M.C.: I thought I heard someone knocking at the door.
But, you know what?
I was in bed, and I didn't care.
K.T.: Yeah, I figured.
So went the knocking at 0715, then the sitting outside D.C.'s and M.C.'s door. A touchy situation, if you've ever been trapped in it. You know they should be awake, but because of how early it is, you don't want to push it. What's the point of waking someone up? Generally, unless really important, you should let them sleep, for we get too little sleep as it is. No need to rob them of their daily little reward.
A.W. arrived a few minutes after 0730, but he also came bearing donuts, of the Dunkin variety. O, blessed angel, o, stolid messenger, o, bald A.W. Wait, A.W. shaved his head?
K.T.: What the f*ck?
What the f*ck?
What did you do to your head?
What the f*ck is going on?
What did you do to your head?
I'm sorry, this is too much this early in the morning.
Think of a peach left sitting in the sun a little too long, the skin paling and reddening. Oh, also draw a goatee on it. I wanted to rub the hell out of that stubbly scalp, once I got over the initial shock. It had been a few months since last I saw them, and my shock showed. Also a long time since I'd been around B. and C., as their saliva and fur caused my eyes to swell and my nose to surrender like Vichy France.
M.C.'s S.U.V., our sunshine-colored chariot, lay in wait, a cactus character wrapped around the antenna. We stowed our gear, piled in, and set off. And it is here that my record thins, for there is something about cars that makes me nod off. I swear, I tried to stay awake, but I just blissed out, and when I woke up, eighty or ninety minutes passed like that. There was hope that caffeine would've staved off impending sleep, but then this would have filled my bladder to exploding, causing multiple stops along the road. Not a good idea.
We're not really on time for the meeting, per se. Some might even say we are late, but we did our best. D.C. and I roll out, check in, and go to lunch.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Excess Travel, part one
I have a headache. Dull, unfocused, just frustrating enough to make me want to go back to sleep. Hell, it took me three tries to get out of bed this morning. The simple act of sitting up wracked me with pain, not acute, but enough to make me regret having tried to sit up. Why I tried again eludes me, a soft whisper in a thunderstorm.
Were it not for A.W.’s snoring and the clanging construction equipment outside, I would be enshrouded in a thick silence. The door to the “balcony” is locked. A pitiful two-foot wide joke, inserted to allow access to a maintenance hatch or some other opening. Thick evergreen patches stand sentry around us, pumping out precious oxygen. Maybe that’s why its so heady, coming up to Foxwoods.
As I write this, though I’ll describe some events and situations unique to the experience, know that with the exception of the ever-flawed
***
Couldn’t sleep, not that this constitutes a particularly unique moment in this blink of eternity’s eye. Whether taxed with maturity’s myriad responsibilities, or buoyed by childhood’s few remaining indulgences, I spend so much time heartily suspended betwixt soporific wakefulness and uneasy slumber. Surrounded in darkness, the angular crimson numbers blind stare, powered by electricity and human ingenuity. When 0440 came around, the awakening foisted upon me by the trip’s exigencies made itself real, real as soft pulse of my own cheek against my pillow.
It is times like this I’m reminded of Awakenings, as I emerge from a lengthy dream entirely of my own subconscious doing, to a world familiar, yet not entirely. It also coincides with the inexplicable craving for McDonald’s breakfast food, and those grease-saturated hash brown patties in their oil-soaked-clear packages. As I stumble through the morning patterns, trying to impose my order upon this tired chaos, the beckoning continues. Eventually, I push back and eat some cereal, hardly a worthy substitute, but better for me in the long run.
(The long run. Hah. Would it not be more worthwhile to just get the McDonald’s now, and burn out bright as a supernova, igniting my youth and flaring into the skies, awed stares left in my wake? Sometimes I wonder why I keep doing “the right thing” in most aspects of my life, especially since I have started to do “the wrong thing” now and again, and the results, though not optimal for the world at large, benefited my life greatly. At some point, I will strike a balance, but until then, I eat Cheerios.)
Sunday, July 29, 2007
One L
I read Scott Turow's One L, something I really should have done about four years ago. Next is The Paper Chase by John Jay Osborn, Jr. Then, I'll probably drink myself into a blind stupor, as is my wont.
This has not been the most difficult book I have ever read (that honor goes to Catch-22 by Joseph Heller, a book I have attempted to read three times, and never gotten past page 100). However, this is readily the most emotional experience I've ever had while reading a book. I was wandering through a used bookstore, exploring the stacks and the bookshelves, just aimless, when somehow, it caught my eye. Six dollars later, it burned in my hand like holy water (I can no longer enter Catholic churches, due to defiling the holy water in an "accident" a few years back).
The first few times I made an attempt to read it, I could only stand a few pages, then had to set it down and walk away. If I was in the living room, I would walk to the bedroom. If in the bedroom, I walked out to the living room. It was like reliving the war, but through another person's experiences and perspectives, still markedly similar, but with enough unique details to remind everyone that we all suffered, and not all of us are reaping those tarnished rewards, nor are we all reveling in our pyrrhic (pyorrheic? I ate a lot of candy) victories.
Turow attended Harvard Law, at the time the top-tier law school in the land. It has now been supplanted by Yale Law, but attending Harvard Law is still no small feat, and constitutes an achievement worthy of praise and maybe a little twinge of jealousy (hey J.L.H.). I was incarcerated at UMD Law, now a middle-second tier school, no idea what it was at the time of Turow's experience, years before I was even born. Nonetheless, we dealt with the same circumstances, though the dated differences are quite amusing (electric typewriters for exams? First-year associates pulling down twenty-two thousand dollars a year?).
He was twenty-six during his first year, the age I'm about to bid farewell to, the age I started a new career outside the law. I know that I never again need rely solely upon the juris doctorate to support myself, if I choose to. Still, it stains my heart, and I cannot let it go. Instead, like a war veteran (and I apologize to them for diminishing their great accomplishments), I have to pick up and move on, which I'm trying to. And, of course, gambling helps, which will segue into the rest of this week's posts, the TS company meeting at Foxwoods Casino in Connecticut.
This has not been the most difficult book I have ever read (that honor goes to Catch-22 by Joseph Heller, a book I have attempted to read three times, and never gotten past page 100). However, this is readily the most emotional experience I've ever had while reading a book. I was wandering through a used bookstore, exploring the stacks and the bookshelves, just aimless, when somehow, it caught my eye. Six dollars later, it burned in my hand like holy water (I can no longer enter Catholic churches, due to defiling the holy water in an "accident" a few years back).
The first few times I made an attempt to read it, I could only stand a few pages, then had to set it down and walk away. If I was in the living room, I would walk to the bedroom. If in the bedroom, I walked out to the living room. It was like reliving the war, but through another person's experiences and perspectives, still markedly similar, but with enough unique details to remind everyone that we all suffered, and not all of us are reaping those tarnished rewards, nor are we all reveling in our pyrrhic (pyorrheic? I ate a lot of candy) victories.
Turow attended Harvard Law, at the time the top-tier law school in the land. It has now been supplanted by Yale Law, but attending Harvard Law is still no small feat, and constitutes an achievement worthy of praise and maybe a little twinge of jealousy (hey J.L.H.). I was incarcerated at UMD Law, now a middle-second tier school, no idea what it was at the time of Turow's experience, years before I was even born. Nonetheless, we dealt with the same circumstances, though the dated differences are quite amusing (electric typewriters for exams? First-year associates pulling down twenty-two thousand dollars a year?).
He was twenty-six during his first year, the age I'm about to bid farewell to, the age I started a new career outside the law. I know that I never again need rely solely upon the juris doctorate to support myself, if I choose to. Still, it stains my heart, and I cannot let it go. Instead, like a war veteran (and I apologize to them for diminishing their great accomplishments), I have to pick up and move on, which I'm trying to. And, of course, gambling helps, which will segue into the rest of this week's posts, the TS company meeting at Foxwoods Casino in Connecticut.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Not There
Sometimes I see and hear things no one else can. I don't mean this in a schizophrenic manner. There will be a snippet of music trailing along out of nowhere that no one else heard, or a cloaked figure out of the corner of my eye darting into an alleyway. Maybe it's just me reinventing reality, for I don't have enough currently to occupy it. Maybe I'm just wishing for something more, and don't know how to achieve it. Oh, blue heaven, won't you please save me from myself?
***
Going to Connecticut for the weekend, so hopefully there will be something non-emo for me to write about this upcoming week.
***
Going to Connecticut for the weekend, so hopefully there will be something non-emo for me to write about this upcoming week.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Fight Back
Driving back home tonight, I suddenly, out of nowhere, felt deflated, as if non-stop fighting, and just let down my guard. It was a strange feeling, because soon thereafter, I felt like I'd been fighting for years, decades. Right now, head bowed, shoulders slumped, I can't help but wonder what the hell is going on. Am I fighting? What am I fighting? What am I fighting for? If I'm not fighting, someone please tell me. If I am fighting, someone, please stop me. Tell me that it'll all be OK, and I can stop.
***
I stayed up far too late reading the latest Harry Potter book, and will probably stay up far too late tonight to finish reading it.
***
I stayed up far too late reading the latest Harry Potter book, and will probably stay up far too late tonight to finish reading it.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Difficulty Degree
For the first time in a year, I feel challenged at my "profession." NCI was straightforward. LM was tedious. At TS, even though I'm still only training, I've also got a glimpse of my first project, and it's definitely going to take everything I've got to do it and do it well. Of course, there's also potential travel, which hasn't happened yet, but will happen at some point. We'll see how much I flip out when that comes.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Lowered Expectations
I can't live up to my parents' expectations, and have (finally) come to terms with that. The problem is in realizing I can't really live up to my own expectations for myself, and the subsequent lowering of standards. It drives me a little crazy (is there such a thing?), and makes me wish I were much stupider/less morally upright than I pretend to be.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Short Posts
Short postings all week because there's nothing to write about. Well, there is, but I don't feel like writing about any of it. At least, not to the public.
Whiteboards are the greatest thing ever. When I grow up, if I ever buy a house, I'm going to take a room and cover it in whiteboards, or ceramic plating, or something that allows me to draw all over the place.
The mind is old and failing. I need to write notes all the time now. It is quite sad.
Whiteboards are the greatest thing ever. When I grow up, if I ever buy a house, I'm going to take a room and cover it in whiteboards, or ceramic plating, or something that allows me to draw all over the place.
The mind is old and failing. I need to write notes all the time now. It is quite sad.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Dollar Bill
As bold and brash as I can be sometimes (and not without some struggle), there are times when I am utterly awkward, shy, uncomfortable, thrown off. D.C., M.C., and A.W. can attest to this, as they've seen me huddled against the side wall of a strip club, afraid to go near the strippers. I can safely say that several more experiences haven't actually changed that. A.W., E.B., E.C. and I decided to hit one (a strip club, not a stripper). E.C. told me I should relax; only ten minutes later did I realize I was sitting with my arms crossed on the table, my shoulders hunched near my ears.
There's always a weird disconnect for me in a strip club. On the one hand, it's kind of exciting to watch women dance and remove what little clothing they have on. On the other hand, in the back of my mind, I know this is exploitative and cheap, when I watch the disinterested stares on their faces, and the workmanlike conduct with which they dance.
It gets even stranger when I go up to the stage, because after a few seconds, I don't know where to look. Face or body, face or body. I could stare at the body, which is a work of art, but also somewhat perverted. I could stare at the face, which is also lovely, but it also humanizes the stripper. And every so often, I'll catch a glance of myself, looking all of sixteen years of age in the mirror, half-smile-half-frown on my face, arms dangling to my sides, and wonder what they're thinking, dancing for what looks to be an underage teenager.
Tonight was no exception. The blonde was (un-)dressed in (the tattered remains of) a schoolgirl's uniform. Her body, slim and tight, no curves wasted on her. Her face, gentle, almost pixie-like, with a girl next door quality to it. Quite comely, and after about three seconds, the only thing I could stare at, because I just felt so awkward. She was naked, but I was exposed, the folded dollar bill in my hand probably quivering.
Whether it was the tense body language, or my poor attempt to smile, I think she could sense how nervous I was (and it felt like waves of awkward energy radiating away from me). So, in an all time classic moment, in the middle of her dance, she suddenly stopped and threw one arm over her breasts, and covered her vagina with the other. Her face was utterly shocked, as if I'd walked in on her changing.
I doubled over, laughing my ass off, and when I looked up, she, too, was laughing her ass off. This only made me laugh even harder, which made her throw her head back and laugh her shapely ass off. This went on for one more round, at which point she approached me and lifted her garter belt off her smooth thigh. I was laughing so hard, I couldn't even put the bill into the generous gap. Took three tries, and I had to insert a "Thank you" in between peals of laughter.
As she regarbed herself in her scant raiment, I approached her again, dollar in hand. Really, all she had to do, the perfect response, was to flash her breasts quickly, then drawn her half shirt around her torso and look shocked again. Actually, I don't think she even exposed them by that point, I think she may have only made a half-open, and exaggerated the close.
When I returned to the table, E.B.'s response: As embarrassing as you think that may have been for you, you made the biggest impression out of anyone on her for a long time. Don't think she'll forget that. Either way, best dollar I ever spent.
There's always a weird disconnect for me in a strip club. On the one hand, it's kind of exciting to watch women dance and remove what little clothing they have on. On the other hand, in the back of my mind, I know this is exploitative and cheap, when I watch the disinterested stares on their faces, and the workmanlike conduct with which they dance.
It gets even stranger when I go up to the stage, because after a few seconds, I don't know where to look. Face or body, face or body. I could stare at the body, which is a work of art, but also somewhat perverted. I could stare at the face, which is also lovely, but it also humanizes the stripper. And every so often, I'll catch a glance of myself, looking all of sixteen years of age in the mirror, half-smile-half-frown on my face, arms dangling to my sides, and wonder what they're thinking, dancing for what looks to be an underage teenager.
Tonight was no exception. The blonde was (un-)dressed in (the tattered remains of) a schoolgirl's uniform. Her body, slim and tight, no curves wasted on her. Her face, gentle, almost pixie-like, with a girl next door quality to it. Quite comely, and after about three seconds, the only thing I could stare at, because I just felt so awkward. She was naked, but I was exposed, the folded dollar bill in my hand probably quivering.
Whether it was the tense body language, or my poor attempt to smile, I think she could sense how nervous I was (and it felt like waves of awkward energy radiating away from me). So, in an all time classic moment, in the middle of her dance, she suddenly stopped and threw one arm over her breasts, and covered her vagina with the other. Her face was utterly shocked, as if I'd walked in on her changing.
I doubled over, laughing my ass off, and when I looked up, she, too, was laughing her ass off. This only made me laugh even harder, which made her throw her head back and laugh her shapely ass off. This went on for one more round, at which point she approached me and lifted her garter belt off her smooth thigh. I was laughing so hard, I couldn't even put the bill into the generous gap. Took three tries, and I had to insert a "Thank you" in between peals of laughter.
As she regarbed herself in her scant raiment, I approached her again, dollar in hand. Really, all she had to do, the perfect response, was to flash her breasts quickly, then drawn her half shirt around her torso and look shocked again. Actually, I don't think she even exposed them by that point, I think she may have only made a half-open, and exaggerated the close.
When I returned to the table, E.B.'s response: As embarrassing as you think that may have been for you, you made the biggest impression out of anyone on her for a long time. Don't think she'll forget that. Either way, best dollar I ever spent.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Blind Leap
I don't look before I leap. I will from now on, as there was a quick incident that taught me firsthand the derivation of the old saying.
I walked up to the drive-through automatic teller machine because the internal bank was on lockdown, it being Sunday and all. Got my money, turned to my right, and saw my car parked over in the mini-lot, and a wall about chest high. The wall extended a good fifteen feet to my right, fifteen to my left. So, in a fit of insanity, I figured I'd just hop the wall and walk directly to my car.
Take a couple of quick steps, plant my left hand atop the wall, swing my body to the right, make it over with no problem, bend my knees, and land perfectly. At least, that's what would have happened if the ground wasn't four feet below what I expected. You see, it turned out that this bank was built on a hill, a fact I was gleefully unaware of until those two seconds between when I thought I was going to land, and actually did.
Thankfully, all that happened was I landed a little too bolt-upright, and bounced around a bit on my feet, spinning and twirling and trying to play it off as if that was what I intended all the time. The kid in the backseat of the car watching me, I don't think he bought it, but I just gave him a curt nod, hobbled over to my car, and drove away.
I walked up to the drive-through automatic teller machine because the internal bank was on lockdown, it being Sunday and all. Got my money, turned to my right, and saw my car parked over in the mini-lot, and a wall about chest high. The wall extended a good fifteen feet to my right, fifteen to my left. So, in a fit of insanity, I figured I'd just hop the wall and walk directly to my car.
Take a couple of quick steps, plant my left hand atop the wall, swing my body to the right, make it over with no problem, bend my knees, and land perfectly. At least, that's what would have happened if the ground wasn't four feet below what I expected. You see, it turned out that this bank was built on a hill, a fact I was gleefully unaware of until those two seconds between when I thought I was going to land, and actually did.
Thankfully, all that happened was I landed a little too bolt-upright, and bounced around a bit on my feet, spinning and twirling and trying to play it off as if that was what I intended all the time. The kid in the backseat of the car watching me, I don't think he bought it, but I just gave him a curt nod, hobbled over to my car, and drove away.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Endless Waltz
A.A. asked me what I'd done before working at TS, and I couldn't really lie. Well, that's a lie right there. I could, but people are going to find out sooner or later. "Well, I went to UMCP. Then, I went to law school. Then, I captioned television programs for a while. Then I went to LM as a technical writer." I'd hoped that glossing over it and mentioning my time at NCI would have been a sufficient red herring. But no, people had to hone in on that.
And really, I guess I would do the same, were I in their shoes. We had three computer science majors, one systems engineering major, and little ol' english/law major me. What the hell am I doing there? You can't see it, but I'm smirking right now. Hell, somewhat unrelated, W.T. asked me why I wasn't a lawyer, and I gave him the pat answer. What the hell am I doing?
It isn't that I mind the question any more, and I don't feel too bitter about it. It is just, well, strange. I am a strange man. I am nowhere near the unique snowflake, but neither am I the dirty snowbank. Now that I think about it, if I met me on the street, and I did not know me, the first thought that would go through my mind would be "Damn, I did not know the heavens intended for someone this handsome to walk the earth." (Note that my making this statement means I think I am a sexy bitch.)
The second thought, once I engaged myself in conversation, would be "Damn, what's wrong with this guy? He went all the way through law school, and passed the bar, for nothing?" Time, lots of time, and perspective, have allowed me to disassociate myself from what pain remains. My mental warzone. It sucked, but it was my experience, my time. I still wish I'd never gone, and know that the person typing this would be completely different had I not. At the same time, days do pass where I don't consider myself as the professor at a third-rate college, the bookish academic with a couple of overwrought books and articles under his belt.
Law school, the bitterest medicine I've ever tasted, is now a distant memory, and I can finally come to terms with it. I really thought that would never happen. And I think that means that, if I can forgive that, I can forgive anything. I just need to get away from it for a long, long time, bitch, whine, and moan about it, and just bleed off the hurt. I think this also means I need horn-rimmed glasses, unkempt bangs, darker clothing, a guitar, and a seat at the local open-mic night at the coffee house.
And really, I guess I would do the same, were I in their shoes. We had three computer science majors, one systems engineering major, and little ol' english/law major me. What the hell am I doing there? You can't see it, but I'm smirking right now. Hell, somewhat unrelated, W.T. asked me why I wasn't a lawyer, and I gave him the pat answer. What the hell am I doing?
It isn't that I mind the question any more, and I don't feel too bitter about it. It is just, well, strange. I am a strange man. I am nowhere near the unique snowflake, but neither am I the dirty snowbank. Now that I think about it, if I met me on the street, and I did not know me, the first thought that would go through my mind would be "Damn, I did not know the heavens intended for someone this handsome to walk the earth." (Note that my making this statement means I think I am a sexy bitch.)
The second thought, once I engaged myself in conversation, would be "Damn, what's wrong with this guy? He went all the way through law school, and passed the bar, for nothing?" Time, lots of time, and perspective, have allowed me to disassociate myself from what pain remains. My mental warzone. It sucked, but it was my experience, my time. I still wish I'd never gone, and know that the person typing this would be completely different had I not. At the same time, days do pass where I don't consider myself as the professor at a third-rate college, the bookish academic with a couple of overwrought books and articles under his belt.
Law school, the bitterest medicine I've ever tasted, is now a distant memory, and I can finally come to terms with it. I really thought that would never happen. And I think that means that, if I can forgive that, I can forgive anything. I just need to get away from it for a long, long time, bitch, whine, and moan about it, and just bleed off the hurt. I think this also means I need horn-rimmed glasses, unkempt bangs, darker clothing, a guitar, and a seat at the local open-mic night at the coffee house.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Laborious Beginning
Stricken with ever-cautious optimism, I'm going to float the thought that I'll really like working at TS. I reserve the right to change that float when I start traveling. You might even say I'm going to sink that thought once the hardcore traveling begins, as opposed to me sinking in the ocean. Which, of course, is extremely unlikely as the travel will be restricted to the continental United States. If I fall in the ocean, it will have to be for metaphorical reasons.
Right, working at TS. So far, I'm online training like a champ. Just call me "Little MAC Address." (groan....) The training is not the most exciting, but it's helping me get up to speed. Gotta walk before you can run, gotta run before you can fly, gotta fly before you can realize you've just written yourself into a corner and have to get more and more absurd before you can get out.
My contention that it's the little gestures that matter more than the big ones is confirmed here. Small things, nothing that impressive. My own office, my own whiteboard, my own computer, my own desk, free drinks, elevator access to the floor, my own bathroom key. You know, the little things. And yet, the cumulative effect adds up.
Then, the people. I have a feeling that it's going to take a long time to meet everyone, because everyone is on travel, and there's a strong possibility that I will not have even met everyone face-to-face for the duration of my tenure. However, without exception, the people here have been very nice, very chill. Some of them give me weird looks for not knowing how to program, and having a law degree, but I get that from everyone these days.
I think the most important thing is the relative freedom in arriving and departing. Though I've made an attempt to run in the mornings now, I can still attempt to keep alive the 0700-1600 schedule that has become a part of my "adult" life. This no doubt will annoy and frustrate those of you that believe I should stay up past 2000. To all of you that believe that, I thumb my nose and offer a friendly hug (but note the emphasis on the nose thumbing).
Right, working at TS. So far, I'm online training like a champ. Just call me "Little MAC Address." (groan....) The training is not the most exciting, but it's helping me get up to speed. Gotta walk before you can run, gotta run before you can fly, gotta fly before you can realize you've just written yourself into a corner and have to get more and more absurd before you can get out.
My contention that it's the little gestures that matter more than the big ones is confirmed here. Small things, nothing that impressive. My own office, my own whiteboard, my own computer, my own desk, free drinks, elevator access to the floor, my own bathroom key. You know, the little things. And yet, the cumulative effect adds up.
Then, the people. I have a feeling that it's going to take a long time to meet everyone, because everyone is on travel, and there's a strong possibility that I will not have even met everyone face-to-face for the duration of my tenure. However, without exception, the people here have been very nice, very chill. Some of them give me weird looks for not knowing how to program, and having a law degree, but I get that from everyone these days.
I think the most important thing is the relative freedom in arriving and departing. Though I've made an attempt to run in the mornings now, I can still attempt to keep alive the 0700-1600 schedule that has become a part of my "adult" life. This no doubt will annoy and frustrate those of you that believe I should stay up past 2000. To all of you that believe that, I thumb my nose and offer a friendly hug (but note the emphasis on the nose thumbing).
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Postmortem Posting
Because things tend to come in threes, we're going to describe my LM tenure in terms of the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.
The Good:
Incredible office. Spacious, bright, fairly nice view of other office buildings, large windows, never too hot or too cold in my measured opinion. However, on several occasions, when people asked what I liked about my job, and I described the office in exacting detail, they would call me out on that, as I studiously avoided any reference to the job itself.
My coworkers. The developers, a good bunch of people for the most part. Not great across the board, because every group needs a bastard or two to really fill it out, but most of them deserve better.
Location. Great location, close to multivaried eateries, a mall, and NCI. And, close to where I now live, although now that I have left, there is no reason for me to be living in VA, aside from the damnable lease.
The Bad:
Misuse: Sometimes, I felt like an elephant gun taken to a pie tasting. Not only have you taken too much armament with you, you have also taken the wrong kind of armament to the wrong situation. Good job figuring that one out, guys.
The officemate: I have to keep telling myself that there are neither good nor bad people. There are just people that do good or bad things. In this case, V.M. was not a bad person. He just did things and acted in a manner that made me despise him.
Setting my own deadlines: This was partly on me. Given the nature of my project, I estimated X number of months to complete it, then found myself nearing completion in X/2 number of months. D'oh.
The Ugly:
The client: Never going to do government contracting again if I can help it.
The all-day meetings: The thing that rankled the most? That I was there to take notes, but my involvement in the meetings was otherwise at an absolute minimum. Near complete waste of my time. Now that I think about it, had I not gone, I would have finished my part of the project in X/3 months.
Large corporate vertical-oriented atmosphere: This ties into my completely unfounded and unscientific three degrees of influence theory (that government above three vertical degrees of separation is inefficient because those at the lowest level can no longer influence [or feel as if they are influencing] the uppermost ranks. Mostly an informal thing: "Hey, the friend of my friend blah blah blah."). I am so far below the head of LM, it really made me feel as if what I did was worthless and not going to have any impact whatsoever. Not that I need to have a global impact, I just wanted to feel like I was making some difference, and that wasn't really happening at LM.
The Good:
Incredible office. Spacious, bright, fairly nice view of other office buildings, large windows, never too hot or too cold in my measured opinion. However, on several occasions, when people asked what I liked about my job, and I described the office in exacting detail, they would call me out on that, as I studiously avoided any reference to the job itself.
My coworkers. The developers, a good bunch of people for the most part. Not great across the board, because every group needs a bastard or two to really fill it out, but most of them deserve better.
Location. Great location, close to multivaried eateries, a mall, and NCI. And, close to where I now live, although now that I have left, there is no reason for me to be living in VA, aside from the damnable lease.
The Bad:
Misuse: Sometimes, I felt like an elephant gun taken to a pie tasting. Not only have you taken too much armament with you, you have also taken the wrong kind of armament to the wrong situation. Good job figuring that one out, guys.
The officemate: I have to keep telling myself that there are neither good nor bad people. There are just people that do good or bad things. In this case, V.M. was not a bad person. He just did things and acted in a manner that made me despise him.
Setting my own deadlines: This was partly on me. Given the nature of my project, I estimated X number of months to complete it, then found myself nearing completion in X/2 number of months. D'oh.
The Ugly:
The client: Never going to do government contracting again if I can help it.
The all-day meetings: The thing that rankled the most? That I was there to take notes, but my involvement in the meetings was otherwise at an absolute minimum. Near complete waste of my time. Now that I think about it, had I not gone, I would have finished my part of the project in X/3 months.
Large corporate vertical-oriented atmosphere: This ties into my completely unfounded and unscientific three degrees of influence theory (that government above three vertical degrees of separation is inefficient because those at the lowest level can no longer influence [or feel as if they are influencing] the uppermost ranks. Mostly an informal thing: "Hey, the friend of my friend blah blah blah."). I am so far below the head of LM, it really made me feel as if what I did was worthless and not going to have any impact whatsoever. Not that I need to have a global impact, I just wanted to feel like I was making some difference, and that wasn't really happening at LM.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Lemon Dance
What with the recent terror attacks in the United Kingdom, and the elevated threat levels for U.S. airlines, and my new job requiring me to fly, I think I'm going to have to leave some farewell letters in a safe place, should something go wrong. Not that anything will go wrong, until it does, in which case I might feel kind of foolish, except I won't be part of this existence anymore, and probably won't care quite as much.
Here's the thing about these types of letters: ostensibly, the things that I'd want people to know, if I were dead, should be things I should tell them anyway right now. No time like the present. What's going to happen? I'm going to write, sign, and seal these letters... and then what? Am I really going to save them for the proverbial rainy day? Am I just going to go ahead and give the letters out? Am I going to save some, and send others? Won't these letters change everything?
Maybe everything should be changed.
***
We're going to break one of the cardinal rules of Writ in an upcoming sentence, wherein I laud both Dance School and looking young. Sacrilegious, I know (and yes, it took me five minutes to ascertain the correct spelling of sacrilegious. Losing it.). Prepare yourselves, gird yourselves in the armor of truth, for you may not see a spectacle like this again, or until the next time I do this.
Ready? I know I'm not.
An advantage (perhaps the only such) to looking young and having a doctorate in Dancing is that people tend to underestimate me when it comes to things such as contract negotiations. They'll actually talk to me as if I were a small child, expecting me to agree with everything they say. Once I reveal, through several terse, yet salient, questions, that I know more than they do, they get very freaked out and thrown off. F*ck me for being a bastard like that, but f*ck them for making too many assumptions.
Take the other day, when I found myself at a used car dealership looking into purchasing an Infiniti G35. Yes, I'm going to be one of them sooner or later, and I might as well embrace my destiny before modding the sh*t out of that car. The proprietor, almost a dead ringer for Fat Tony from the Simpsons, his brown-stained button-down shirt matching his backwards slouch, told me about the financing options, the deal he was willing to work, and all the other crap. I just kept nodding, even when he suddenly shot forward in the seat and tried to put the thumbscrews to me, telling me that it was a hot car, priced to move, and tens of people had been calling inquiring about it.
Fine, whatever, if they beat me, they beat me. I told him I was still interested, but would need to get it titled in MD (yes, the faint quest continues). After some further talks, he said he would get it inspected, delivered, and his associate would transfer the papers, and I could transfer the money. He does it all the time. I started asking simple questions.
K.T.: Can I get your standard template contract?
F.T.: What for?
K.T.: I want to read it over the weekend.
F.T.: It's a standard contract.
K.T.: I know, I still want to read it.
K.T.: I assume you want a cashier's check during the transfer?
F.T.: Yeah, yeah, of course.
K.T.: Actually, can I get a copy of all relevant documentation related to the transfer?
F.T.: You mean like bill of sale and all that?
K.T.: Yeah.
F.T.: OK, I'll make up some copies.
K.T.: During the actual transfer, if the terms of the contract are unpalatable, will your associate have the authority to change the terms of the contract to my liking?
F.T.: [sputtering] I mean, this is just a standard contract.
K.T.: Yes, but you won't be there. He will. Should the contract contain terms different than those contained in the template, I want to ensure we can rectify that mistake.
F.T: Oh.
At this point, he starts extemporizing, before finally coming up with
F.T: And yes, my associate will call me, and I will authorize him to make the changes.
Somehow, I get the feeling most of the people he deals with really are as old and naive as I look.
I eventually gave up, because the passenger's side seat had some liquid damage, and smelled of human urine. Shame, it would have been fun to screw with F.T. a little more.
Here's the thing about these types of letters: ostensibly, the things that I'd want people to know, if I were dead, should be things I should tell them anyway right now. No time like the present. What's going to happen? I'm going to write, sign, and seal these letters... and then what? Am I really going to save them for the proverbial rainy day? Am I just going to go ahead and give the letters out? Am I going to save some, and send others? Won't these letters change everything?
Maybe everything should be changed.
***
We're going to break one of the cardinal rules of Writ in an upcoming sentence, wherein I laud both Dance School and looking young. Sacrilegious, I know (and yes, it took me five minutes to ascertain the correct spelling of sacrilegious. Losing it.). Prepare yourselves, gird yourselves in the armor of truth, for you may not see a spectacle like this again, or until the next time I do this.
Ready? I know I'm not.
An advantage (perhaps the only such) to looking young and having a doctorate in Dancing is that people tend to underestimate me when it comes to things such as contract negotiations. They'll actually talk to me as if I were a small child, expecting me to agree with everything they say. Once I reveal, through several terse, yet salient, questions, that I know more than they do, they get very freaked out and thrown off. F*ck me for being a bastard like that, but f*ck them for making too many assumptions.
Take the other day, when I found myself at a used car dealership looking into purchasing an Infiniti G35. Yes, I'm going to be one of them sooner or later, and I might as well embrace my destiny before modding the sh*t out of that car. The proprietor, almost a dead ringer for Fat Tony from the Simpsons, his brown-stained button-down shirt matching his backwards slouch, told me about the financing options, the deal he was willing to work, and all the other crap. I just kept nodding, even when he suddenly shot forward in the seat and tried to put the thumbscrews to me, telling me that it was a hot car, priced to move, and tens of people had been calling inquiring about it.
Fine, whatever, if they beat me, they beat me. I told him I was still interested, but would need to get it titled in MD (yes, the faint quest continues). After some further talks, he said he would get it inspected, delivered, and his associate would transfer the papers, and I could transfer the money. He does it all the time. I started asking simple questions.
K.T.: Can I get your standard template contract?
F.T.: What for?
K.T.: I want to read it over the weekend.
F.T.: It's a standard contract.
K.T.: I know, I still want to read it.
K.T.: I assume you want a cashier's check during the transfer?
F.T.: Yeah, yeah, of course.
K.T.: Actually, can I get a copy of all relevant documentation related to the transfer?
F.T.: You mean like bill of sale and all that?
K.T.: Yeah.
F.T.: OK, I'll make up some copies.
K.T.: During the actual transfer, if the terms of the contract are unpalatable, will your associate have the authority to change the terms of the contract to my liking?
F.T.: [sputtering] I mean, this is just a standard contract.
K.T.: Yes, but you won't be there. He will. Should the contract contain terms different than those contained in the template, I want to ensure we can rectify that mistake.
F.T: Oh.
At this point, he starts extemporizing, before finally coming up with
F.T: And yes, my associate will call me, and I will authorize him to make the changes.
Somehow, I get the feeling most of the people he deals with really are as old and naive as I look.
I eventually gave up, because the passenger's side seat had some liquid damage, and smelled of human urine. Shame, it would have been fun to screw with F.T. a little more.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Pawned Away
With all the time I spent in Baltimore, you'd think I'd have gone into one of their many fine pawn shop establishments, and you'd be wrong. When R.Y. asked me if I wanted to go one, I said "Sure."
As I'm just now really lazy, I'm just going to list the observations I made.
Twelve chainsaws. I wanted to buy one, but R.Y. forbade it, stating it would be a bad idea, and I would need both arms for later. For once, he was the sensible one.
Several pay phones and pay phone stands were available for sale. R.Y. had to mention to me that a lot of the stuff was probably stolen. This was driven home when I saw over forty graphing calculators in the glass cabinet.
Lots and lots of lawn mowers and other related equipment. I really wanted to buy one, though I have no lawn of my own. Looked in my wallet, and realized that since they are a cash-only establishment, I'd not be able to afford much of anything.
There were a lot of game systems and games. The temptation to get a Gamecube for Smash Brothers...
A lot of items were available on an installment basis, but why you would need a silver set so badly you would pay $4 a month for ten months is beyond me.
They also sold loose stones. One of the diamonds was going for $2,000. I would've loved to seen the person that had to sell that off.
R.Y. was looking for a subwoofer. He took a screwdriver to it to examine the insides, and several shards of broken glass fell out. How many innocent windshields must be sacrificed in order to bring the sub to the store? Still had a serial number, though.
While he was attempting to buy the sub, a wide Hispanic man, shorter than me, his fingers like vienna sausages, kept trying to sell R.y. his sub. He had a strange habit of always shoving his hands under his armpits right after finishing a sentence, like Mary Katherine Gallagher. However, he was shaped like a fleshy pear, and so his hands would barely cross over his chest. I sort of wonder what he smelled like.
Lot of guitars, probably because they're easy to move.
The prices would drop every three months, so if you could wait out something long enough, it would often be available for less than a pittance (a pity?).
At one point, "Hey There Delilah" started playing, about half an hour after one of the sales associates tested a subwoofer by playing a compact disc by rapper Angel Eyez.
Both of us wanted the paintball guns. Neither of us would have used them for good.
As I'm just now really lazy, I'm just going to list the observations I made.
Twelve chainsaws. I wanted to buy one, but R.Y. forbade it, stating it would be a bad idea, and I would need both arms for later. For once, he was the sensible one.
Several pay phones and pay phone stands were available for sale. R.Y. had to mention to me that a lot of the stuff was probably stolen. This was driven home when I saw over forty graphing calculators in the glass cabinet.
Lots and lots of lawn mowers and other related equipment. I really wanted to buy one, though I have no lawn of my own. Looked in my wallet, and realized that since they are a cash-only establishment, I'd not be able to afford much of anything.
There were a lot of game systems and games. The temptation to get a Gamecube for Smash Brothers...
A lot of items were available on an installment basis, but why you would need a silver set so badly you would pay $4 a month for ten months is beyond me.
They also sold loose stones. One of the diamonds was going for $2,000. I would've loved to seen the person that had to sell that off.
R.Y. was looking for a subwoofer. He took a screwdriver to it to examine the insides, and several shards of broken glass fell out. How many innocent windshields must be sacrificed in order to bring the sub to the store? Still had a serial number, though.
While he was attempting to buy the sub, a wide Hispanic man, shorter than me, his fingers like vienna sausages, kept trying to sell R.y. his sub. He had a strange habit of always shoving his hands under his armpits right after finishing a sentence, like Mary Katherine Gallagher. However, he was shaped like a fleshy pear, and so his hands would barely cross over his chest. I sort of wonder what he smelled like.
Lot of guitars, probably because they're easy to move.
The prices would drop every three months, so if you could wait out something long enough, it would often be available for less than a pittance (a pity?).
At one point, "Hey There Delilah" started playing, about half an hour after one of the sales associates tested a subwoofer by playing a compact disc by rapper Angel Eyez.
Both of us wanted the paintball guns. Neither of us would have used them for good.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Father Further
My Dad is aging before my eyes. Hey, that was a worthless statement, we are all aging. Thing is, he's aging noticeably. Just now starting to go bald, but I can see it when he dips his head. He's also shrinking for some inexplicable reason; I'm taller than him when I'm just standing around. He moves with the celerity of a snail. His memory starts to betray him. Without his false teeth, he looks prepared to gum down anything, but it also shrinks his face inward. His hair, once black as mine, now is threaded through and through with more white than black. Still a fine salt-and-pepper, but the spice in his life seems mostly gone.
And it wouldn't really bother me, but for July 4, when I cooked dinner for him. I'd had to microwave his steak after embroiling it to a medium-rare, because the elderly are more susceptible to foodborne illness. Then, he said it was too tough, and would I use the cutting board and a cutting knife to slice it into little pieces?
I remember when he would cut my food into bite-sized pieces, because I lacked the manual dexterity to operate a sharp knife without taking out half the plates and myself. Just slicing, over and over, feeling the steak push back slightly, before giving way. Slice, slice, slice. Time has the same effect that that knife did. Slice, slice, slice. It moves on and on, and we cannot get out of the way. We get caught up in it's path.
Then, he complained that he couldn't even eat it because it hurt his gums too much. The dentures hurt his gums too much. he wasn't interested in the salad. Really, the only thing that drew his eye was the potato (with butter he wasn't supposed to have because of his diabetes). He could gum that down, once it cooled down. I even gave him half of mine, because it was the only thing on the table that I'd made that he could eat.
The two of us love each other, but we have never been much for speaking to each other. Consequently, I don't think either of us really knows the other. I know only the vaguest details of his life. Much of his family killed by the Red Chinese government. Grew up with his older sister, who had several children of her own to take care of. Joined the Navy, but still cannot swim. Came to this country illegally, worked as a dishwasher, hid in the rafters of his building when INS came a-knocking. Married a woman here, they had two kids, then they divorced. He returned to Taiwan, where his sister was living, and met my mom, his sister's next door neighbor. They married and returned to the U.S. He worked in photography. Now, he's retired, and watches old Chinese movies and wrestling, and likes fishing and gardening.
In the same vein, he knows I grew up in his household, was smarter than average, rocketed through secondary education, got a full scholarship to UMCP, got a degree in English, almost went to the Peace Corps until he stopped it, went to Dance School, graduated with a Dancing Doctorate, and became barred to practice dance in Maryland. Now, he knows I do something with computers and writing, and I make money from it.
This is who we are to each other. And as we sat there in silence, him reading a newspaper, me reading a book, silently chewing or gumming down our food, I realized that I'd now become one of his primary caretakers (the other my mom), and that this was the closest we would ever get, breaking bread at the same table. Two feet separating us, a lifetime separating us. I hope this is not the eventual end result of all my inter-personal relationships, but fear that this is how it will go.
And it wouldn't really bother me, but for July 4, when I cooked dinner for him. I'd had to microwave his steak after embroiling it to a medium-rare, because the elderly are more susceptible to foodborne illness. Then, he said it was too tough, and would I use the cutting board and a cutting knife to slice it into little pieces?
I remember when he would cut my food into bite-sized pieces, because I lacked the manual dexterity to operate a sharp knife without taking out half the plates and myself. Just slicing, over and over, feeling the steak push back slightly, before giving way. Slice, slice, slice. Time has the same effect that that knife did. Slice, slice, slice. It moves on and on, and we cannot get out of the way. We get caught up in it's path.
Then, he complained that he couldn't even eat it because it hurt his gums too much. The dentures hurt his gums too much. he wasn't interested in the salad. Really, the only thing that drew his eye was the potato (with butter he wasn't supposed to have because of his diabetes). He could gum that down, once it cooled down. I even gave him half of mine, because it was the only thing on the table that I'd made that he could eat.
The two of us love each other, but we have never been much for speaking to each other. Consequently, I don't think either of us really knows the other. I know only the vaguest details of his life. Much of his family killed by the Red Chinese government. Grew up with his older sister, who had several children of her own to take care of. Joined the Navy, but still cannot swim. Came to this country illegally, worked as a dishwasher, hid in the rafters of his building when INS came a-knocking. Married a woman here, they had two kids, then they divorced. He returned to Taiwan, where his sister was living, and met my mom, his sister's next door neighbor. They married and returned to the U.S. He worked in photography. Now, he's retired, and watches old Chinese movies and wrestling, and likes fishing and gardening.
In the same vein, he knows I grew up in his household, was smarter than average, rocketed through secondary education, got a full scholarship to UMCP, got a degree in English, almost went to the Peace Corps until he stopped it, went to Dance School, graduated with a Dancing Doctorate, and became barred to practice dance in Maryland. Now, he knows I do something with computers and writing, and I make money from it.
This is who we are to each other. And as we sat there in silence, him reading a newspaper, me reading a book, silently chewing or gumming down our food, I realized that I'd now become one of his primary caretakers (the other my mom), and that this was the closest we would ever get, breaking bread at the same table. Two feet separating us, a lifetime separating us. I hope this is not the eventual end result of all my inter-personal relationships, but fear that this is how it will go.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Busker Motherf*cker
The arcs in my life commonly involve whimsical, spur-of-the-moment decisions. I have poor impulse control, as evidenced by my palsy-like dance moves. Take, for example, the other day, when I realized I had never busked before. Ever. It didn't take long to grab a hat, ninety cents in change, and work out the broad strokes of the plan, like some surrealist portrait. Go down to a metro stop in D.C., stand there, throw the change in the hat, sing, and see what happens.
Of course, I forgot to take into account how much I hate being around people.
It helped that I was meeting people at the stop, so there was a time limit imposed on my self-embarrassment (self-flagellation?). Got there a little early, and walked out to a crowd of people. Damn. I started smiling and laughing to myself, in that "Oh, God, he's got a plan" mode. There were a lot of people. A lot.
I had to walk away from the escalator opening and off to the side, and even then, I still found myself unable to drop the hat. And then I kept walking back and forth, trying to summon up the courage to sing a song. And really, how hard is it to sing a song? Just open your mouth and let loose with the lyrics. I even needed to call C.S. to tell me that this wasn't a crazy idea (which it was) and that I wasn't doing something stupid (which I was).
In the end, what could I do but just open up and sing? Since I'd walked around so much sweating through my clothing, I figured I only had time for two songs: Fly Me to the Moon and Yesterday. There I was, pacing back and forth, getting a few confused looks, making eye contact with a few people, scared witless, singing songs. Eventually, the net gain was zero cents, but at least now I can tell people I begged for money.
Somehow, that will sound more impressive when I tell the story in person.
Of course, I forgot to take into account how much I hate being around people.
It helped that I was meeting people at the stop, so there was a time limit imposed on my self-embarrassment (self-flagellation?). Got there a little early, and walked out to a crowd of people. Damn. I started smiling and laughing to myself, in that "Oh, God, he's got a plan" mode. There were a lot of people. A lot.
I had to walk away from the escalator opening and off to the side, and even then, I still found myself unable to drop the hat. And then I kept walking back and forth, trying to summon up the courage to sing a song. And really, how hard is it to sing a song? Just open your mouth and let loose with the lyrics. I even needed to call C.S. to tell me that this wasn't a crazy idea (which it was) and that I wasn't doing something stupid (which I was).
In the end, what could I do but just open up and sing? Since I'd walked around so much sweating through my clothing, I figured I only had time for two songs: Fly Me to the Moon and Yesterday. There I was, pacing back and forth, getting a few confused looks, making eye contact with a few people, scared witless, singing songs. Eventually, the net gain was zero cents, but at least now I can tell people I begged for money.
Somehow, that will sound more impressive when I tell the story in person.
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Not Meat
The stars have aligned against me. These are subtle, yet powerful, forces conspiring, ready to force me along a course of action I cannot brook. Yes, "They" are trying to convert me to vegetarianism. Fret not, Careful Reader, for I have yet to submit to their clarion call, their (anti-)meaty arguments. If Dance School taught me anything besides the robot and the jitterbug, it was that no matter how compelling and airtight an argument, you can always respond by disregarding every logical point and screaming back even louder.
I don't think Z.M. and J.R. started out with those besotted intentions, but somehow, as these things do, it evolved. I've stated before that out of respect for them, I'll abstain from delicious meaty goodness when in their presence. Problem was, we were sitting in a vegetarian restaurant. "Vegi Chicken," "Vegi Beef," "Vegi Pork," all heresy and blasphemy.
Z.M.: So, [K.T.], would you be willing to try some vegetarian meat?
K.T.: I guess.
Please note that "I guess" is my catch-all when confronted with absurd statements. In the past, these included the likes of "Do you want to go to Law School?" "Do you want to work the graveyard shift?" and "What is love? Baby, don't hurt me, don't hurt me no more." (Note that Haddaway's lyrics are usually accompanied with me bobbing my head and people wondering why I'm talking to him. Really, it's because he is a modern poet, perhaps the last modern poet, and I need do all I can to keep his spirit alive. Alas, Haddaway, though you may have been culled from our ranks in '03, we shall never forget you. How could we?)
When I ordered the Hunan Beef with "Vegi Beef," a little part of me died an ignoble death. Given how many times "a little part of me" died by this point, it speaks either to my gift for hyperbole, or the expansive size of my soul. I'm going with the hyperbole.
And then, it came. I picked up a brown ovoid with my chopsticks, took a stick in each hand, split it, looked inside. Much like a fractal, it assumed the same shape, size, texture. No doubt that I could have kept splitting down, down, down to the microscopic level, and it would have remained the same. Slipped it into my mouth, much as I would a pill. The first thought? "This is not meat." The second thought? "The important thing is that they tried." Think spongiform material, almost like wet styrofoam, the texture and mouthfeel little more than an elaborate ruse, a uniform, non-striated, soft and smooth sensation.
K.T.: Do you think it comes in a log of some sort, and they just slice off pieces?
J.R.: No.
It threw me off, much as a wild bull, made of tofu, would have. However, I ordered the food, so I had to finish it. Thankfully, there was no requirement that I finish it immediately. Upended the snowcone ball of rice onto my plate, knocked it all down. Then, I picked out every last vegetable from the thick brown sauce and consumed them. They were actually really good. I sort of wished that I hadn't ordered the lie, and just gone straight vegetarian.
Then, the simple questions. Always the hardest. "It wasn't that bad, was it?" "You'd try it again, wouldn't you?" "Where's the bathroom?"
Here's the thing: for all the guff I gave them then, I actually appreciated the food. Well, not the fake beef, that was an affront to humanity. But the rest of it was fine, and I don't think that becoming a vegetarian would be that bad. At some point, I'm probably going to try a week without meat, just to see what happens. Of course, no one would know about it until after it ended, so I could dodge the slings and arrows of misfortune, made concrete in the mocks and jibes of my fellow carni- and omnivores.
Finally, for the record, Z.M., I do not believe you were trying to guilt anyone into eating not-meat. It just seemed like the funny thing to say.
I don't think Z.M. and J.R. started out with those besotted intentions, but somehow, as these things do, it evolved. I've stated before that out of respect for them, I'll abstain from delicious meaty goodness when in their presence. Problem was, we were sitting in a vegetarian restaurant. "Vegi Chicken," "Vegi Beef," "Vegi Pork," all heresy and blasphemy.
Z.M.: So, [K.T.], would you be willing to try some vegetarian meat?
K.T.: I guess.
Please note that "I guess" is my catch-all when confronted with absurd statements. In the past, these included the likes of "Do you want to go to Law School?" "Do you want to work the graveyard shift?" and "What is love? Baby, don't hurt me, don't hurt me no more." (Note that Haddaway's lyrics are usually accompanied with me bobbing my head and people wondering why I'm talking to him. Really, it's because he is a modern poet, perhaps the last modern poet, and I need do all I can to keep his spirit alive. Alas, Haddaway, though you may have been culled from our ranks in '03, we shall never forget you. How could we?)
When I ordered the Hunan Beef with "Vegi Beef," a little part of me died an ignoble death. Given how many times "a little part of me" died by this point, it speaks either to my gift for hyperbole, or the expansive size of my soul. I'm going with the hyperbole.
And then, it came. I picked up a brown ovoid with my chopsticks, took a stick in each hand, split it, looked inside. Much like a fractal, it assumed the same shape, size, texture. No doubt that I could have kept splitting down, down, down to the microscopic level, and it would have remained the same. Slipped it into my mouth, much as I would a pill. The first thought? "This is not meat." The second thought? "The important thing is that they tried." Think spongiform material, almost like wet styrofoam, the texture and mouthfeel little more than an elaborate ruse, a uniform, non-striated, soft and smooth sensation.
K.T.: Do you think it comes in a log of some sort, and they just slice off pieces?
J.R.: No.
It threw me off, much as a wild bull, made of tofu, would have. However, I ordered the food, so I had to finish it. Thankfully, there was no requirement that I finish it immediately. Upended the snowcone ball of rice onto my plate, knocked it all down. Then, I picked out every last vegetable from the thick brown sauce and consumed them. They were actually really good. I sort of wished that I hadn't ordered the lie, and just gone straight vegetarian.
Then, the simple questions. Always the hardest. "It wasn't that bad, was it?" "You'd try it again, wouldn't you?" "Where's the bathroom?"
Here's the thing: for all the guff I gave them then, I actually appreciated the food. Well, not the fake beef, that was an affront to humanity. But the rest of it was fine, and I don't think that becoming a vegetarian would be that bad. At some point, I'm probably going to try a week without meat, just to see what happens. Of course, no one would know about it until after it ended, so I could dodge the slings and arrows of misfortune, made concrete in the mocks and jibes of my fellow carni- and omnivores.
Finally, for the record, Z.M., I do not believe you were trying to guilt anyone into eating not-meat. It just seemed like the funny thing to say.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Decadent Dentistry, part 3
Eight hours later, my cheek still waxes numb against my teeth, though not to the rotted degree it had when I shot up with the A.A. special (anesthetic. Yeah, he's going to be knocking people out. Don't call it a comeback.). This was me making my return to the dentist in order to hollow out my poor tooth and get a cyanide pill/filling implanted. Ever seen the movie "Dune" from 1984? Yeah, just call me Yueh. Wellington Yueh.
I rushed down during lunch time. Got some McNuggets right before. Why? I don't know, probably because I knew it would be a long time before I could eat again. That, and I need a lot of grease in my life. Yet, oddly enough, I didn't ocnsider the possibility that it might get stuck in my teeth, right before they're about to drill dead tissue from my tooth.
M.B. was my dental nurse. Boy, do I now (in crystal-clear retrospect) feel sorry for her. As the good Doctor applied the topical anesthetic, then injected my gums with the local anesthetic, M.B. and I discussed the nature of nerves.
M.B.: I remember one patient. You know how teeth are supposed to be nerve to tooth, nerve to tooth, nerve to tooth? Well, her nerves were all crossed across each other. We had to numb her entire mouth just to put a filling in on her right side.
K.T.: Wow, that must have sucked.
M.B.: Well, it meant that she had a lot of nerves, so she would feel a lot of pleasure everywhere.
K.T.: I was thinking that if she got hit, she would feel a lot more pain.
M.B.: Yeah, if she got hit, she would feel a lot more pain.
K.T.: But if she got "hit," she would feel a lot more pleasure?
At this point, M.B. just removed the surgical mask from her face, covered her mouth, and leaned over, trying desperately not to laugh. I am going to hell. At least everyone around me will be laughing for about five minutes, before they jam that pitchfork in my ass and start telling puns.
If you'll recall, I watched the earlier cleaning reflected overhead, a ghostly representation of a possible reality. This, this I really wanted to see. Of course, much of it involved the good doctor's arms overhead, so as I stared into the glass, looking at more and more instruments and gauze entering my widened mouth, I started falling into a fugue. Sort of lost myself in the moment, if having your face numbed, your teeth jammed open, your tooth drilled into, and your mouth lit up, can be considered a singular moment.
I could hear the drilling into my molar, I could feel the pressure of the good dentist grinding away the diseased bits, but I could not feel the accompanying pain. Would my life was like that, all pressure and sensation, no hurt. Throughout, I had to resist the wild-child urge to snake my tongue over to that side of my mouth and tap the drill, to see what it really felt like. There was probably a lot of enamel dust at this point, and I think, just maybe, a bit of saliva and enamel flashed against the screen, hung there as a glob.
Clamps, gauze, a strange device with a blue light special, that loving little filling, stuffed in and molded with an ease with which you cannot fill the longing holes in your life. This is around where I realized that I was out of it, and it couldn't have possibly been from the anesthesia. The dentist asked me to bite down on a coffee bean-brown strip of paper a couple of times, and it took me several seconds to realize she was even talking to me. Then, I was to grind my teeth across it, but I kept champing at it.
Then came the flossing, during which two strips snapped against the gateway my teeth formed. The dentist took her medical-grade Dremel and actually filed down some of my toothy edges. What. The. Flip. This, more than anything, disturbs me. The floss slides in and out like a piston in an engine. Even now, when I floss, the familiar struggle of me against myself is gone, replaced with a mocking admission that flossing the upper right teeth is no longer a challenge, an experience. Now, a most pedestrian in and out.
Oh, and I have a filling. Still waiting to pick up radio signals.
I rushed down during lunch time. Got some McNuggets right before. Why? I don't know, probably because I knew it would be a long time before I could eat again. That, and I need a lot of grease in my life. Yet, oddly enough, I didn't ocnsider the possibility that it might get stuck in my teeth, right before they're about to drill dead tissue from my tooth.
M.B. was my dental nurse. Boy, do I now (in crystal-clear retrospect) feel sorry for her. As the good Doctor applied the topical anesthetic, then injected my gums with the local anesthetic, M.B. and I discussed the nature of nerves.
M.B.: I remember one patient. You know how teeth are supposed to be nerve to tooth, nerve to tooth, nerve to tooth? Well, her nerves were all crossed across each other. We had to numb her entire mouth just to put a filling in on her right side.
K.T.: Wow, that must have sucked.
M.B.: Well, it meant that she had a lot of nerves, so she would feel a lot of pleasure everywhere.
K.T.: I was thinking that if she got hit, she would feel a lot more pain.
M.B.: Yeah, if she got hit, she would feel a lot more pain.
K.T.: But if she got "hit," she would feel a lot more pleasure?
At this point, M.B. just removed the surgical mask from her face, covered her mouth, and leaned over, trying desperately not to laugh. I am going to hell. At least everyone around me will be laughing for about five minutes, before they jam that pitchfork in my ass and start telling puns.
If you'll recall, I watched the earlier cleaning reflected overhead, a ghostly representation of a possible reality. This, this I really wanted to see. Of course, much of it involved the good doctor's arms overhead, so as I stared into the glass, looking at more and more instruments and gauze entering my widened mouth, I started falling into a fugue. Sort of lost myself in the moment, if having your face numbed, your teeth jammed open, your tooth drilled into, and your mouth lit up, can be considered a singular moment.
I could hear the drilling into my molar, I could feel the pressure of the good dentist grinding away the diseased bits, but I could not feel the accompanying pain. Would my life was like that, all pressure and sensation, no hurt. Throughout, I had to resist the wild-child urge to snake my tongue over to that side of my mouth and tap the drill, to see what it really felt like. There was probably a lot of enamel dust at this point, and I think, just maybe, a bit of saliva and enamel flashed against the screen, hung there as a glob.
Clamps, gauze, a strange device with a blue light special, that loving little filling, stuffed in and molded with an ease with which you cannot fill the longing holes in your life. This is around where I realized that I was out of it, and it couldn't have possibly been from the anesthesia. The dentist asked me to bite down on a coffee bean-brown strip of paper a couple of times, and it took me several seconds to realize she was even talking to me. Then, I was to grind my teeth across it, but I kept champing at it.
Then came the flossing, during which two strips snapped against the gateway my teeth formed. The dentist took her medical-grade Dremel and actually filed down some of my toothy edges. What. The. Flip. This, more than anything, disturbs me. The floss slides in and out like a piston in an engine. Even now, when I floss, the familiar struggle of me against myself is gone, replaced with a mocking admission that flossing the upper right teeth is no longer a challenge, an experience. Now, a most pedestrian in and out.
Oh, and I have a filling. Still waiting to pick up radio signals.
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Drunklust Wandering, part 2
One of these nights, I'm going to aimlessly travel the metro from stop to stop just talking to random drunks. There is something peculiar about the people you meet after midnight waiting for the metro.
The other night, myself and E.B. were waiting on one side of the metro station going west, while E.C. was on the other side going east. The great thing about situations like that, where you sort of don't want to scream across the divide, is that pantomiming takes on a greater significance. E.B. starts out with sending semaphore to E.C., which none of us knows. I'd like to imagine that he transmitted the letters "W," "T," and "F." In response, I send the letters "Y," "M," "C," and "A," in the fashion popularized by the Village People. E.B. busts out what he remembers of the Oriole bird dance. I counter with Michael Jackson's moonwalk. E.C. is ready to fall over, either from hilarity or shame. I'm about to try a handstand, but E.B. warns against, as the metro cops are itching for action.
Far overhead, the dingy gray arches, recessed square frames in the concrete pretending to lend class to our glorious metrorail. Dirt clings to everything down here; the marbled seating has been waxed and oiled a mottled blackness. Atop it, a woman comes and sits. She comments on how she can't wait fifteen minutes, and how bored she will get, all the while playing with a yellow/black polka-dotted snap bracelet. Overhead, the LCD screen informs us our train will not arrive for another fifteen minutes.
I know that I shouldn't pass judgment, but when I stare at her, I can't help but wonder what the hell went wrong when she got dressed. Her curled brown hair wrapped in a ponytail hanging off the right side of her head. Large sequined heart earrings, silver dollar sized, the center cut out, hanging off her ears. Sky blue eye shadow dusted across her eyes, perhaps an inch outward from her pupils. A white dress with black polka dots, and black spandex tights. Cherry red pumps. It's like she dropped straight out of Bill and Ted's phone booth/time machine.
She keeps raveling and unraveling the snap bracelet, and I've finally got to ask. Yes, she went to an 80s party, and none of her friends live at her metro stop. Throughout this exchange, she keeps staring at E.B., who is getting more and more furious as he looks at the road map. He has determined that we could have either taken the metro to R.B.'s mythical club, or just walked one more block. There is fury welling up within him, like a desperate song that needs be sung.
For the next X period of time, I do my "make absurd statements and gesticulate wildly" thing, E.B. paces back and forth and chimes in, and she just sits and laughs, every so often looking at E.B. Finally, the floor lights flash, the train rumbles in, the LCD screen states "ARR," and we have arrived, or it has arrived. I look up and make the following comment.
K.T.: It's pirate time!
Eighties' Girl (E.G.): What?
K.T.: "Arr."
E.G.: I never thought of it like that.
Then she quickly backs away from me and rushes onto the train.
She sits in a bench to the left, E.B. sits in a bench to the right, and I stand in the middle. As E.G. observes, I can't sit next to a guy on the metro, and she places her pocketbook down atop the seat next to her. No doubt, trying to get E.B. to sit next to her, but he would have none of that. The rest of the ride is a concerted discussion on what we've missed from the 80s, such as MacGyver, Full House, Perfect Strangers, Gummi Bears, Darkwing Duck, Ducktales, the Smurfs.... The list goes on and on.
When we arrive at our destination, and are ready to alight, I realize that I don't know her name, and she knows neither of ours. Introduce myself, find out her name is A. Unsure as to whether or not to call E.B. back from the door and introduce them, and ultimately decide against. I think E.B. missed an opportunity, but he wasn't feeling it, as I found out later.
This is OK, because when you're not feeling it, things can get awkward. Like the time a guy on the street offered me oral pleasure for $5. Believing that I should never pass up a chance to debate the merits of new criticism versus marxist critical theory, I tendered my $5 and followed him into the alleyway. This is where I found out that a very thin line separates pleasure and stupidity, among many other things, and that not many people are actually willing to discuss literary analysis on the street.
The other night, myself and E.B. were waiting on one side of the metro station going west, while E.C. was on the other side going east. The great thing about situations like that, where you sort of don't want to scream across the divide, is that pantomiming takes on a greater significance. E.B. starts out with sending semaphore to E.C., which none of us knows. I'd like to imagine that he transmitted the letters "W," "T," and "F." In response, I send the letters "Y," "M," "C," and "A," in the fashion popularized by the Village People. E.B. busts out what he remembers of the Oriole bird dance. I counter with Michael Jackson's moonwalk. E.C. is ready to fall over, either from hilarity or shame. I'm about to try a handstand, but E.B. warns against, as the metro cops are itching for action.
Far overhead, the dingy gray arches, recessed square frames in the concrete pretending to lend class to our glorious metrorail. Dirt clings to everything down here; the marbled seating has been waxed and oiled a mottled blackness. Atop it, a woman comes and sits. She comments on how she can't wait fifteen minutes, and how bored she will get, all the while playing with a yellow/black polka-dotted snap bracelet. Overhead, the LCD screen informs us our train will not arrive for another fifteen minutes.
I know that I shouldn't pass judgment, but when I stare at her, I can't help but wonder what the hell went wrong when she got dressed. Her curled brown hair wrapped in a ponytail hanging off the right side of her head. Large sequined heart earrings, silver dollar sized, the center cut out, hanging off her ears. Sky blue eye shadow dusted across her eyes, perhaps an inch outward from her pupils. A white dress with black polka dots, and black spandex tights. Cherry red pumps. It's like she dropped straight out of Bill and Ted's phone booth/time machine.
She keeps raveling and unraveling the snap bracelet, and I've finally got to ask. Yes, she went to an 80s party, and none of her friends live at her metro stop. Throughout this exchange, she keeps staring at E.B., who is getting more and more furious as he looks at the road map. He has determined that we could have either taken the metro to R.B.'s mythical club, or just walked one more block. There is fury welling up within him, like a desperate song that needs be sung.
For the next X period of time, I do my "make absurd statements and gesticulate wildly" thing, E.B. paces back and forth and chimes in, and she just sits and laughs, every so often looking at E.B. Finally, the floor lights flash, the train rumbles in, the LCD screen states "ARR," and we have arrived, or it has arrived. I look up and make the following comment.
K.T.: It's pirate time!
Eighties' Girl (E.G.): What?
K.T.: "Arr."
E.G.: I never thought of it like that.
Then she quickly backs away from me and rushes onto the train.
She sits in a bench to the left, E.B. sits in a bench to the right, and I stand in the middle. As E.G. observes, I can't sit next to a guy on the metro, and she places her pocketbook down atop the seat next to her. No doubt, trying to get E.B. to sit next to her, but he would have none of that. The rest of the ride is a concerted discussion on what we've missed from the 80s, such as MacGyver, Full House, Perfect Strangers, Gummi Bears, Darkwing Duck, Ducktales, the Smurfs.... The list goes on and on.
When we arrive at our destination, and are ready to alight, I realize that I don't know her name, and she knows neither of ours. Introduce myself, find out her name is A. Unsure as to whether or not to call E.B. back from the door and introduce them, and ultimately decide against. I think E.B. missed an opportunity, but he wasn't feeling it, as I found out later.
This is OK, because when you're not feeling it, things can get awkward. Like the time a guy on the street offered me oral pleasure for $5. Believing that I should never pass up a chance to debate the merits of new criticism versus marxist critical theory, I tendered my $5 and followed him into the alleyway. This is where I found out that a very thin line separates pleasure and stupidity, among many other things, and that not many people are actually willing to discuss literary analysis on the street.
Drunklust Wandering
During the monthly staff meeting:
M.M.: OK, that's about it. Anyone have anything to add? [K.T.], do you have anything to say?
K.T.: [Channeling E.B.] F*** it, I'm out.
[Laughter]
M.M.: [J.T.], do you have anything?
J.T.: F*** it, [K.T.]'s out.
***
It's not that I despise R.B., it's just that I despise drunken R.B., he of the ability to f*** anyone. Yet, somehow, we made the mistake of drinking with good ol' R.B. again. What were we thinking? More salient question, why weren't we thinking?
Thankfully, this time he did not attempt to f*** anyone that crossed his path. Sadly, he convinced us that a bar he wanted to go to was "just a block down the street." For ten blocks. The first several blocks took us in a giant loop until, fifteen minutes later, we realized we'd traveled one block from our starting point.
We kept hearing him repeat the same refrain. It got to the point where I had to refrain from leaving him behind. At one point, we stumbled upon a rather drunk, but still functioning, blonde. She informed us that the club was "that way," pointed off in some general direction, and kept walking. I sort of hoped that R.B. and she would kiss, so we could watch them miss and both pratfall.
R.B. had long since lost the ability to walk in a straight line, so at one point, E.C. and I start laughing as a branch attacks him out of nowhere.
R.B.: [K.T.], are you guys laughing at me?
K.T.: No, no, [E.C.] is just tying his shoes.
When R.B. turns, E.C. taps me on the shoulder and points down. No shoelaces whatsoever.
At some point, R.B. starts hearing a song that the rest of us are oblivious to. Walking alongside E.B., R.B. starts clapping his hands, and swaying purposefully (as opposed to the random falling he's taken to attempting while stumbling along the sidewalk). Apparently, this song is in 11/3 time, has a great many instruments, and pauses for as long as thirty seconds.
We eventually stop at a gas station, while E.B. asks for directions. R.B. takes it (and himself) upon himself to relive himself upon the side of a storage facility. Genuine class, that R.B. When it becomes obvious that we're just passing car dealership after car dealership, we realize that R.B. is a fool, and we are the fool's handmaidens for following him this far. We turn and go to another bar, wherein R.B. falls asleep, arms crossed, chin to chest, blanked out. E.C. has a nice picture of this, and soon everyone in the I.A.D. will have a picture of this.
M.M.: OK, that's about it. Anyone have anything to add? [K.T.], do you have anything to say?
K.T.: [Channeling E.B.] F*** it, I'm out.
[Laughter]
M.M.: [J.T.], do you have anything?
J.T.: F*** it, [K.T.]'s out.
***
It's not that I despise R.B., it's just that I despise drunken R.B., he of the ability to f*** anyone. Yet, somehow, we made the mistake of drinking with good ol' R.B. again. What were we thinking? More salient question, why weren't we thinking?
Thankfully, this time he did not attempt to f*** anyone that crossed his path. Sadly, he convinced us that a bar he wanted to go to was "just a block down the street." For ten blocks. The first several blocks took us in a giant loop until, fifteen minutes later, we realized we'd traveled one block from our starting point.
We kept hearing him repeat the same refrain. It got to the point where I had to refrain from leaving him behind. At one point, we stumbled upon a rather drunk, but still functioning, blonde. She informed us that the club was "that way," pointed off in some general direction, and kept walking. I sort of hoped that R.B. and she would kiss, so we could watch them miss and both pratfall.
R.B. had long since lost the ability to walk in a straight line, so at one point, E.C. and I start laughing as a branch attacks him out of nowhere.
R.B.: [K.T.], are you guys laughing at me?
K.T.: No, no, [E.C.] is just tying his shoes.
When R.B. turns, E.C. taps me on the shoulder and points down. No shoelaces whatsoever.
At some point, R.B. starts hearing a song that the rest of us are oblivious to. Walking alongside E.B., R.B. starts clapping his hands, and swaying purposefully (as opposed to the random falling he's taken to attempting while stumbling along the sidewalk). Apparently, this song is in 11/3 time, has a great many instruments, and pauses for as long as thirty seconds.
We eventually stop at a gas station, while E.B. asks for directions. R.B. takes it (and himself) upon himself to relive himself upon the side of a storage facility. Genuine class, that R.B. When it becomes obvious that we're just passing car dealership after car dealership, we realize that R.B. is a fool, and we are the fool's handmaidens for following him this far. We turn and go to another bar, wherein R.B. falls asleep, arms crossed, chin to chest, blanked out. E.C. has a nice picture of this, and soon everyone in the I.A.D. will have a picture of this.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Decadent Dentistry, part 2
This dentist’s office freaked me out a little, not just because of the aforementioned story, but also because it resembled more a spa than a dentist’s office. White marble tiling speckled with black flakes, large frosted glass door, televisions everywhere, a massage unit in the patient’s chair (which I’d had S. turn off soon after she turned it on), a television positioned overhead for when you’re lying back in the chair, the digital x-ray machine hidden within a solid wooden cabinet. How the upper-middle class deal with teeth cleaning.
What I detest about bite-wing x-rays are the actual biting, as the edge of the film digs into my gums, leaving little fleshy strands of gingival tissue to wiggle around, like some sort of tiny polyp attached to my mouth. Also, the taste of sterile plastic, flat and foreign and just a step beyond what you might expect from something you would put in your mouth. Then again, that light pink film was what caught my cavity (upper right quadrant), so I guess I can’t hate that much.
The television overhead was nice, while I was getting poked and prodded with the ultrasonic cleaner, but mostly, I was watching my teeth in the reflective surface (glass or plastic protecting the television from random flying bits of tartar or polish or what have you). A most disturbing way to watch what should not be. Also, the good dentist M.N. and S., as they performed their duties, kept asking me questions.
I don’t know how to react to answering questions when I’ve got a mouth full of equipment and spittle. Often, the only answer I can give is a non-committal “Ugh-ugh” for “No,” and a non-committal “Ugh-ugh” for “Yes.” No head-shaking, that throws off the entire process. S. when polishing my teeth, would stop to let me answer, then go right back to it. Of course, my answers were still unintelligible anyway, teeth and tongue coated in the gritty mint-flavored sand.
At one point, S. was flossing my teeth, and asked me to turn my head towards her, so she could access my back right quadrant. I stared straight forward, at some stray hairs just behind her neck. Her smooth, creamy, chocolate neck. Her neck, probably soft and supple and waiting for me to… uh… turned my head towards her, so she could floss my teeth. The floss broke, no doubt due to the thoughts going through my head, or because my teeth tend to pack together quite close. They, like me, are afraid of strangers, and bunch together for strength.
After this was done, S. came back with a warm moist towel, no doubt for me to clean up my…. My what? Was this a flight? It sure was a trip for me. I wiped my hands and face, then kept the towel, as they apparently did not reuse these things. Ah,
O.R. asked me if she needed to call to remind me about the Monday appointment, but I said that I would probably remember, and if I really did forget, then it was on me. Third Receptionist (T.R.) looked at me, and with a thick Russian accent, said:
T.R.: I can tell from the lines of your face that you are smart.
K.T.: No, I just fake it really well.
O.R.: She’s right, I know what she means.
T.R.: Yes, some people, they have a moon face, you can’t tell anything.
Your face, your lines, I can tell that you are smart.
OK. What? Again, if I were smart, I would not have (feel free to choose any one of my life failings). We’ll see how this goes on Monday.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Decadent Dentistry
Went to the dentist this morning before work. That’s one of the things about getting up early to go to work when you don’t really need to show up for a few hours. If there’s an appointment you need to schedule for early morning, you can get it taken care of, then just show up to work as per normal, even though you’re late on your own internal chronosphere.
I’d been up since around 0530, as is normal for my system, and the cute brunette with the half-horn rimmed glasses, S., offered me coffee, tea, water, etc. (Yeah, at 0800, it’s probably too early to be noticing people, but that’s how I roll). I whipped out the paperwork that I’d prepared in advance, and she was excited as she didn’t have to wait for me to finish it.
S.: Oh, that’s so great! Our patients hate paperwork.
K.T.: Oh, I love paperwork. It’s one of my most favorite things in the world.
S.: [shocked look] Really?
K.T.: No, I hate paperwork, I just wanted to get it out of the way.
Other Receptionist (O.R.): You ‘love paperwork,’ that’s so cute!
[I have this effect on women, even when half-asleep at 0745 in the morning. None ever think of me as “hot,” or “attractive,” but all of them would probably describe me either as “cute” or “smart,” with a leaning towards “cute.” And it isn’t the “I wouldn’t be averse to swapping bodily fluids” type of cute, just the “he’s like my little brother” type of cute. Unless I’ve been getting this horribly wrong this whole time, which is entirely plausible. If I really were “smart,” then I’d be able to figure out a way to use the “cute”ness to my advantage.]
As I sit in their lounge, with the smooth leather chairs, black as silk, and just as smooth, they ask why I’m nervous, and I tell them The Story. When I was seven, I was visiting the dentist. I can remember the room now, yellowed-out lights from old fluorescent bulbs, an earthen brown chair that was too oversized for the likes of me, one of those light blue bibs about my neck, and her. The Dentist. Thick-lensed glasses, hair once a rich chestnut, now fading to regal grey, her face starting to adopt a wrinkled look, as if caught in a bluster too long. She stuck a tongue depressor down my throat a little too far, and I turned my head to the left and vomited over the side of the chair. Sad little puddle of orange-brown.
As she cleaned it up, with nary an emotion showing on her set face, she spoke these words: “The first time you vomit, I’ll clean it up. The second time, you’ll clean it up. The third time, I’ll mop it up and spoon feed it to you.”
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