penta-annual faulknerian (near) non-fiction: it'll make you stab your eyeballs out

This is a post for everyone who has ever had to write a scholarly paper in the general field of the humanities, specifically in English. Do you recall the time spent crafting a sentence to say exactly what you mean, pouring through words and phrases until something would click? When there was very little difference to be found between content and style because the two were inextricably linked. Then I recommend that you never have a go at editing the report that is now sitting on my desk.

Usually a visceral reaction to a written work can be considered a good thing. But it has to be for all the best reasons. If the reason is because it is so terrible, so full of errors and inappropriate tone, than no, not awesome.

Granted, this blog is hardly a stylistic achievement of greatness. But it's informal. I don't care, and if you are fretting about my abysmal punctuation, I have to say, get a life. This is something I write on the sly, like when I'm editing papers that make me cry (I wept on the way home last night thinking about how bad this was: truly wretched).

A report that you do five times a year, prepared for your Board of Directors, should not be this bad. It really shouldn't be bad at all, but if it has to be less than stellar, make it M.O.R, or mediocre. It shouldn't be this bad: it could be spread around it leaflets and used as a torture device.

And such a report should have a formal tone. If there is money on the line and it doesn't involve a lotto ticket, you should be formal. You can be conversational without becoming a servant of an Editorial Demon.

Curse you Earnesto, and your report as well.

This Charming Man, or is it Charmless Man

As stated before, I am not a big believer in Boyish Charm. Boyish Charm is capitalized because I am quite sure somewhere out there there is a name brand can producted that most men who employ Boyish Charm use. Like Velveeta.

Boyish Charm is alright when it is used sparingly. Like a flash of a boyish smile to punctuate a particular flirtation. In this case, it is all the better because of the rarity of use. I am strongly against the carpet bombing technique of Boyish Charm, when it's the one and only modus operandi. Then it assumes a cloying nature and makes me want to beat the man.

For example, knew this guy once who was such a charmer. It was nice at first, but then, it wasd irritating. You could never get a stright answer from him, it was always something carefullly calculated to be chart-toppingly charming, almost to the point of nonsensicalness. I swear, if I had asked him to watch my pet guinea pig (mythical, by the way, I have no pets), he probably would have said "Anything for you, darling heart. I will cherish this time with the creature as if it was time spent with you, and plan our future together" If you can't tell via the written word if this is sarcastic, then good, you can't tell when he said it either.

Actually, Boyish Charm is a label I think I am using to describe all excessive charm, including Roguish Charm, Winning Charm, etc. I label it Boyish Charm because it is mainly employed by males. Sweeping Generalization? Yes. But behind the bias lives the truth. Woman rely on wiafishness and other forms of faux-naivete. Men use charm.

So think, next time someone is trying to charm your socks off. Charm or substance? Please only give them your socks if the charm has a little more behind it than nice eyelashes and a rakish smile.

How to throw an uncomfortable party

So, I have mentioned the reorganizational fiesta that has taken place here where I work. The one in which Earnesto pandered to the majority of the people like a middle school kid vying for popularity by shuffling out 2.5 of the most disliked people in positions of authority. These were also the people who had the tendency to rain on the Project Negative Value, throwing unwanted bricks of reality into the mix. Not part of Team Feel-good, not big believers in Boyish Charm or unwarranted optimism. And now, definitely not card-carrying members of the I-Love-Earnesto club.

So, in the beginning of the month we had the first major farewell, celebrated in a low key fashion with a brunch drop-by. I planned it,with the help of some other very useful souls. It was stressful, but simple, and executed with relative ease. Fond Farewells to our HR director, who, despite some people's belief, was not in partnership with the Devil. Best wishes to the Midwest.

Last night we had the second major farewell, our CFO. I generally actually am not a big fan of her. She has been a bit of an old battle-axe, and I can't count how many times she threatened to stop my pay until I did what she wanted. But after 17 years, anyone deserves better than people singing 'Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead.' In fact, I think probably it is an indelible human right not to be treated that shabbily. Plus, it doesn't help that Earnesto announced her pending departure and then expected her to stay in and work harder than ever before on his pet project, Negative Value. I think it is like picking someone's pocket before you throw them overboard. Not fair play.

Again, I was assigned the planning role. Unfortunately Battleaxe had developed some very definite ideas about what it should be, and so had her crazy assistant. Somehow it would come out of my budget, and be the farewell of their dreams. That's not how it works. You take what you are given.

Not if you are Battleaxe. She told us she wanted a wine and cheese night, which really mucked up planning. It had to be after hours. We had to buy wine etc, I won't give you the painful details, but more than once I swore that the Hatchet (Battleaxe's assistant) was going to be the death of me. And last night was the pinnacle of the ridiculosity.

But enough with the Complaining. I said How-To. Here We Go:

• Make sure the person that the party is for is not well liked. It means that the people there will be split between the few that do lie her, those who are obligated, and those who want to make sure the body is cold/dance on the grave.
  
• Make it at an awkward time. Ideally, you would need to reschedule 2-3 other essential meetings to make it happen. It's even batter if you can arrange a meeting that the boss has to go to midway through, so it's a little reminder that the honoree is important, but not that important.
  
• Plan for a ridiculous number of people, and invite the world. We planned for 75 people, in an organization that max employs 375. That way when the majority of people do not show up, it is patently apparent with gobs of space and plates of food and bottle of wine that won't even get close to being touched. I think we maybe had 40 people, including incidental foot traffic. Can you say awkward?
• Have wine. Alcohol is a great social lubricant. It is also a bit tragically hilarious when the institution drunk indulges and gets soused enough to be utterly ridiculous in front of the two or three visiting dignitaries, and then announces he is going to get back to work. Furthermore, it allows for the awkward toasting moment when everyone seems to have a glass, and not one can think of a good reason to hoist it up besides 'Good riddance.'
• Make sure the cohosts at this close to snapping and getting in a fist fight. If one is for some reason unable to lift heavy objects, it helps, because the heavy lifter is then tempted to heave the table into the other person's head, and it shows.
  
• However, to keep it in the realm of party and not bloodsport, put away the corkscrew and dispose of any empty bottles as they arise.
  
• Do not plan a clean up strategy or a closing time. Nothing says uncomfortable like the visible gasps for breath a party has when an hour in the same people are looking desperately around for an excuse to leave, and no one has the courage to kill it.
  
• Finally, plan another going away party for the next night, to be held at a inconvenient location, and frequently have the honoree mention who will be coming to that party in a manner that looks like a desperate bid to prove that they have friends. Nothing shows a lame party for what it is like the comment that the next party will be much better.
  

All I have to say, is in 16 years if I am still here, please just take me out back and shoot me. Then it won't be so strange that m going away party feels like a wake.

That's Hugh to you, two

You know how some people may have at one point been attractive to you, even in a vague way, but without the unwanted and unappreciated assistance of an annoying friend to jog your memory, you couldn't say if you ever did? I mean, because that person's fair visage has been dimmed by reality, tarnished by the simple fact that you would swear in a court of law that he is a flaming idiot. I have a feeling that this is how many women (and maybe some men, who knows) feel about Hugh.

I vehemently disclaim that I was ever attracted to him. you will find no one who would ever say that I did. Mostly I was in awe of his flopsome (floppy+awesome, that's right, his hair gets a portmanteau word, though probably not used in the same way) hair. And then quickly horrified at his reliance on that standby, boyish charm. I am strongly prejudiced against boyish charm when it is the prop and stay of a man's relationships (but not necessarily boyish charms). Develop some substance! Anyway, my disenchantment hit before enchantment even had a chance to start, like in -2 seconds.

So I was astonished to find that one of my more irascible coworkers had a death defying (he's that unrealistically optimistic) crush on Hugh. She said she would go to any meeting he's in, and would take notes or tape it when he presents. I have had the misfortune of seeing his presentations, and organize many meetings he participates in, I would rather lose my one remaining baby tooth than go.

And here is a great story about a great story. I was riding the shuttle home one day with Hugh and another coworker. They decided to try to tell me a tale about a conference they had gone to in October. One of the evenings they had gone out in a large group drinking and dancing. Apparently Hugh is a Dancing Fiend, so talented that another attendee, some random woman he had never met, could no longer resist and tore his shirt right off, popping the buttons down the front. But the best part about the story was his insistence on reenacting it in the aisle way for everyone else on the shuttle. When he got to the ripping bit, he tugged so hard on his shirt he nearly did lose a button. I averted my eyes. After all, I am young and impressionable.

Ok, young and jaded is the official verdict, but no one deserves to see that.

And I'm not saying that Hugh is a flaming idiot. yet.