misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

Thank you for the encouraging responses to my previous post. I'd like to particularly thank "cialis overdose", "phentermine hong kong" and "free insurance quotes" for their words of support. Perhaps I'll try a new technique this weekend during my bachelor party, and "tweet" the happenings (notwithstanding the fact I don't have a twitter account). So, if you read updates such as "just puked on a beaver" and "didn't know a shotgun could open a coconut" it'll be for that reason.

I'm less than five weeks away from my public, civil, and religious commitment to a 27-year-old woman from Union County, New Jersey, and I've been unable to find the desire to record my thoughts. Instead, I've been meekly trying to complete this entry for over a month. Every time I start a sentence, my cells flood with disinterest and I close the window. This is unfortunate, as this site, in some form or another, has served as my front-facing communication solution since 2000. While over the past years I've found the time to assess the social implications of a co-worker flossing while I was taking a crap, the physics behind the riding of a koala bear, and the revulsion of those who recklessly use terms like "gang" and "ciao", I've found myself unwilling to write during what is arguably the most important weeks this blog has ever experienced.

When I started writing in 2000, blogs were new. The very concept of an "online journal" provided enough novelty to maintain an audience, regardless of the content. This is no longer true. Technology has delivered new ways to present content. If you still have a blog, it has to stay ahead of the curve with interesting or niche content. Just being a blog isn't enough. Initially, I never intended to write about my day-to-day life. My first ever posts were made to avoid having to send mass emails as I traveled across the world for the first time. Blogs are obviously at their best when the writer is doing something interesting that people want to hear about. Originally, my trip provided that content, and subsequent years have been punctuated by the occasionally interesting experience. In between these interesting experiences are mostly private experiences, which, while interesting, cannot be presented to the public in the form of a blog. Feelings would be hurt. Boring experiences fill the remaining void, and boring experiences aren't worth writing blogs about. They are supposed to be Twittered or thrown on Facebook. Life can now be successfully be updated in twenty word status updates. Two thousand word entries seem wasteful. Everyone is online. Everyone is posting. Our attention spans are under assault. You cannot keep up. Content is flooding the internet, in some sense polluting the ideal of quality I once strived for. Just because you can self-publish, doesn't mean you should.

Furthering the slow, but certain, demise of this blog, is the reality that I no longer have an audience. The group I once wrote to so many years ago has dissipated and fragmented, leaving individual readers who no longer even know the people or places I spend most of the time with these days. There is no relevance.

In short, times have changed, and my forthcoming wedding has confirmed this fact more than any other, which is directly why the issue of this blog has been brought to a head.

Half the attendees at my bachelor party are people I met in New York. None of those people read this blog.

Half the people this blog was originally started to keep updated weren't even invited to the wedding. Some of the ones who were invited aren't coming (or responding at all, particularly those based in Seattle). This follows logic. To some extent, those friendships are locked in the past. We shared a common time and lay claim to the same memories, but they reside in the past (when I weighed thirty pounds less).

This blog never caught on with my family. My dad still thinks the internet is the name of a fishing apparatus. Writing about the stress his recent declaration of bankruptcy has placed upon the planning of this wedding wouldn't serve much purpose. Debbie may peek in every now and then, but her blog better explains the issues where our lives intersect, particularly when those issues involve Airbuses that break apart in the sky, in a way I promised was mechanically impossible and understandably damages the fragile truce recently made with a fear of flying.

Some have issued complaints about the cost of attending a New York wedding. This is an inevitable byproduct of the aforementioned life changes. Everyone now lives in different places and varying levels of family building. This is simply a consequence of getting married in my thirties. I've paid my own dues. I've spent over $12,000 in the past four years attending five destination weddings and two bachelor parties. The bulk of these trips came in the first few years of my move to NYC to start a new career, during which I made $35,000 dollars a year while crippled with $60,000 in school debt. Ironically, the people who have bitched the most to me have the most (Lee will still be trying to sleep on my couch when he is 58 and has four kids).

In other ways, the old group continues to impress. In an epic show of class, the friends whose wedding I most regret not being able to get to in the past years, P and Rosie, have been the most gracious and accommodating in their attempts to make it to mine. To you, I can only offer my sincere apology. Had I known at the time the immense amount of emotional energy and effort it take to plan a wedding (and the importance of RSVP cards), I would have sacrificed what was needed to come out. Hector and Gao never hesitated in their acceptance. Ditto to Kenta, Kenny, Noah, Katie, Taj. I appreciate the sacrifices. As I know, it takes supreme effort.

To those who have recently been laid off, I'd suggest a career as a babysitter, as i've been told California has a severe shortage of them.

This entry has proved the point. I had to write all of these reflections in one bulk entry, when instead it should have either been broken up into a thousand separate status updates, turned into a comedy piece, or funneled into a short film rant. The blog has served its purpose nobly. But unless I suddenly get a job as Megan Fox's personal assistant, or attempt to sail around the world in a beer keg, or become a White House correspondent, it is time for this blog to get in step with all the other changes that have swept through our world.

Thanks to those of you who have stuck around this long. I look forward to delivering content to you in new, exciting, and, hopefully, entertaining ways.

I had the pleasure today of realizing that my life is at the halfway mark, according to a Roth IRA slider tool:

The tool does an accurate job of summarizing what I've accomplished in the previous thirty-three years (a straight baby-blue line of blah), and how quickly I am unavoidably and inconsequentially sliding towards old age. But hey! At least when I hit the end I'll have a Roth IRA that I can use to pay for Lipitor and Hip Replacements!

I recently had an idea for website that made fun of old people, since they are fun to make fun of and can't get on the internet so would never know I was making fun of them. It was going to be called Hey Nana! and have a new question posted every day. Kind of like Fuck You, Penguin! But then I had knee surgery and got engaged, and i'm lazy and this idea no longer inspires me, so I don't think I'll put time into a site anymore, but I will post some of the early entries here:

HEY NANA! Stop calling yourself nana. You're not fancier than a grandma.

HEY NANA! How'd your feet get so swollen?

HEY NANA! You accidentally colored your scalp instead of your eight pieces of hair.

HEY NANA! I don't think that hair color has been identified by science.

HEY NANA! Where'd you get that Buick?

HEY NANA! Why do you have more facial hair than me?

HEY NANA! Why are you carrying more bags in your bags?

HEY NANA!Why'd you vote down the school budget?

HEY NANA! You left your blinker on.

HEY NANA! Is Pop in heaven?

HEY NANA! How much is your Franklin Mint statue collection is worth?

HEY NANA! Thanks for blocking traffic for forty minutes as you crawled onto the bus.

HEY NANA! What happened to your eyebrows?

HEY NANA! Why do you eat dinner at 3?

HEY NANA! Why are there tennis balls on your walker?

HEY NANA! Stop insulting Beyonce

HEY NANA! How old is the candy in that bowl?

HEY NANA! Don't send me that email forward.

HEY NANA! Why are you selling dad's baseball cards for 1/100th of their actual value?

HEY NANA! Stop pulling out your old-ass bags as your plane is sinking

HEY NANA! Where'd you get those fashionable shoes?

I'd like to draw your attention to the Yahoo! Travel ad at the bottom of this image:

So let you and me have a quick talk, Yahoo!. If you'd like to encourage me to take a trip, please refrain from reminding me that I am pasty, white, and have a coral reef of fat swimming above my waist. And the picture of a man in your ad has reminded me exactly of this, because he is ripped, tan, wearing white capri pants, and holding the hand of a female model in red. Am I supposed to identify with this couple? Like "oh look there's me and Jill walking down some random beach in the southern hemisphere". Instead I am thinking "shit I haven't been to the gym in six days and had a bag of chips for lunch". If you want me to go, show a really fat dude with floaties around his arms holding the hand of an elderly woman pushing an oxygen tank. I might think "hmm i'm better then them I should take a vacation".

As i've made a basic life goal out of not being attacked by a grizzly bear, black bear, brown bear, koala bear, polar bear, panda bear, teddy bear, great white shark, hammerhead shark, bull shark, tiger shark, land shark, loan shark, hippopotamus, bengal tiger, siberian tiger, crocodile, sundial, black mamba, black widow, any other black thing with teeth, and rabid eagles, I've made certain sacrifices in my life.

One such sacrifice involves my choice of housing locales. As example, to avoid attack by shark or any other water-based predator, I've decided to live on land. Further, I've decided to avoid water-based activities, including, but not limited to, jet-skiing, surfing, harpooning, pearl diving, and lake bukakke. In this way, I can avoid unpleasant things, such as the placement of tiger shark jaws upon my thigh and fibula bone. I've also chosen not to live in the Serengeti, trees, deserts, cliffs, glaciers, caves, canyons, wild plains, or jungles.

I can attest to one thing: If I were to live in, say, the Yucatan jungle, and, during the course of my residency, a panther managed to gnaw my hands off, you would not hear me complain about it. Why? Because the Yucatan jungle is where the panther lives. It is not where the Mark lives. If the Mark were to go the panther, he would be doing so with full acknowledgment and acceptance of the risks associated with that decision. He would not then, say, go on TV and complain about the panther.

So, then, explain this to me. You move from Washington to Eagle River, Alaska, which is pretty much the home of bears, I mean come on - "Eagle River"? There's eagles at a river, which means there is fish at the river, which means there are bears at the river, not to mention you are in Alaska. And then you start up a nice little suburb and people move into houses next to the eagles and fishes and bears, and then you complain about the bears? You want to kill them? That's quite rude. That would be like me moving into the White House and then complaining that there were too many black presidents walking around. At what point were you given priority to move to where the bears were, express dismay at their presence, and then demand that they should be killed? I've already described my personal solution to this problem: If you do not like bears, move out of places where they live, rather than killing them all so you and your ignorant kids can drink their Hi-C in peace. Look, if I were in my second-floor walk-up apartment in Brooklyn, and a grizzly bear sauntered out of my kitchen with a bag of cheesie poofs, I'd be pretty upset. I might even be ok with someone killing it. But if I lived in Eagle River, and saw the same thing, I would not be upset.

This happened to me in San Diego. I lived at the edge of a new development of houses built into the canyons. Coyotes live in dry brush canyons of the American West. Hence, there were coyotes that would get into garbage cans, eat cats and small dogs. There were also rattlesnakes and black widows (white widows too .. lots of old women in general). Some people wanted to kill all the coyotes. I would invite the coyotes into the backyards of these people with the aid of dead rabbits. If you don't like coyotes, don't live in the canyon. Or at least don't bitch.

I live in Brooklyn, New York, and have yet to see a alligator, boxing kangaroo, jellyfish, or any other animal. It is one of the perks of living here. So if the bears upset you, we'd be more than happy to have you. Eagle Creek is their home - not yours.

Jill made me watch The Biggest Loser finale last night. While I found it inspirational and could see why it is popular, it says something illuminative about America that our most popular show idolizes people whose entire claim to fame is that they found a way to stop being so fat.

From The New York Times, May 4th, 2009:

"As Dr. Mark L. Willenbring of the National Institute on Alcohol Abuse and Alcoholism put it in Ms. Benton's book: "People can be dependent and not have abuse problems at all. They're successful students. They're good parents, good workers. They watch their weight. They go to the gym. Then they go home and have four martinis or two bottles of wine. Are they alcoholics? You bet."

I interrupt this article to say: oh shit. Now, back to the article.

"In the interview, Ms. Benton listed several characteristics that can help people recognize themselves as high-functioning alcoholics:

Well, it's official. I'm a functioning alcoholic. At least according to Ms. Benton, Dr. Mark L. Willenbring, and the NY Times. I certainly behave "uncharacteristically" of my sober self when I drink (which is, in fact, why I drink in the first place). I often consider when and where and with whom I will drink next (which is, in fact, the sole reason I ever have for leaving my house). I definitely have trouble controlling my intake, although, who exactly sets a pre-given amount of alcohol to drink before they go out and drink? Do they bring a scale with them to the bar? A measuring cup? Remind me not to drink with these people.

So, I'm a functioning alcoholic. Before continuing, let's break down that phrase.

Am I functioning? Well, apparently, yes, I am. If I were a non-functioning alcoholic, would I even be able to write this blog? No. I'd either be too interested in drinking to write, too drunk too write, or too drunk to pay rent on the apartment I'd need to write from. And why is the idea of functioning at anything bad? Like what about a "functioning construction worker"? A "functioning dolphin"? A "functioning popsicle "? I'd gladly hire a functioning construction worker to work on my functioning kitchen. But then they throw out this negative word after the positive word, to fuck up the original word and push you into double-entendres.

As far as the alcoholic part, I had to dig a little deeper to determine exactly what that meant. Fortunately, the NY Times provides more insight. From another article we learn the following:

"12 ounces of regular beer = 8 to 9 ounces of malt liquor = 5 ounces of table wine = 1.5 ounces of 80-proof hard liquor. Thus, one bottle of wine equals five drinks. Forty ounces of malt liquor or a half-pint of hard liquor equals four and a half drinks. Also, many light beers have nearly as much alcohol as regular beer, and a single mixed drink can contain three or more standard drinks.

The institute defines low-risk drinking, for men, as consuming no more than 4 drinks on any day and no more than 14 drinks a week. For women, the limit is three drinks on any day and no more than seven drinks a week. Drinking more than these amounts in a day or during a week is considered at-risk or heavy drinking. "

This is problematic considering on Saturday night alone, I exceeded their definition of 14 drinks a week. Which I think, according to other sources, makes me a binge drinker in addition to being a functional alcoholic, although I'm not sure how many nights a week of drinking are required to make me functioning. I may have two bottles of wine on occasion, but not every night.

Here's the problem: so what? According the aforementioned asshole's definition, we are successful students, good workers, good parents. We watch our weight and we go to the gym. We go to church. We pay taxes. SO WHAT THE FUCK IS THE PROBLEM! How perfect would you have me be? What would you have me do after two hours at knee rehab, ten hours writing copy for a Roth IRA Rollover ad, and forty minutes on a subway? Watch Everybody Loves Raymond episodes while eating carrots and reading the Bible on my Kindle before sipping some tea and turning in early? And what, exactly, is the consequence of my alcoholism if I am functioning? The harshest consequence for you all thus far is disruptive phone calls at 3:22 A.M. or paying witness to bad dancing.

This gets back to the core argument against vegetarianism, abstinence, temperance, early bedtimes, and every other extreme argument Puritan America throws at me: My goal isn't only to extend life, it is to enjoy it. Watching TiVo while eating carrots is more enjoyable with an Old-Fashioned in my hand than it is with a Lime Spritzer. This holds true every day of the week (at least for me). Drinking helps minimize stress. It helps me meet new friends. It has directly helped me get promotions. It has helped me tell the truth. It has helped me see a side of people I never would have otherwise. It helps me enjoy life. Yes, sometimes it also helps me throw up and throw remote controls. If that makes me a functional alcoholic, then so it does. However, that definition must reconcile the fact that of the past year at work, my fondest memories are of the going away parties and happy hours and lunches that turned into dinners, not the work itself. Puritan America seems content to preach to value of modest living, without preaching the reasons. If 14 drinks a week makes functioning alcoholics, then the entire country of the Czech Republic is comprised of functioning alcoholics, as they have two half-litres of beer with lunch, and a minimum of two with dinner. They are also twice as happy as any American I've ever met, but apparently that is besides the point. According to Puritan America, life is for extension, not enjoyment. In Puritan America, eighty-eight years of boring life with boring meals and boring conversations is worth more than seventy-nine years of exciting life with unexpected experiences and new friends and nights that melt away into mornings and, eventually, hangovers.

I may even call Dr. Mark L. Willenbring later tonight to tell him what I think of his definition. I may be a functional alcoholic, but I find that preferable to being a functional asshole. And let me end with a quote from the great Winston Churchill (who drank every morning and every night and lived well into his eighties):

"He has all of the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire".

You charged me $22.50 for a plate of fetucinni alfredo. It was eight years ago and I was in Cabo San Lucas, eating dinner at a mediocre-to-decent tourist restaurant (as if there is anything other than tourist restaurants in Cabo San Lucas). If this were the United States, your restaurant would be the equivalent to a Macaroni Grill or Olive Garden, neither of which charge $22.50 for a plate of pasta, even the ones in New York.

Speaking of, why the fuck were you even serving pasta in Cabo San Lucas? When did Mexican food stop being cool for you? Was it too hard to convince fat Americans to spend $22.50 on a burrito? Even one with fresh camarones? Were so many Americans demanding pasta that you readily gave up your own cuisine to make a buck? And why was I buying it?

Mostly because I was still under the impression that you were the Mexico of my youth, when my family would drive down Highway One to Ensenada, the air heavy with the smell of rotting kelp and donkeys, stopping along the way in La Mision for a seaside lobster dinner, costing at most $9.99. You see, Mexico, that was your charm. Your ocean was the same one we had in San Diego, albeit a little dirtier. Your people were pretty much the same too, especially those of us who worked in San Ysidro. What we came for the culture and the price. It was well known: There were deals to be had in Mexico. While yes, I was a spoiled white suburban boy from the United States coming to exploit your country with the money daddy gave me, you must admit you were complicit in the affair. You gladly sold me shitty, fake leather wallets for well more than they were worth, to mention nothing of your adobe pigs and rough-hewn blankets. But the relationship was good! Why did you have to change it? I happily gave you money, convinced I was getting a deal. And you happily took my money, convinced you had ripped me off.

But you had to get greedy, Mexico. You weren't happy being Mexico any longer. You wanted to be a browner version of the United States or Japan or Sweden, with better beans. When I went to Cozumel in 2005 you charged me $5,250 for a beach house, which officially put you in the territory of the Hamptons and well-past the territory of the Florida Keys. And unfortunately, you aren't much prettier than Florida Keys. You see, Mexico, the Hamptons can get away with that pricing because the laws of the United States guarantee certain ... privileges ... that we Americans are will to pay for: Plumbing, potable water, prevention from attacks by hungry wild dogs, food not seasoned with Hepatitis A, and regulations on cabs.

I mention this last one, Mexico, because you charged me $60 to go one way between my house in Cozumel and the grocery store, which was twenty minutes away. In case you've never been to New York City, Mexico, a taxicab from JFK to anywhere in Manhattan is limited to charging $45, by law. So now, Cozumel, you have become even more expensive than New York City, meaning I have no reason to visit you. You've lost your charm of an affordable vacation spot.

Did I mention the monstrosity known as Cancun? You know, that city your government built in 1967 after a study by Banco de Mexico as to the best location for ripping off American tourists? The place with over 150 hotels and 380 restaurants, most of them chains? Did you know last time I was there I asked our hotel concierge where we could go for an authentic Mexican dinner, you know, since all I saw around me were Tony Romas and Buffalo Wild Wings, and you sent us on a twenty-five minute drive just to find Mexican food? And once we were there each dish was $18.95 or more? Granted, I wasn't expecting you to send me to a local plumber's house for a free menudo dinner, but something closer to "authentic" would have been nice.

So now, Mexico, I've read that the IMF has released a report warning you are in grave danger of going bankrupt, similar to Iceland. And then the Swine Flu hit (which was originally called the Mexican Swine Flu, until you balked). And you know what? I couldn't be happier. Don't you see, Mexico? That's why we go! The thrill of possibly catching Swine Flu! And the deals that come with that threat! It's the same reason I went to Jack in the Box two days after six hundred people were sickened with E. Coli! The deals! If I wanted to go somewhere clean that strictly followed the most stringent of health codes, I'd go to a resort in Palm Springs or Sedona. But I don't. I go to you, Mexico, for Mexican food and fresh Seafood (not Italian food or Chinese food) that is more affordable than that I might buy in, say, Oslo. I go to you for a beautiful view of the Caribbean Sea or Pacific Ocean that is below a fair price of $150 a night. I go to you for your people, and your music, and your land, and yes, for your prices.

Don't ever forget If Mcdonald's started charging $18.95 for a burger nobody would go. And yet they are the among the richest companies in the world. One 99-cent burger at a time. While I admire your desire to find the success of a country like the United States, and match our wages, and our popularity, and our sanitation, once you reach this point, I have no reason to go to you any more, Mexico. All you will have become is a lesser version of the United States, replete with overpriced houses and dickhead Investment bankers and restaurants that charge $14.50 for guacamole and chips, and that is exactly what I am trying to escape. I'll have to find somewhere else affordable. Guatemala. El Salvador. A war-torn country.

So, whether you know it or not, swine flu and bankruptcy is the best thing to ever happen to you. And yes, that is the opinion of a spoiled white ignorant American asshole, but believe me, you won't care about that when I agree to buy your fake gold necklace for $15 dollars more than you spent on it. I will be happy thinking I'm exploiting you, but deep down, you'll know you are exploiting me. You'll know that for all my arrogant judgments and feelings of superiority, you are better than me. And that, mis amigos, is what makes neighbors muy bueno.

As a requisite for marriage in his church, St. Charles Borromeo, the priest is asking me to partake in the sacrament of penance (more commonly known as confession, or, if you are over 170 years-old and know the Beatitudes by heart, reconciliation). This request has put me on edge, as it has been some time since my last confession. For one thing, I am no longer familiar with the process, and when I'm not familiar with a process, I do something stupid. Further, I sin about forty-eight times a day (leaving me just behind the daily pace of a jaywalking weed dealer and John Edwards), so I'll have to make a selective decision as to which sins I actually highlight. In any event, I have been practicing so I can be prepared for the day. I see it going something like this:

Hello, Father. It's been ... maybe .. sixteen years since my last confession? Seventeen? I can't quite remember. I think it was soon after I killed that Nicaraguan slutbag in San Ysidro [Awkward Pause] Ha, ha, just joking, Father .... I'm aware this probably isn't the best place for jokes. This is just a little ... uncomfortable ... so .. anyway, it has been sixteen years , let's say, plus or minus fifteen years, since my last confession. And let's just say I have some sins backed up that need some absolving. Where do I begin? With the masturbation? That one is fresh on my mind because, well, anyway ... That's a big sin, right? I remember reading the small book my mom had when I was a kid ... I think it was called "Raising Children in the Catholic Tradition" or some shi - some shiznet. Anyway, there was a chapter in there on how to guide your children away from the act of self-pleasure, because self-pleasure was a sin. It even had some logic about why it was a sin - which wasn't all that logical, if you don't mind me saying. Apparently, the chapter wasn't very effective, as I still - Well, is touching the head of your God Rod for pleasure still a sin? Is the church still against everything that feels good? [Awkward Pause] Right, right. So there's that, which I'm sorry for. And - hey is swearing a sin? I mean, I know taking the Lord's name in vain is a sin - Goddamn, etc. But the others? Shit? Fuck? Because, I do that a lot -to describe temperature, the quality of food, whether or not I think there are wild hamsters. So. Hmmm. I mean, do you want me to go into big sins? Like the seven deadly sins? Like ... avarice? What is avarice again? What? Greed? Like drinking two beers when you should only have one? I definitely have to ask you to forgive me for that then. Sorry, I mean ask God to forgive me. I definitely do some of those other deadly sins, too, like at least three or four of them. Lust, envy, sloth - Hey did you see that SNL skit on sloths? Pretty funny. Oh right - You probably have to be in bed early on Saturday nights since you, uh, you know .... So ... are you looking for specific sins here? Like the other day when I was late to work and I said it was because of dentist appointment but really it was because I was hungover? Is being hungover a sin? I definitely plead guilty to that. And drinking - but I know you guys drink so I think I'm cool there. Water into wine, right Father? So where were we. Right, specific sins. Do you actually have to do the sin for it to be a sin? Because the other day this chick got on the elevator talking on her cellphone, and then kept going "hello? hello? are you there?" after the doors closed and we were shooting into the sky. Who gets surprised when they lose a phone connection in an elevator? So I briefly imagined pummeling her face into the elevator doors. But just imagined, of course. Would never do something like that. Unless I was drunk, maybe. But I'm usually not drunk in elevators, fortunately. Is that enough? Do you want me to talk about my last trip to Vegas? Because I'm not sure how much time you have ... Ok .. I'll just be over here then, saying some Hail Marys and Our Fathers and all that.