misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

I've been working my balls off these past few weeks, unfortunately (balls which are, according to Jill, small). I had a pretty good streak of about one year's worth of laziness that was recently broken by the assigning of an assignment I actually cared about. In times of trial, the first thing to go is the blog. To mention nothing of the fact that Sy/Lee were here for the past week. So, during the previous week, a typical day went something like this:

1) Work 12 hours.
2) Drink 12 hours.
3) Sleep 1.2 hours.

I won't complain. It was one of the few weeks of my life where I actually just went with the flow and didn't worry about the next day, or being responsible. I just did what I wanted to do, and if that meant being tired and hungover at work the next day, well then, as someone might say before trying live squid, fuck it. It was a novel approach. Each night, after work, i'd think to myself, I need to get some fucking sleep and eat some fucking vegetables ASAP. Instead, we'd go to Comedy Cellar, or sail around the Hudson, or go bowling, or play Buck Hunter, or get a steak dinner, or walk around Central Park. And, of course, enhance each of these activities through the assistance of alcohol. And each time I did it, no matter how tired I was going in, I ended up less tired coming out. It's probably the closest my life has come to embracing my least favorite advice of all time: Carpe Diem. It gets back to my original fear that our generation is saving everything in 401Ks, and Roth IRAs, and organic foods, and then, finally, when we are 70 and we get to enjoy the money we've saved, our gall bladders will be out-of-control, our backs will hurt, and our minds will be cloudy. So it won't really matter. Hence, the need for a week like last week. Instead of Carpe Diem, i'll go with a modern version of it: Fuck It. Because really, it isn't about seizing the day. It is about not letting the day seize you. So when the day comes up and try to fuck you, you say no, i'm going to fuck it. Fuck saving money. Fuck avoiding fried foods. Fuck getting 10 hours of sleep. Fuck not eating past midnight. Fuck the rule banning open bottles of Jamaican Rum on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. It is that mentality that ultimately lets you put aside all the stress that modern society has placed squarely on our Dorito-stained hands. Obviously, for this theory to be effective, you can only do weeks like this every two months or so - though it is important to have these weeks, to justify the weeks of pure responsibility. If you go twenty years being responsible, then you will forget how to be irresponsible, which is really when life is at its most enjoyable. After a few months of too much responsibility, your head gets in a rut, where you question everything. You can't have that Coke, cause Coke has too much sugar. You go to a movie, cause you should save that money. You can't go to Happy Hour, cause you need to go to the gym. So you do these things you are supposed to. And you hate every second of it. Then you lose the ability to enjoy anything, and you are, as before, fucked by the day. Granted, this advice is as generic as carpe diem, but it works.

As you may have ascertained from Amanda's blog, we're in the final pool to appear on Who Wants to Be A Millionaire. To prepare for this possible event, I've begun studying general trivia each day. Around lunch, I take about thirty minutes to look up all the shit that I think might be helpful. Today, I studied the direction of the Great Lakes from west to east (Superior, Michigan, Huron, Erie, and Ontario). I studied the order of planets by size (earth is fifth-largest). I read up on the plot outlines and characters of Moby Dick (remember Ahab, Ishamel, and Pequod - the name of their ship), Brigadoon (imaginary Scottish town that appears one every century), and all Tennessee William's plays. Now, I'm on Greek Gods. Important to know the Muses, I figure. I'll share the more important tidbits with you in case you ever find yourself in a trivia showdown with the devil for your soul. Then you'll bust out Pequod and save yourself, and have me to thank.

Work has gone back to normal levels, meaning I can once again get back to what's important: studying trivia. On today's list: the zodiac calendar, English royalty (Elizabeth I was the Virgin Queen. Henry VIII, creator of Church of England, was married six times), French royalty (Louis XVI was king during the French Revolution. Louis the XIV was the Sun King, the longest serving French king of all-time), and studying the important elements of all US Presidents, including where they graduated college, their political party, and Vice-Presidents.

The problem with this approach is that Millionaire usually asks pop culture questions, which is harder to study for. So even though I can now tell you Gerald Ford graduated from University of Michigan, I cannot tell you which celebrity was on the cover of Entertainment Weekly the most times in 2006, or who the lead drummer for Coldplay is, which I'm certain will be the type of question I get. Regardless, I love the attempt to fill my mind with facts once again. There are so many loose ends in my mind - names, places, and things i've heard about over the years, but never exactly knew anything about it: Who was Barbara Stanwyck (four academy award nominations)? What was the name of the first spacecraft to land on the moon (Apollo 11)? What geologic period did dinosaurs appear in (mesozoic)? I've got to hit biology, math, sports records, history of cereal, periodic charts, seas of the world, types of hair spray. Everything.

I don't mind losing on a question that I have no idea about. But I will not accept losing on a question that I should know, or once knew, but then forgot. Ultimately, once you get into it, you realize you have truly come across infinity. From my perspective, there really is an infinite amount of facts out there. Who is the all-time goal scorer in NHL history? What show did Nell Carter appear in after Nell? What does the "WD" stand for in WD-40?

A huge part of trivia, particularly when you are given the answer, unlike Jeopardy, is being able to determine the answer through elimination. This is an advantage, as I don't necessarily need to know what is right, I just need to know what is wrong. And the more I know, the greater my chances of doing this. This also means paying attention more. Maybe in reading Taj's blog, I will come across a name for a tooth that i'll need to know. Maybe looking at the cover of magazines while at the store will help me. It can come from anywhere, anytime. Essentially, I have to do something I haven't done in about six years: pay attention. Now, there is something to gain from the inane conversations I used to dred. Everyone has something to teach. Go ahead and ramble on how Paris Hilton went to jail - just be sure to tell me what the name of the jail was, the length of the sentence, and what her dog's name is. I'll be listening intently. And don't freak out if I start taking notes.

Everything is a question. Eating a salad for lunch, i wonder: what country is the number one exporter of spinach? what is that country's independence day? what year did "Independence Day" come out? how many top Billboard hits did Will Smith have?

Even if I never get asked any of these questions, I've remembered what I loved about trivia in the first place. Curiosity about the world. Wonder. I care again. In everything is meaning. I know .00000009 percent of things there is to know in this world. So why am I so disinterested in everything? There are too many great stories out there. If I can parlay one of these into $250,000, great. If not, I've still gained.

Speaking of gains, who was William Gaines again? Gotta go look ...

Since my dad discovered how to work email several years ago, I've received about two or three emails a month from him. Predominantly, these emails are chain mails that old people, unfamiliar with email protocol, often send. These emails usually share common identifying characteristics. They are:

1) Poorly Formatted: They have the carrot (>>>>>>) thing going that only happens when someone (i.e. old person) doesn't really understand their email client. The bigger issue is that, because my dad usually gets his emails from other old people, his emails are a culmination of weeks of incompetence piled on top of itself. As such, by the time I get the forward, there are so many spaces, colors, and random characters in the email, I have to scroll down for about twenty minutes before I hit the original message. It's like looking for a pretty girl in Sunnyvale (i.e. possible, but takes way too much effort, and usually has little pay-off). Adding insult to this electronic injury, even though the original email was just a two line joke, after all the formatting issues, it has bulged to about 10 MB in size.

2) Out-Of-Date: Because the people in question are old, they are behind the times. About six years behind the times, to be exact. This means that the emails I get from my dad are emails that I've already received from others. About 6 years ago, when email started. You know the Microsoft email stating that Bill Gates will send you 100 dollars just for forwarding the email? I'm sure you do, because it was one of the first-ever chain mails. I got it right around the same time I graduated college. Apparently, it is just reaching my dad as of about two weeks ago. Worse, it has about 6-years worth of poor formatting.

3) Inexplicable: Old people send along the chain mails that people of our generation have learned to delete due to the bullshit factor. These include emails promising money, good luck, or material reward for passing along, emails developing urban legends (like if you flash your lights at a car without them on, you'll get killed), and emails with a hundred picture attachments. Due to their technological castration, they also send along email petitions, in which they ask you to support some sort of issue by signing the bottom of the email and moving along. These too are poorly formatted.

4) Game-based: Old people like clever little games, like the one where you assign different numbers to the letters of the alphabet, then add up the number value of your name, and divide by the year, and somehow it hits a specific number listed at the end of the email. Like 89. Or really bad word games. Or emails that go completely over my head, such as the one that said, "You know you're from the midwest when ...", like, "You know you're from the midwest if you say pop instead of soda." Um. Ok.

5) Republican-ism: It's not in doubt: old people are republicans. All of them. That is why they send you emails of American flags, war support, and prayer chains (on a secret note, I'd love to pass along one of these prayer chains to you guys, just to see your reaction. For some reason, I can't imagine Age and Neal continuing this chain. Who knows, maybe I'm wrong). These particular emails are the ones that get me the most, as they usually criticize issues that I differ from my father on - the issues that old, white people have strong opinions on: immigration, death penalty, foreign policy. I usually let these emails go through without response, out of a) respect for my father and b) laziness. But yesterday, I'd had enough.

My dad sent along a chain mail spewing all sorts of racist facts about illegal immigrants, and demanding that we take action. Some highlights:

• "The FBI reports half of all members of gangs are illegal immigrants"

• "95% warrants for murder in Los Angeles County are for illegal immigrants"

• "LA County has over 21 spanish-speaking radio stations" (so fucking what??)

• "40% of workers in LA don't pay taxes because they are illegals"

The email claimed these facts, and the others, were from the LA Times. Which, of course a little bit of internet investigation revealed to be totally untrue. The email also said we were "fools" for letting this trend continue.

Growing up in San Diego, I feel strongly about the immigration issue. I'd tell you my opinion on it, but I highly doubt any of you particularly care. It is sufficient to say I disagreed with my dad's opinion (my dad, of course, being an old white guy, and I usually disagree with old white opinions), thus I penned an email informing him, and all the other people he had sent the email to, of my strong disagreement. My father, never shying away from an argument, responded in kind.

The problem is, I crossed the line I never wanted to cross. I faced off against my father. I've always accepted the differences in thought, and known to keep my mouth shut. You smile politely when he shares his, uh, conservative opinions regarding gay marriages, welfare, and fat people. You do this because you cannot challenge 70 years of thought. You take it, and move on. And make sure you counterweight those thoughts through your own. As soon as I sent the email, I regretted it. A temporary action caused by emotion, the kind I usually don't succumb to.

Luckily, in average dad fashion, after putting me in my place for my liberal opinions, he did what he always does. He ended the email with a joke. He told me I should call him this weekend to discuss the matter further: His Mexican housekeeper would be waiting for my call. Fair enough. My father's point had been made: If you want to communicate a point, use jokes. The minute I tried to be serious, I violated the family code. Hence, why I must end this blog like this: Age sucks unicorn dick.

First of all, why did I just see a grown man brushing his teeth in the work bathroom? Who brings a toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss to work? Didn't you just come from home, where you brushed your teeth? Or are you one of those progressive dudes that needs to cleanse his prized pearly whites of the morning coffee, and then the afternoon sandwich. Or maybe you just got done sucking dick in the men's stall, and had to recover. In any event, it impedes my ability to defecate in the stall when a man is brushing his teeth five feet from me. Are you the same guy who stands in his boxers and flexes in the bathroom right after masturbating to a Tony Robbins CD? To clarify the obvious, work bathrooms should be used for the following purposes:

A) Shitting
B) Pissing
C) Washing Hands
D) Any combination of the above

Work bathrooms should not be used for:

A) Brushing Teeth
B) Sucking Dick (unless it is by a woman or Muse)
C) Writing Term Papers

I can't believe this even had to be explained to the public. The other point of clarification, after a vague assault by Taj in his blog, is why I am not good at answering or returning phone calls. Using the Roman Layout method as presented above, let me explain:

A) New York: In New York, you are never home. You are at work, restaurants, bars, subways, taxis, leprechaun's secret dens. In these locations, it is difficult to answer phone calls, as your voice tends to be overwhelmed by the aural tones of an Algerian cabdriver arguing with a Cambodian hot dog vendor on 5th Avenue, complimented by the sweet song of six fire trucks driving by simultaneously.

B) Quality: If I pick up the phone, I have to be prepared to have an engaging, hour-long conversation. Short of this, I'd rather not have the talk. I don't like that whole "Hey, what's up. I'm busy, let me call you back later this week" thing. Not answering accomplishes the same goal. It is telling you: I'm busy. If I weren't, i'd pick up. A good conversation is work. I will not accept anything less than perfect.

C) Dick-Factor: I just refuse to be one of those phone dicks who is always on the phone, chatting it up like Ari from Entourage, only about shit one-tenth as interesting.

So there you have it. Explanation. You can absorb it all, while you wait for me to call you back. Probably not tonight, though.

In 6th grade, having just moved to the canyons of San Diego from the Chicago suburbs, I was a thin, quivering mess, quick to shake with fear. I wasn't too much unlike that tiny white mouse my science teacher pulled out of a small cardboard box that year, grasping it by its beady tail above the cheap plexiglass cage occupied by Miles, the four-foot kingsnake we studied because, well, studying snakes is what you do in 6th grade. As the mouse hung there, contemplating his mortality while getting a five-foot, elevated view of his impending doom, it occurred to me why half of the class (mostly girls, and me, who mostly thought like a girl), were so troubled by what we were witnessing. It wasn't necessarily the inevitable death of the obviously terrified field mouse, as most of us had already seen dead mice, usually with their heads snapped off by the force of mouse traps well-placed under sinks and cupboards. I think it was more because we identified with that mouse, as it hung there, dangling, mortified at the bigger, stronger entity that was about to swallow it whole. Was middle school much different? Each day, I walked to campus fearing what would get me that day. Josh, the designated school fuck-off? Zits? The voice crack? Anyone of these things could pounce upon me, strangling me with the scaled body of humiliation.

I'd look for anything to make myself float to the top back then. Something to differentiate myself. To feel better than others. To improve my self-confidence. The first thing I found was my name. Anderson.

At the beginning of each class, when roll-call was read, I was the first name called. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. I was first at something, and all the acne in the world couldn't take that away from me. Granted, there was a bit of an issue when I shared a class with that bitch Monica Aabad, but that was temporary. In my other classes, I was first, seven out of eight times.

The next victory I was given was my height. In class photos, I would be the first or second tallest. I'd get placed in the back, behind the row of girls and those pathetically small boys. I was with the men. The ones selected by nature to uphold all that is right with the human race. Sure, I was 115 pounds, and my ears looked like they were trying to fly off my head, but I was first in something. Much better than being short with a last name beginning with the letter Z.

When I got to high school, things changed. To be first in something, I had to dig deeper. As my school had well over 2,0000 students, Anderson wasn't going to cut it anymore. It was good enough for second or third, but I wanted first. The height lost its power, as well. I wasn't even in the top twenty for the school. So, I did what everyone had to do: specialize.

Some kids became known as "the heavy metal guy" or "the guy who could draw well" or "the first guy to grow a beard" or "the gay guy". Personally, I spent a year trying to learn how to dunk a basketball. Upon success, I realized not only was I among many people who could dunk, but most of these people looked better than I did (my first introduction to the seeming truth that black guys could trump white guys in any feat involving grace or coolness). I tried other incarnations: The hardcore San Diego Padres fan, the guy who's dad worked for the company that made Dragon's Lair, the guy with the Hyundai Excel and big speakers. Eventually, I settled on "the yearbook sport's editor". Not glamorous, I admit, but I was the only one among 2,000 students, so I won.

In college, truly distinguishing yourself became an impossibility, so you were forced to fully develop the one characteristic you wanted to define yourself with. You could try to be "the guy with the radio show" or "the guy who can shotgun a beer while taking a jim beam shot", but usually, you are just "the english major" or "the guy in Swig". Thus, you dive fully into that persona. If you are "the english major", you have to be sure to always be carrying around a William Faulkner novel, and be ready to offer your opinion about the effect Pride and Prejudice had on the destruction of Victorian values. If you didn't play this role actively, how would people know who you were? You had to be readily identifiable with your dress, your attitude, and your opinions.

After college, it just gets worse. Gay guys aren't just gay guys. They are gay guys. They wear capri pants, dance to Cher hits, and gesticulate wildly when they talk. They do this so we all know they are gay. This is the one thing that makes them different from you. And, more than anything, people want to be different than you, in any way they can. It isn't just gay guys. It is rock-climbers, documentary filmmakers, alcoholics, and vice-presidents of marketing for textile companies. That is what they are, and you better recognize. They are that - and you aren't.

A month ago, while attending orientation, we had to go around and introduce ourselves, along with an "interesting little tidbit". Well, I like to fancy myself more complex than "an interesting little tidbit" could ever explain, so, I pulled a joke from my archive. As people went around (one writes a sex column for a magazine, so she is a writer, one lives in michigan, so he is a midwesterner, etc), I prepared my deflection. After the introduction, I told everyone I used to be a member of the circus, but i've put those days behind me. And in doing so, I realized, I did exactly what they did, only unknowingly. I labelled myself the way I wanted to be labelled. I was the joke-guy. But I couldn't help but think, as I left orientation: I'm still the small little mouse shivering 5-feet above a cage. Only now, there's not a snake in the cage.

There's nothing.

For a good chunk of my life, I've been a judger. Yes, I know "judger" sounds like a metal piece that breaks in your garbage disposal, or a type of bat in cricket. But, in more proper terms, it's personality-type, quite common to those of the Catholic faith.

The ultimate irony of the Catholic faith is that a primary tenet is "Judge not lest ye be judged", yet one of the most enduring talents I learned from my religious upbringing was how to judge basically everything. Catholicism, as with much of Christianity, speaks of a perfect God, a perfect heaven, perfect saints, a perfect world, a perfect rulebook, a perfect Jesus. It was this perfection that you were to aspire to. As such, you quickly learned to recognize imperfections in the world around you - those things that were not made in the image of God, which was basically everything. All people, places, packaged goods, water slides, couch pillows, armadillos, Miami .... All these things have countless imperfections when studied closely. While others have oft accused me in life of being negative, this is wholly inaccurate. I am perfectly content, I just enjoy pointing out what is imperfect in the world around me. It isn't that I don't like that thing I am judging. I simply need to suggest a path for that thing so it can achieve perfection, as I myself am compelled to do. Sunnyvale was less perfect than, say, San Francisco, and I didn't mind telling you all of that fact, while providing ways for both to become perfect. Because what is anything if not constantly striving to improve, trying to become closer to God? (or trying to become further away from God, like Bryant street in San Francisco. God, in this case, representing only the human ideal of perfection).

The problem is, despite the fact I've spent the past twenty-five years judging, it recently occurred to me, I'm not particularly good at it.

The fundamental truth is I'm not smart enough to be a good judger. Good judging takes an insight into things I do not possess. You aren't a good judger either. (See, that is an example of me judging you, in a particularly cliche way .. I simply made a statement, claiming you were not good at judging, without providing any evidence or illuminating explanation, since I am incapable of both). If you look at it, everyone judges everyone the same way. We tend to simplify the complexity of human beings and our experiences into single, generic words, as we are incapable of penetrating the truth of the matter. Examples:

"He's selfish".
"She's a bitch."
"My teacher sucks balls."
"That gas station was lame."

Even when we try to be smart, we aren't. More examples:

"There was no real character development in that movie."
"I think the steak could've used more garlic-infused olive oil."
"Rome has an identity crisis between its heritage and its future."

You are still boiling complex issues down into generic explanations.

It's often the worst with people judging other people, particularly people they recently broke up with. They'll spew their dime-store psychoanalysis that we've all heard thousands of times before, but say it as if it is a real insight. Try this:

"The problem is he's totally insecure, so he overcompensates by being obnoxious."
"Because she's got big tits and a pretty face, she's never had to work hard for anything, so she's dumb as rocks."
"He was picked on all his life, so now he abuses his power because he gets off on it."
"She was an only child, so used to getting anything she wants. She's spoiled."

Really? Is that the entire person's personality? They are insecure? Spoiled? Dumb? That's it? That's the problem? That's the entire human being? And what are you? Totally confident and intelligent and giving?

The best is when there are four people in a group, sitting around playing video games. Then one of the guys goes, and you sit around and talk about what a dick that guy is. Then someone else goes, and you talk about what dick that guy is, too. And the two guys who left call each other on the way home to talk about what a dick you are.

That's the thing. These critiques and judgments completely lack insight, so in a sense, when you judge, you yourself are giving something to be judged on. I've spent my life judging ... i've judged you, i've judged your place of birth, i've judged the food you eat, i've judged your voice .. but lucky for you, all this judging has been very superficial. I don't really get anywhere with it. I still do it, mind you, but in that pathetic way, like those shitty tests you take personality.com, that tell you whether you are a "gushy gossip", "shy guy", "sexy single", or a "thirsty thinker" ... They know this, because you've answered ten simple questions that are obviously leading and nobody answers accurately, since nobody is actually aware of their own self.

The question will read, "On a Friday night, your friend calls to say she is heading to a party. You were planning chilling out and watching a movie. So you:

a) Stay in - Parties come and go.
b) Go out - Did someone say party?
c) Meet everyone after the movie - Gossip is great

Obviously, you can break yourself down into three people: The one who is popular and loves to go out, the one who prides himself/herself on their intellectual side, orthe one who is the likeable compromiser ... And all of which are full of shit. You are a combination of all of these things, but these quizzes have to help you understand the complexity of yourself through gross generalizations that you use later when on a date to tell somebody "who you are".

What do I think? I think you're a bitch. I think everyone is a bitch. I think Miami sucks. And I think after thirty-one years, the only thing i've realized is that everything in the world is imperfect, which, as far as I'm concerned, is perfect. The more I find wrong with everything, the more I like it. The imperfection is human, which I am. So now, when I watch a shitty movie, I enjoy it more than ever. I can bitch about it, and I will bitch about it, because bitching makes it real, which makes it good, because once I see the perfect movie, there will be no more movies to watch, and nothing left to say.