misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

My recent tour of the Military Academy at West Point held a searing flame to my long-held regret that I should have served in the military. The same strings in my gut are plucked every time i see the opening sequence to Band of Brothers, hear a bugle or drummer boy (a frequent occurrence in Brooklyn), or talk to a veteran (as full disclosure, I begin this blog fully aware that five minutes into actually entering the military I would begin complaining relentlessly about open toilets, overly-loud guns and dip shit recruits from Tennessee, but let a man forget who he really is for awhile). A walk through the West Point visitor center, where portraits of famous graduates line the walls, is a walk through American history: Jefferson Davis, Ulysses Grant, Robert E Lee, John Pershing, Douglas Macarthur, George Patton, Dwight Eisenhower, Buzz Aldrin ... Part of my regret stems from childhood: My father was telling stories of his Navy days, my brother went to the Citadel, I was raised in military-heavy San Diego .. I was raised with idealism to actually believe in vague (and abused) words like honor and duty and sacrifice that are embodied by the myth of the military (and Catholicism, for that matter).

As a high school junior, I took a tour of the Air Force Academy (when I found out math, science and engineering were integral parts of their curriculum, I left the tour). As a senior, I attended weekly recruiting sessions at the local Marine Corps office. Along with other scrawny, misplaced high school kids who had an obsessive fascination with Dungeons and Dragons (some even only sophomores or juniors), we learned how to use a compass (which clearly has not stuck with me), properly read a terrain map (ditto), and studied military ranks and unit sizes. My friend, Brian, joined. I stayed undecided. In retrospect, I don't know how close I was to actually doing it. I wanted to fly helicopters, but my goldfish-quality eyesight disqualified me. Other factors came into play: My brother was a Junior at the Citadel (which I had visited twice) and strongly advised me to avoid the military "unless you like small, stupid dickhead getting to tell you what to do simply because they have a higher rank" (which I later learned is a similar problem in the corporate world). Secondly, I was extremely lazy, and literally questioned my ability to wake up every morning at 6 A.M. (i may still be bad at waking up early, but back then, during summers, I rarely could get up before 2 PM). And being in ROTC means I would have lost my summers. So ultimately I just went off to college and stayed lazy. I wonder how I would've changed had I gone. My brother is a decent case study: Before military school, he was a sub-3.0 student. After military school, he graduated second in his class, started his own company and now has too much cash and too little time to write blogs like these analyzing what would have happened had he not entered the military (which i've been working on intermittently for three days since i don't have the discipline I would have had I been in the military).

The question.

Inevitably, in every orientation, training, or informational meeting I've ever attended, whether at school or work, someone asks the question. The useless, self-centered, pretentious question that draws attention to the asker, and provides no value to the group as a whole. In yesterday's case, the question involved interior design, and the location was the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. I'm certain across the world millions of similar questions were being asked, but this simply happened to be the one I was part of. I was at the Pratt Institute to attend an informational session about their graduate program in interior design. Rather, Jillian was attending the session, and I was accompanying her. There were roughly thirty people in the session listening to the dean of the department and a professor describe the specifics of the program. The stone walls were high, white, and unadorned, and sound traveled with impunity, making me fear a spontaneous fart, particularly considering the early time of morning when my muscle control is at its weakest. After an hour, the dean opened up the session for questions, which instinctively made me cringe, as at this point I was hungrier for food than I was for more information. The first four questions were your standard fare, questions involving tuition costs, course load, and internships. Honest, useful, questions that provided valuable information to the assembled members. Then, the young asian woman, flanked by her parents, was called upon. In retrospect, I should have been prepared, as she had the eager-asian student thing going:

"Hi, my name is June Lin. My question involves sustainable design, which was once a popular fad, but now is clearly a social responsibility. How is your curriculum influenced by the necessity of and for sustainability, and if I wanted to make that a focus, which classes in particular could I take to compliment my studies and could those courses replace credit requirements in other fields?"

Well, first, June Lin, thank you for your question. Secondly, if you could come over to my chair so I could offer you a gummy bear from my pocket, I would appreciate it. Thirdly, after you are done enjoying12 p[ the gummy bear, I could I trouble you to answer exactly what you trying to accomplish with your question. Was it to reveal your knowledge of sustainability, or your academic prowess in managing a more complex course load, or your sense of environmental concern? If you were a peacock would you constantly strut around with your feathers fanned for all other peacocks to envy? If you were a rose would you only bloom when someone was looking? Can you do me a favor June? Can you hold your personalized questions until after the fucking group has dispersed? Because the fucking group does not fucking care about your fucking course load.

Thanks, June. Follow this advice and there just might be another gummy bear in it for you.

Mark Anderson, co-owner of The Brotherhood, has officially announced his resignation from the group he helped found over ten years ago, due to Friday's announced engagement to Jillian Cordes.

The Brotherhood was created in the early months of 1998 as a refuge for the Santa Clara Five. It was intended to provide support for the single male lifestyle while threatening punishment for acting like a pansy. If a member was caught in violation of such Brotherhood rules as carrying on a phone conversation with a female beneath bed covers, not knowing who was in first place in the NFC East, or the ultimate violation, canceling plans with a Brotherhood member to meet with a female, he would be forced to attend a three-day re-education camp at TGIF.

Membership in The Brotherhood reached a high in 1999, at 11 members, but was never able to recover from the Poly Esters Scandal of 2000, when two female Sisterhood agents infiltrated top management, resulting in the loss of two key members. Membership reached its current low with upon the marriage of co-founder Kentaro Amemiya in 2003. With declining membership fees, and the rejection of request of bailout funds from the United States Treasury, The Brotherhood ceased existing as a viable entity.

It is unknown if The Brotherhood will survive upon the retirement of Mark Anderson as CRO (Chief Rock Officer). However, rumors have already started swirling about the creation of a new group The Marriagehood involving yearly golf and gamble outings among former members of The Brotherhood.

Pre-determined members should be expecting an application process via email in the coming months.

I've arrived in London for the annual SF Ninja reunion, where i'm currently residing on an exotic piece of Japanese furniture Dragonhair tells me is called a futon. He was also kind enough to provide me the warmth of a worn blanket he's owned since college. Dragonhair may have moved to London, but this apartment is from San Francisco. Same Chinese stone gargoyle guarding the door, same framed French print of a black cat hanging on the wall, same rigged PS2 playing downloaded movies. Dragonhair is the only thirty-three year old I know of still living in a college apartment. The day Dragonhair buys a proper piece of new furniture from somewhere other than Craigslist is the day Craigslist goes out of business.

The airport wasn't as chaotic as i've grown to expect from holiday travel, which seems to be one positive aspect of our economic crisis, though I did have to deal with several of those fuckers who insist on checking in fourteen pieces of luggage for their two-day trip to Chicago. These people all have the same things in common: large and shitty black suitcases held together with twine or packing tape covered with stains from their past twenty years of travel to jungle islands, poorly combed hair, and t-shirts with prints of some reunion concert from the '70s. I'd ask these people what they have in these bags if I thought the answer might be interesting. But it wouldn't be. You see them wheeling their life's possessions around on the luggage carts, the luggage stacked perilously high, ready to tip over at any moment, and know that inside the bags is nothing other than shit, junk, and crap. Think of anything shitty: old hair dryers with stickers on them, socks with holes, dead mice ... that's what is in there. Just a step above the people on the subways who carry around the twelve bags they kept from a trip they took from Macy's six years ago.

I was able to overcome these frustrations to make it to Dragonhair's futon in Chiswick, which is essentially the Park Slope of London. I've enjoyed a few proper pints from a local pub (which was well-lit, full of seats, and quiet, the anti-Manhattan bar) and watched British TV. Tonight, a Christmas party. Tomorrow, Christmas at a pub. Perhaps at some point i'll get around to seeing London itself, though at this point I consider that non-prioritie.

I'm about to close the curtain on December 25th, 2008, after this blog and a quick reunion game of James Bond on Dragonhair's piecemealed PS2. We spent the day at a local Chiswick pub eating a proper six-course British Christmas feast, complete with smoked salmon, crawfish, turkey roast, bacon sausages, custard, Christmas pudding, rum cake, beers, wine, fireplaces, and drunk Englishmen. I can only hope your holiday was equally enjoyable. To all of you who sent me Christmas cards, I'd like to say thank you. I'd also like to ask you to actually sign your card in ink next year (Taj). Printing out a card with your family picture and a printed message reading "Wishing you the best this holiday season" is actually less personal than the Christmas card the New York Blood Bank sent me, which at least had my first name on it. While I can appreciate the efficiency of mass-printed cards, if the New York Blood Bank can place my name on my card, so can you.

And Slaven, if your comment is truthful, I'd like to offer you both my congratulations and my apologies. Congratulations to you and Lejla on the upcoming addition to your family. My apologies for thinking you were actually gay all these years.

The difference between New York and London first dripped into my consciousness while hovering over the bathroom urinal in a four-hundred-year old Pub, emptying my bladder of the unusable elements of an imperial pint of Fuller's London Pride. A quick glance revealed the presence of three total urinals in the meticulous bathroom, each with a drain connecting to a larger, single pipe disappearing into the ground. It was bathroom space, maximized. One drain, three urinals, and nobody waiting. Most bars in New York, with tiny bathrooms sized for a youthful fairy, possess a single toilet, to accommodate urine and all else. As a result, bathroom lines are common in New York. Like most things In London, regulation, planning, and common sense has solved the problem.

In larger terms, the difference is one of pure comfort. Continuing the pub as a microcosm: Why three urinals instead of one? Because waiting in line is uncomfortable. Why do pubs have more seats than patrons? Because standing while you drink is uncomfortable. Why do pubs close at 11 PM instead of 4 AM? Because waking up hungover is uncomfortable. Why do they play music at low volumes? Because yelling across the table at someone is uncomfortable. It is the perfect town for old, lazy, impatient people, of which I count myself.

New York is organized chaos. London is just organized.

Organization comes at a cost: You always know what to expect. When you order a vodka soda, you get exactly 250 milliliters of vodka, as measured by their dispenser. The tube stops running exactly at 11 PM. BBC runs like a clock. Londoners I know now living in New York point to this predictability as a reason for leaving.

Every city has the sites you must see. Thus far, I've seen most of London's version of these things: Parliament, Big Ben, Westminster, Trafalgar Square, St. Paul's, Buckingham Palace. The sheer age and historical relevance of the buildings is indeed epic, particularly because they are essentially all right next to each other and play host to a near infinite crowd of impressive names who have shaped life as we know it. That said, the true heart of London unveils itself when walking down the side streets. It is here that history literally spills into the street like garbage. There is the brown-and-white 15th century house where Prince Henry wrote by candle. There is the two-story office where Samuel Johnson inked the first ever dictionary. There is the pub where Voltaire, Dickens, and Twain would stumble around drunk. There is the church where the first Londoners to emigrate to the New World made their wedding vows.

Dragonhair and I being Dragonhair and I, we picked the coldest day of the year when most things are closed, Boxing day, to conduct our primary tour London with one hat and no gloves between us. But when you are traveling with Dragonhair, you won't be going into any of the the sites anyway, so all the better that they are closed.

Any thought that London is more expensive than New York fails to take into account two facts: a beneficial exchange rate and lack of tipping. This last fact in particular makes all the difference. When you remove 20% tipping costs from dinner and bar tabs, you are saving money. As a result, beers and food have been cheaper here than in New York. Public transportation is generally more expensive, but not by much.

These are all things you would know if Dragonhair had posted blogs in the last year of living here, but as he hasn't, I saw fit to share these things with you.

Yesterday's tour of the British Library was a walk through the progression of human consciousness and creativity, a reminder that every thing you know and do now is directly because someone before you took time away from TiVo and video games to think a lot about something, like politics or wine. Before you could get to movies, someone needed to think their way to a lens. Before they could get to a lens, someone had to think about glass. Each person was a rung in a ladder that rises directly to our life now. I am not one of these people. One thousand years ago, I would have sat around, drank ale, talked about an idea I had about a dragon, woke up hungover, drank more ale, all the while letting someone else write Beowulf. The only thing I would have contributed to human advancement would have been a drunken cave drawing. Thankfully, other past humans had more discipline and focus, and took time away from their recreation to record their thoughts. A bunch of barons sat around one weekend with King John to write the original Magna Carta charter, eventually leading to the idea of democracy. Someone hopped on a wooden boat to sail down the newly discovered American coastline, sketching a map as they did. Gutenberg arranged some metal casts together to print a Bible, Handel drew notes on some sheet music, Sylvia Plath wrote a letter to her publisher, Paul McCartney wrote lyrics on the back of an envelope. Granted, they did this at a time when there were fewer distractions - I wonder if Handel would have gotten into music if Facebook existed when he was first starting out. It was also more important. Without mp3s, live music was the only way to take something in. If you wanted to know what Africa looked like, all you had was someone's illustration. There was less content, so the content that existed had more value. But this is just to make me feel better about my laziness. Suffice to say, if time travel is ever created, and we wanted to catch a man from the past up to where humanity stands at the present, he need only go to the British Library.

As I stood in awe in front of these artifacts, I became cognizant of a pressure inside of me. Not a metaphorical pressure, but a physical one: a sulfurous gas surged inside my belly, quickly roaring through my colon like a car racing towards an exit. I was standing alone at the time, but to prepare for the forthcoming release, I turned my body around, so that my ass was facing a display case that could muffle the sound of the fart, rather than sending it forth into the center of the room, where the mass of people lay and might hear. As the air pushed forth, happy with its newfound freedom, penetrating the glass case in front of it, I breathed a sigh of relief. Close call, but I emerged unscathed. I waited a beat, then turned back around to the display case to continue my tour. It was only then I realized that I had just farted on the original 1859 release of Charles Darwin's On the Origin of Species. I degraded one of the greatest creations of human thought with my bodily releases, in one act confirming that man is, in fact, related to animals. Surrounded by the greatest collection of human thought in the world, the best my body can do in appreciation is fart, like a chimpanzee who just got down eating a load of cabbage.

I'd like to offer a sincere apology to Charles Darwin and Lewis Carroll, whose Alice in Wonderland first draft was nearby. Do not take my fart to be in any way representative of my appreciation of your contributions. I am glad that, unlike me, you are capable of adding more to human progress than farts and boogers.