I was hiding these thoughts from Sir UncMo and staying mostly upbeat because it was his birthday present and he was looking forward to it. My inauthenticity made it that much more stressful.
We walked in and approached the front desk. Picture the last time you went bowling, ice-skating or mini-golfing, and you've got the sign-in at Gilbert's: crummy, expansive front desk with cubbies, stain-proof industrial carpeting, affable staff dudes who have seen a million jokers just like you come through the door, death-and-injury waivers that you don't read, rental equipment that you hope has been thoroughly sanitized but probably hasn't.
So far, pretty unremarkable. The relentless gunfire sounds receded into the background as we focused on signing in. After the paperwork, we were directed to room where we would watch a safety video, take a quiz on said video, and receive some training. On the way to the room, we saw this:
.JPG)
Those squares under the animal heads are photos of Mr. Gilbert, I presume, with the original kill. All of the photos looked like they were from the 80s. The man in the photos held the freshly killed animal intimately, as if it were a lover.
Here was the element of "gun culture" that I anticipated and feared. I am completely ignorant about gun culture. But when I allow my ignorance to overtake my perception of how gun enthusiasts must think, I picture either something like this or something like Columbine. Something like a higher regard for destruction and artificial glory than for living things.
The class consisted of one teddy-bear-like black guy, two giggling black women in scrubs, a quiet Asian couple, Sir UncMo and me (Asian and white). I break all this down because I will admit to being mildly surprised that there were not more white dudes.
Goggles and protective headphones were distributed. We were all handed wipe-off markers and a multiple-choice quiz in laminated plastic. The vestigial part of me that did well in school wanted to go ahead and answer all the questions before watching the video, sure that I was smart enough to guess at these questions without watching the video. I mean, how hard could it be? Sir UncMo had the same impulse, knowing a ton about guns. But as we watched the poor-quality video being projected from a laptop on Windows Media Player, we realized we had some wrong guesses. We couldn't figure out the proper order among the multiple choice answers for unloading a handgun on our own, and they had some other tricky questions in there about the rules. The quiz wasn't "hard," but enough to make you pay attention if you're tempted to be an arrogant jerk like I was.
After the video, a jocular guy came in (I think someone else said it was Mr. Gilbert, who I think was also the one in the photos with the animals, but there was no way of connecting for sure the '80s safari guy in the photos with the smallish, older man in black who talked to us), went over the quiz answers (no one checked to see whether we had gotten any wrong), and shared enough anecdotes about people waving their guns around and holding their guns improperly that we all laughed knowingly and internally vowed not to be the one who shoots oneself in the face or injures a thumb because of an improper grip.
We were informed that we would be shooting .22 caliber handguns. "Don't worry," Sir UncMo reassured me. "A .22 is like a BB gun. It's nothing." He smiled with confidence. I stared blankly, not reassured. Couldn't a .22 still kill someone if misused?
At one point the instructor asked whether we knew which eye was dominant, and then told us how to judge: set your sight on one thing in the distance, cup your hands around that thing like you're making a viewfinder, and then close each eye to see which one got it right. I got put on the spot and was totally flustered, raising my right hand instead of my left, covering the wrong eye, etc. It was not looking good for me. If I couldn't even tell my right from my left, how could I be entrusted with a dangerous weapon?
The instructor seemed not at all concerned about our mental acuity. He made jokes and seemed utterly relaxed as he left us rubes to handle handguns for the very first time.
Finally, it was time to shoot. As instructed, we filed into the range with guns pointed down and fingers off the trigger. We filed into gray plastic blinds like you file into when you take a computerized driving test. At each station, a paper bullseye target was taped over the silhouette of a man, his crotch visible beneath the black rings. Sir UncMo handed me some bullets. I had learned in class how to fill a magazine, which was like a Pez dispenser, as the instructor said, and yet was the hardest part of the whole process because it was not easy for me to keep the lever pressed down with my thumb while I filed in the bullets with the other hand.
I pushed the magazine into the gun and cocked it. I allowed myself to imagine being in an action movie while doing this. I was careful to keep my thumbs on one side of the gun, as instructed, to avoid getting my thumb sliced by the action as it retracted. Slowly, breathlessly, I put my finger on the trigger, and squeezed it.
I braced hard for a recoil, but with my lightweight pistol, there really wasn't much of one. I squinted ahead, but it was impossible to tell whether I'd even hit the target -- or anything. It was disconcertingly anticlimactic. I reeled in the target: Most of my first shots fell outside the target range, but a few of them did hit the paper. Sir UncMo told me to be sure to line up the front sight with the marker at the back of the gun -- with that, I was landing a slew of shots near the bullseye (below).
.JPG)
Sir UncMo, of course, was tearing up the paper. He had experience and it showed. As I stepped over to see how he was doing, I noticed that the shells from his gun were flying off onto the floor where my flip-flop-bearing feet had been in the next stall. Had they just missed me before, or had I not even felt them?
I became absorbed in becoming a better shot, lining up my sights on the gun and then reeling in the target, pleased to see I was getting better and better. Part of me felt empowered and imagined fending off intruders, bad guys... while the other part of me remained fully aware that in all likelihood, in a real-life situation, I would lose all composure and this newfound know-how along with it.
For me, the sound of gunshots ripping through the air never completely lost unpleasantness, but otherwise, it felt recreational and safe. After we had shot our box of ammo, we both were ready to go.As we checked out, Sir UncMo noted that I had shot much better than one of the guys from our class. I tried not to mentally pursue the scenarios in which our single male cohort might actually fire a gun and whether his being a poor shot was reassuring or scary.
I had steeled myself for how intense and alien it would be to shoot a gun, to be armed with a deadly weapon. As it turned out, it was all too easy.
Music: "Bang"
Friday, June 15, 2012
The Struggle.
Editor's note: This post is inspired by the one here at TechCrunch.
"If I don't do nothin' I'mma ball
I'm countin' all day like the clock on a wall
Now go and get your money little duffle bag boy
Said go and get your money little duffle bag boy, get money"
—Lil' Wayne, "Duffle Bag Boy"
Every person starts life with a clear vision for success. You will be a fabulous human being and only work with amazing people. You will fulfill the promise of your expensive education and build a stellar career working for a cool company. You will delight others with hilarious things you say and jokes you post on the refrigerator in the break room. You will have an interoffice affair through which you either discover your lifelong mate or develop lifelong sexual apathy toward all coworkers. You will eventually write a bestselling book inspired by your storied life. Maybe make a YouTube video that goes viral. It's going to be absolutely awesome.
Then, after working all day and all… well, all day, which is frankly quite enough thanks, because you have other shit to do and reality shows to watch, you wake up to find that things did not go as planned. Your life did not unfold like those of the brilliant authors you worshipped in college, or even like Ally McBeal. Your fulfilling career is just a job at a startup that pays enough to keep you around and demands enough to keep you from doing anything productive for yourself, yet still does not allow you to pay off your student debt, go on real vacations or say things like, "I'm just taking a sabbatical and working on my book." Your officemates are all dim, annoying and/or unattractive. Your boss is kind of a dick. You are running low on cash and your parents tell you it will be difficult to raise money given the impending European catastrophe.
Your video has only 86 views on YouTube.
You lose your morale. You lose your drive. You lose (uh-oh!) your startup job. You eventually get another startup job that's exactly like the other one, only the benefits are worse. The walls start closing in. Where did you go wrong? As your dreams turn to nightmares, you find yourself in The Struggle.
About the Struggle
The Struggle is when you wonder why you started working for startups in the first place.
The Struggle is when people ask you why you don’t quit and you don’t know the answer. Or maybe you do know the answer: It involves your rent.
The struggle is when food loses its taste, but you shovel it in anyway.
The Struggle is when the CEO of your company should not be the CEO of your company, and you know that you have no power to replace him.
The Struggle is when you are having a conversation with someone and you can’t hear a word that they are saying because all you can hear is hipsters hand-grinding coffee and talking about going to see Band of Horses.
The Struggle is when you want the pain to stop, but you're not quite far gone enough to start drinking at work.
The Struggle is when you plan to go on vacation to feel better but feel worse upon realizing you can't afford it.
The Struggle is when you are surrounded by people, yet you are all alone, because they are all talking about venture rounds and you can't divine what a single one of them actually does for a living.
The Struggle is the land of broken promises and crushed dreams. The Struggle is a cold sweat. That cold sweat may also be your hangover.
The Struggle is not failure ¬— it is being dragged down by your company management's failure. Especially if you are weak. Always if you are weak.
Every great person, from your parents to the owner of the Chipotle franchise where you go to bury your sorrows, went through The Struggle, and struggle they did, so you are not alone. But that does not mean that you will make it. You may not make it. That is why it is The Struggle. If you aren't getting the idea after that series of thoughts, you are likely to struggle even more than others in life.
The Struggle is where fat comes from.
Some stuff that may or may not help
There is no answer to The Struggle, but here are some things that helped me:
Drinking.
Smoking weed.
Stealing petty items from the office.
Remembering that you are not a female employee at Kleiner Perkins.
Watching other people's viral videos on YouTube.
Don’t put it all on your shoulders – it is easy to think that the things that bother you don't upset your boss as much, especially when he asking you to restart the servers at 1 a.m. from his house in Cap Juluca. That’s not true. The things that bother you don't upset your boss at all. He has no idea what you even do.
Nobody feels it more than you, because no one is even in the office anymore. They have all gone to the beer garden.
This is not checkers; this is mutherfuckin’ chess – never mind that you have never played either game. The point is, there is always a move. How about quitting your job and just seeing how you can get by on freelancing in New York City? I made that move. I made it in 2001, and it was widely regarded as the worst time ever to try to stick it out in New York City. My creditors at Citibank think it's the best decision I ever made.
Focus on the road. A DUI is the last thing you need right now. If you focus on how you might fail, then you will have to take another sick day and you have already taken two this month.
Even if you only have one bullet left in the gun and you have to hit the target, focus on the target. Okay, put down the gun. You've gone too far and he's not worth it.
Play long enough and you might get lucky. If you survive long enough to see tomorrow, it will bring you coffee and your paycheck. It will also bring you the staff meeting, but try not to think about that now.
Don’t take it personally – the predicament that you are in is probably all your fault. You had the tequila. You made the decisions.
But you knew the job was lame when you took it. Everybody makes mistakes. Just ask the last person you hooked up with. Giving yourself an “F” doesn’t help. But harassing the intern might. Or maybe writing parodies of rich people's essays on TechCrunch.
Remember that this is what separates the women from the girls, or is it what separates the men from the boys? Unless you're in a sweatshop, in which case it's just all kids. Wait. What was I saying?
The end
When you are in The Struggle, nothing is easy and nothing feels right. You have dropped into the abyss and you may never get out. Who are we kidding: You will never get out. But work on your book proposal anyway. In my own experience, but for some unexpected luck and help, I would not have even found my pants today.
So to all of you in it, may you find strength and may you find peace. Because you probably won't find a bonus this year.
*Disclaimer: This is fictional. It is an amalgam of experiences, mine and others'. It remains true, for better or for worse, that I have never in my life smoked pot. Similarly, stealing petty office items is a weak fabrication that any startup employee would immediately sniff out, because most startups do not have anything in the office worth stealing.
"If I don't do nothin' I'mma ball
I'm countin' all day like the clock on a wall
Now go and get your money little duffle bag boy
Said go and get your money little duffle bag boy, get money"
—Lil' Wayne, "Duffle Bag Boy"
Every person starts life with a clear vision for success. You will be a fabulous human being and only work with amazing people. You will fulfill the promise of your expensive education and build a stellar career working for a cool company. You will delight others with hilarious things you say and jokes you post on the refrigerator in the break room. You will have an interoffice affair through which you either discover your lifelong mate or develop lifelong sexual apathy toward all coworkers. You will eventually write a bestselling book inspired by your storied life. Maybe make a YouTube video that goes viral. It's going to be absolutely awesome.
Then, after working all day and all… well, all day, which is frankly quite enough thanks, because you have other shit to do and reality shows to watch, you wake up to find that things did not go as planned. Your life did not unfold like those of the brilliant authors you worshipped in college, or even like Ally McBeal. Your fulfilling career is just a job at a startup that pays enough to keep you around and demands enough to keep you from doing anything productive for yourself, yet still does not allow you to pay off your student debt, go on real vacations or say things like, "I'm just taking a sabbatical and working on my book." Your officemates are all dim, annoying and/or unattractive. Your boss is kind of a dick. You are running low on cash and your parents tell you it will be difficult to raise money given the impending European catastrophe.
Your video has only 86 views on YouTube.
You lose your morale. You lose your drive. You lose (uh-oh!) your startup job. You eventually get another startup job that's exactly like the other one, only the benefits are worse. The walls start closing in. Where did you go wrong? As your dreams turn to nightmares, you find yourself in The Struggle.
About the Struggle
The Struggle is when you wonder why you started working for startups in the first place.
The Struggle is when people ask you why you don’t quit and you don’t know the answer. Or maybe you do know the answer: It involves your rent.
The struggle is when food loses its taste, but you shovel it in anyway.
The Struggle is when the CEO of your company should not be the CEO of your company, and you know that you have no power to replace him.
The Struggle is when you are having a conversation with someone and you can’t hear a word that they are saying because all you can hear is hipsters hand-grinding coffee and talking about going to see Band of Horses.
The Struggle is when you want the pain to stop, but you're not quite far gone enough to start drinking at work.
The Struggle is when you plan to go on vacation to feel better but feel worse upon realizing you can't afford it.
The Struggle is when you are surrounded by people, yet you are all alone, because they are all talking about venture rounds and you can't divine what a single one of them actually does for a living.
The Struggle is the land of broken promises and crushed dreams. The Struggle is a cold sweat. That cold sweat may also be your hangover.
The Struggle is not failure ¬— it is being dragged down by your company management's failure. Especially if you are weak. Always if you are weak.
Every great person, from your parents to the owner of the Chipotle franchise where you go to bury your sorrows, went through The Struggle, and struggle they did, so you are not alone. But that does not mean that you will make it. You may not make it. That is why it is The Struggle. If you aren't getting the idea after that series of thoughts, you are likely to struggle even more than others in life.
The Struggle is where fat comes from.
Some stuff that may or may not help
There is no answer to The Struggle, but here are some things that helped me:
Drinking.
Smoking weed.
Stealing petty items from the office.
Remembering that you are not a female employee at Kleiner Perkins.
Watching other people's viral videos on YouTube.
Don’t put it all on your shoulders – it is easy to think that the things that bother you don't upset your boss as much, especially when he asking you to restart the servers at 1 a.m. from his house in Cap Juluca. That’s not true. The things that bother you don't upset your boss at all. He has no idea what you even do.
Nobody feels it more than you, because no one is even in the office anymore. They have all gone to the beer garden.
This is not checkers; this is mutherfuckin’ chess – never mind that you have never played either game. The point is, there is always a move. How about quitting your job and just seeing how you can get by on freelancing in New York City? I made that move. I made it in 2001, and it was widely regarded as the worst time ever to try to stick it out in New York City. My creditors at Citibank think it's the best decision I ever made.
Focus on the road. A DUI is the last thing you need right now. If you focus on how you might fail, then you will have to take another sick day and you have already taken two this month.
Even if you only have one bullet left in the gun and you have to hit the target, focus on the target. Okay, put down the gun. You've gone too far and he's not worth it.
Play long enough and you might get lucky. If you survive long enough to see tomorrow, it will bring you coffee and your paycheck. It will also bring you the staff meeting, but try not to think about that now.
Don’t take it personally – the predicament that you are in is probably all your fault. You had the tequila. You made the decisions.
But you knew the job was lame when you took it. Everybody makes mistakes. Just ask the last person you hooked up with. Giving yourself an “F” doesn’t help. But harassing the intern might. Or maybe writing parodies of rich people's essays on TechCrunch.
Remember that this is what separates the women from the girls, or is it what separates the men from the boys? Unless you're in a sweatshop, in which case it's just all kids. Wait. What was I saying?
The end
When you are in The Struggle, nothing is easy and nothing feels right. You have dropped into the abyss and you may never get out. Who are we kidding: You will never get out. But work on your book proposal anyway. In my own experience, but for some unexpected luck and help, I would not have even found my pants today.
So to all of you in it, may you find strength and may you find peace. Because you probably won't find a bonus this year.
*Disclaimer: This is fictional. It is an amalgam of experiences, mine and others'. It remains true, for better or for worse, that I have never in my life smoked pot. Similarly, stealing petty office items is a weak fabrication that any startup employee would immediately sniff out, because most startups do not have anything in the office worth stealing.
Monday, April 02, 2012
Holding Pattern.
At the beginning of the year, I decided that 2012 was going to be about Letting Go. I was going to sell some things that were taking up both physical and emotional space; let go of the past, let go of the future. I gathered up some items, made lists, visited resellers, filled out charitable donation slips, (very) slowly winnowed away the memorabilia trove at my parents'.
I cancelled my subscription to Elle.
It wasn't a conscious decision to let go of this blog, but well, it looks like I did.
I don't know whether the fact that I haven't been motivated to post to this blog could be considered progress (dwelling less on the little things) or deterioration (it's not like I'm busy penning the Great American Novel instead), but there's no point in forcing things.
There's no point in forcing an artificial goodbye either, and I can't seem to pull the trigger on a farewell post. Instead I will just say thank you if you are reading this, and hope to conjure some entertainment for you, if not here then in a future venue soon.
I cancelled my subscription to Elle.
It wasn't a conscious decision to let go of this blog, but well, it looks like I did.
I don't know whether the fact that I haven't been motivated to post to this blog could be considered progress (dwelling less on the little things) or deterioration (it's not like I'm busy penning the Great American Novel instead), but there's no point in forcing things.
There's no point in forcing an artificial goodbye either, and I can't seem to pull the trigger on a farewell post. Instead I will just say thank you if you are reading this, and hope to conjure some entertainment for you, if not here then in a future venue soon.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Waiting.
The waiting room at the dentist this morning was quiet.
I've been going to this dentist in Gaithersburg for about 35 years. My hygienist today is someone I nicknamed "The Crusher" (inspired by the Warner Bros. cartoon featuring Bugs Bunny) at around 10 years old. I'm not sure whether my gums have gotten tougher or whether she's gotten gentler, but I don't think of her as The Crusher anymore. She even called me Christina, instead of the usual Christine.
It was a little disturbing to notice how close I was to enjoying the "oldies" that were being pumped through the loudspeaker. It was mostly '70s and early '80s stuff: "99" by Toto, "Ramblin Man" by the Allman Brothers. As a kid, the "oldies" were '50s and '60s songs that mostly were not of interest. It won't be long before I'm bopping to some '80s "oldie" and some kid is staring at me like I'm crazy. (I hope when that moment comes, it's a Prince song.)
The woman at the desk, Mary, has also been there for years and years. She always helps me pay for dental work that I vaguely cannot afford and she always asks me about my brother, usually managing to make a link to the fact that he is way more financially successful than I am and might step in if I ever need help with payment.
Today I walked in and gave Mary a smile. "Hi," I said.
"Hi," she said, and gave me a look that said, "What the hell do you want?"
She didn't recognize me? She didn't recognize me. She didn't?
"I'm here for my 11 a.m. appointment," I said, feeling embarrassed to say my name after all this time. In a moment, she seemed to realize who I was, or at least realize that she was supposed to realize who I was, and softened a little bit.
"OK," she said, and started to complain about the computer system freezing up.
Not sure what to do, I smiled uneasily and turned to the waiting room. I had recently read an article about some dude who analyzes speech patterns and noticed that people who are depressed use "I" more often than others. "I'M here for MY appointment," I had said. Shouldn't it be that people who use "I" are more self-centered? Where was that light box when I needed it? I I I.
Another person entered the office as I got settled. "I have an appointment but it's not until 12:00," he said. It was five of 11.
The receptionist said that was fine. "I'm sorry, I have to get here when MetroAccess says I can get here," the man said, pushing his walker in front of him. He had a sunny disposition that pushed ahead of him into the room.
"Make yourself comfortable," the receptionist said.
"I'm accustomed to waiting," he said, as assurance that he would make no trouble. He gave me a smile as he went by, and then sat down and ... well, he waited.
I was sort of stunned that anyone could get anywhere in Gaithersburg using public transportation, so that was the first thing that awed me about this man. The second thing was the way he waited. He just sat there placidly staring out the window with a vague smile on his face. No compulsive smartphone checking (like me). No magazine. No screens. Just being.
Accustomed to waiting.
Music: "Midnight City"
I've been going to this dentist in Gaithersburg for about 35 years. My hygienist today is someone I nicknamed "The Crusher" (inspired by the Warner Bros. cartoon featuring Bugs Bunny) at around 10 years old. I'm not sure whether my gums have gotten tougher or whether she's gotten gentler, but I don't think of her as The Crusher anymore. She even called me Christina, instead of the usual Christine.
It was a little disturbing to notice how close I was to enjoying the "oldies" that were being pumped through the loudspeaker. It was mostly '70s and early '80s stuff: "99" by Toto, "Ramblin Man" by the Allman Brothers. As a kid, the "oldies" were '50s and '60s songs that mostly were not of interest. It won't be long before I'm bopping to some '80s "oldie" and some kid is staring at me like I'm crazy. (I hope when that moment comes, it's a Prince song.)
The woman at the desk, Mary, has also been there for years and years. She always helps me pay for dental work that I vaguely cannot afford and she always asks me about my brother, usually managing to make a link to the fact that he is way more financially successful than I am and might step in if I ever need help with payment.
Today I walked in and gave Mary a smile. "Hi," I said.
"Hi," she said, and gave me a look that said, "What the hell do you want?"
She didn't recognize me? She didn't recognize me. She didn't?
"I'm here for my 11 a.m. appointment," I said, feeling embarrassed to say my name after all this time. In a moment, she seemed to realize who I was, or at least realize that she was supposed to realize who I was, and softened a little bit.
"OK," she said, and started to complain about the computer system freezing up.
Not sure what to do, I smiled uneasily and turned to the waiting room. I had recently read an article about some dude who analyzes speech patterns and noticed that people who are depressed use "I" more often than others. "I'M here for MY appointment," I had said. Shouldn't it be that people who use "I" are more self-centered? Where was that light box when I needed it? I I I.
Another person entered the office as I got settled. "I have an appointment but it's not until 12:00," he said. It was five of 11.
The receptionist said that was fine. "I'm sorry, I have to get here when MetroAccess says I can get here," the man said, pushing his walker in front of him. He had a sunny disposition that pushed ahead of him into the room.
"Make yourself comfortable," the receptionist said.
"I'm accustomed to waiting," he said, as assurance that he would make no trouble. He gave me a smile as he went by, and then sat down and ... well, he waited.
I was sort of stunned that anyone could get anywhere in Gaithersburg using public transportation, so that was the first thing that awed me about this man. The second thing was the way he waited. He just sat there placidly staring out the window with a vague smile on his face. No compulsive smartphone checking (like me). No magazine. No screens. Just being.
Accustomed to waiting.
Music: "Midnight City"
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
Digressions for 2012
- Rutabaga puts the soily, undesirable "root" into root vegetables, and I don't like it. I am adding that to my list of vegetables from which I am MovingOn.org, which includes green beans, lima beans and beets.
- Is that person truly boring, or have I just failed to access his or her interestingness?
- I am keeping the Christmas lights up too long, just because.
- The gym and yoga studio are super crowded right now. The yoga teacher said this happens every year and we should expect it to thin out by March. These people obviously don't know how to coast on workouts and feel guilty about that instead.
- Which of these establishments actually exists in St. Michaels, Md., and which is fake?
A. Frivolous Fibers
B. Critters and Crinolines
C. The Medicine Shoppe
D. What's This, What's That?
E. Diamonds in the Ruff (pet grooming)
F. A Wish Called Wanda
Answer: Only B is fake. The rest are real.
Music: "Super Bass"
- Is that person truly boring, or have I just failed to access his or her interestingness?
- I am keeping the Christmas lights up too long, just because.
- The gym and yoga studio are super crowded right now. The yoga teacher said this happens every year and we should expect it to thin out by March. These people obviously don't know how to coast on workouts and feel guilty about that instead.
- Which of these establishments actually exists in St. Michaels, Md., and which is fake?
A. Frivolous Fibers
B. Critters and Crinolines
C. The Medicine Shoppe
D. What's This, What's That?
E. Diamonds in the Ruff (pet grooming)
F. A Wish Called Wanda
Answer: Only B is fake. The rest are real.
Music: "Super Bass"
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