we suck young blood

I was reading Tim Duncan's bio on a site, and it inspired me to, along with my overwhelming sense of cynicism on this Friday of joy and gladness (only 5 days of work left! Exciting!) write something brutally true and yet over the top exaggerated. and that would be how my institution eats its young.

Not the visiting young, but the new employees. I don't know if this is the case in the real world with real money dollar jobs, but I have seen a lot of super-swift hire-quit actions go down here. Let me explain how somehow, a renowned institution of 400+ employees has built a management system that contrives to suck the souls out of people.

Scenario 1: The impossible situation
There is one senior manager here (and by here, I mean collecting a fat paycheck) who actually lives in New York and is getting her doctorate. I'm not sure how that works. Who okayed this? I mean, what person in there right mind said, 'ah yes Barbie, we should pay her a lot and make her supervisor of 15 people on site, but pay for her to live far away and come to town whenever she wants'? I guess it could work, if she was a stellar manager/communicator, but here no one is a stellar communicator, and Barbie is worst than most.

A testament to this is the way that she can't keep people working for here for any long period of time. New hires are not hired/interviewed by her, so they are never forewarned of her *&*#*&-ness. Barbie will then roll into the scene at her leisure, and about 50% of the time, after the visit we are looking for a new hire. The swiftest hire-quit process I saw was within 24 hours of Barbie's landing at SFO. I am not sure if this is her record. I feel a little bad. The only ones who make it are just like her. It's an impossible situation for people who do not want to become conniving.

Scenario 2: Failure to drink the kool-aid
This is common, when the person hired has been a little lured in by our "mission" and "vision." Then they get in and take a good scope around and see that those were some really awesome pretty-lies we construct in order to not hate ourselves at the end of the day. Many people cut and run at this point. A few stick around, and some get so caught up in the kool-aid that they ask to franchise the stuff so they can peddle it to other unsuspecting folk.

An example of this can be seen, ironically, in our recruiter. He started in October. His last day is Wednesday. Which is too bad for Earnesto, because it means the person he was counting on to find my replacement will not be there. Which kind of means it will be a long time before there is a replacement. Oops!

Scenario 3: They saw behind the curtain
Last year for Camille's birthday, we, plus Renaldo, went to lunch. This was still when Renaldo was having a death-crush on Camille, and as part of his awkward ritual mating dance he had the Hopes & Dreams talk. Way too early in the wooing, buddy. No wonder you failed. But even at the time it was apparent that of the three of us, I was a #2, and they were going to either be lifers or have a #3 moment sometime soon. hopes and dreams don't make it very long here.

Think about it in these terms: Under the guise of 'creative engines,' the place sucks hopes and dreams up and then uses them to power the institution's Project Negative Value. I envision the movement to be similar to that of the beast in Yeats' poem "The Second Coming," slouching towards the target.

When people see past the eyewash and the kool-aid, what they basically see is the machine room of the Hopes & Dreams giant vacuum, and scales fall from eyes quickly. This is how we lose the most promising talent. They go and say, hey, if there is going to be a wizard behind the curtain, it should be something that grants wishes, or at least looks like Cary Grant, and not something that will eventually see me a dried up old bag with no additional training. And then they leave (usually not until I have told them something embarrassing about myself; they have phenomenal interrogation skills).

the word is out

I went public (as in my workplace public, as opposed to the internet public) with my plans to quit on December 6. So now I have to field the questions of what next.

I DON'T KNOW.

So stop asking me.

Also something that should be a bolster to my self-esteem, but has turned out to be a little creepy is the strong reaction I receive from some people. I have only worked here 18 months. We can't be that close. So stop crying, or telling me how sad it is. Please stop trying to talk me out of it. I now have sound medical advice that backs up what little sanity I have left that considers it for the best of the entire world that I do not remain in this job.

And I have decided, despite the fact that this is a rare opportunity, I should probably pass on the going-away party. Because if I have to plan it, not nice things will happen. As in, Mutually assured destruction not nice. Plus, it's not in the budget. And having spent most of my time here having to be an evil queen of numbers, I should probably not go out with the fanfare. Plus, I'm not fond of brass.

crisis at the message centre

Timmy is injured! Luckily, not a horrible season ending sort of injury, but still, injured. I hate Clumsy James Jones for his futile attempts to stop Timmy's greatness. For that, mr. stupid-leg-in-the-way should be sentenced to the circle of the Inferno where the people where lead robes and are forced to walk in never-ending circles around a roasting fire. That is the weight of guilt. If it had been a acl tear, I don't think Dante described a level severe enough.

This whole incident has been enough to expel the sparkle in my heart which was disguising my space there, and it has brought to the forefront the black spot on my soul.

UPDATE:

Ok, here is something that makes this a tiny bit better.



I love these boys!

i got a dollar (and happy birthday)

In the mail today, someone who wanted our business sent us a dollar. I like to think of it as them sending me a dollar. Either way, I'm keeping it. Want shall I do with my dollar, all crisp and new? Maybe I'll splurge and spend it all at the vending machine. Maybe I'll go to the Dollar Store. Maybe I'll fold it into a ring and propose to the next hot guy I meet.

Or . . .
Maybe I'll use it to start the slush fund to found my crime syndicate
Maybe I'll use it bribe a corrupt official
Maybe I'll keep it as a souvenir of my days here
Maybe use it to give someone a paper cut
Or maybe I'll put it in my purse and use it to tip the next delivery person.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAVEY G!!!! YOU"RE MY FAVORITE DAVE EVER!! I hope life and the wife are treating your well in Austin.

Maybe I'll use my dollar to buy awesome blue shoes like the ones that Davey G. used to wear. Yep, maybe that's what I will do.

all you need to know

So I scammed a copy of the latest Kent cd off my brother until I can get my own. I have to say, so far almost everything they have done I end up liking after enough plays. But the last cd was pretty awesome, Du & Jag Dogen (throw an accent or something in there) and even thought the only words of Swedish that I speak are pretty useless and couldn't form a sentence (mostly nouns), I loved it. It even had a few tracks that made it onto my top super-most-coveted playlist. So when my brother said this latest guy had gone in an 80s direction, I had some qualms. Are we talking Early Madonna 80s, The Cure 80s, or U2 80s?, because in my mind, only one of these was truly ever acceptable, even in the 80s, the one in the middle.

But you know, there are just some bands that, unless they launch a hydrogen bomb, you find a way to really get into it. And I did. It's Kent, that's all I need to know.

And Paul, you said you like Ingenting, which is good, but I think my favorite may be Columbus, or maybe Elephanter.

And I still have no idea what they are saying. None whatsoever.

look at you and your awful hair

Someone must have let Hugh know that a person could make an accurate guess at his mental health based on the flop-activity of his flopsome hair, because he has cut it. Now it just looks like hair any guy could have. It's terrible. Looks like someone is getting his game-face on. I don't think your fooling anyone buddy. And you look like you are five.

plotting a karaoke ambush

In my position at this institution, I have been in the position to plan many a going-away "parties." That is put in quotes because sometimes it is a party, sometimes a funeral, sometimes just a going through the motions, and sometimes, like with good-old Battleaxe, it was a chance to kick 'em while they're down/dance on grave. Next up is Marie's farewell: Beer and oysters on the beach. I applaud her simple vision, but can't help but think of the irony that she wants to feed a bunch of people oysters after an oil spill. Neither of the above items really appeals to me, yet I have to plan. It's proving to be a bit sticky, but I will contrive.

But it begs the question: Who will plan my party? Marie will be gone. Earnesto doesn't do details. That is the extent of my lauded department. Conclusion, I will plan my party.

This simultaneously sucks and has it's benefits. Foremost amongst the benefits is that I will allow myself to do whatever is in my imagination. I was talking to the head of HR about it, and she said it sounded pretty awesome. Complete Carte Blanche.

So when I come up with a devilishly good idea(with my creative engines) (and I have) like making it a karaoke party, and asking Earnesto to sing a song for my final request, I will not shoot my idea down. I will say instead, "Self, that sounds like a capital idea, and well within the budget I have established for this party." And Then I will say "Self, thanks for understanding what I am trying to envision." Fabulous. Finally, I get to plot my karaoke ambush.

As for songs that I will ask for Earnesto to sing, I will take written submissions. Although I would love to have it be something like "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Or something by Debbie Harry or Madonna. Or Barry Manilow. There are just so many ways to be cruel on this one.

not with a bang

Ignore the title of this blog. Every once in a while, I get the urge to quote, and in the absence of having something to truly say relevant to the topic, I will misappropriate and write about other things. Like my weekend.

So, this weekend, my friend and I went to SFMOMA to take advantage of a neat trick I have of getting in free. Unfortunately, this Saturday it was not such a great trick, since, thanks to Oracle, it was a "Free4All" day. So, we spent the day rubbing elbows+ with the outpouring of the cheap and cultured (and that includes me). Still, it was cool to see the art again, and be with a friend. We didn't get to see the special Olafur Eliasson Exhibit, because we are not crazy enough to wait an hour to go up to the 4th floor. I've seen it before, and it's pretty awesome, but not 1 hour of standing in line awesome. To make up for it, we went to the much-acclaimed gift shop of SFMOMA. I admit to being a skeptic of the claims of its amazingness, but, indeed, it did rock my world. Not enough for me to pay insane prices and wait in yet another line of death (Note, lines do seem to be a problem at SFMOMA, we didn't see the BMW art-car either because of the lines).

Then we meandered to MOAD, or the Museum of the African Diaspora. I know what prompted the question, but it opened with the line "When did you find out that you were African?" Fine, whatever, except I am pretty much Wonder-bread white, and so it amuses me when they try to make sweeping statements like this. I know, they are saying all human life came from Africa. I get it. And African Culture permeates everything. But still, I smiled. Also, let me add that though a delightful space, MOAD is not equipped to fit the number of people packt like sardines in a crushd tin box.

Finally, we ended it by wandering through the rainy-day streets and shopping. Okay, I spent all the money. But I bought my favorite game, Ticket to Ride, and some music. Then I went home and played the game online for hours with my sisters. Happiness through Technology, people.

Another thing of note of Saturday was the USCv.UCB football game. I used to follow college football with the same fervor you now see exerted towards the NBA, but I was quickly cured of that by going to a college football game. I now find it slightly baffling that as many people from USC should be descending upon Berkeley like a hoard of locusts. Don't you have other responsibilities? They were everywhere. In the museums, in the stores, on BART, walking noisily by my house after they won the game. I tell you, it didn't help endear them to me.

Now I will work, until 3, when I will be playing trains again online with my sisters.

It's been two years

No, today is not my birthday, but it is sometime in the neighborhood of now, and as I was sifting through my email inbox, I found a note from two years ago that brought me a lot of joy. May all your birthday's be as good as this one.

R-
Thanks so much for the stuff on my doorstep. I didn't have much time to look at it, but i am sure it is wonderful and very profound. and don't worry about breakfast: J made me lemon bars for breakfast last night. She didn't think that ice cream cake was an appropriate breakfast. By the way, if you want some ice cream cake, feel free to stop on by.
I have to go and dance around my office because, hey, it's my birthday. No Karaoke today, though. we can't have it all.
have a good day!
-E

That's right, at that time I had a job that allowed me to dance and do karaoke whenever I wanted, and a roommate who made me lemon bars. That was a good year. and I learned the secret of true love.

The Brothers Gibb or How to Entertain yourself while in a traffic jam of doom!

I promised a story, and I keep my promises (at least when it's as simple as wasting time at work).

Way back when, like seven years ago, but not that long, a select grouping of my familial unit and myself were traveling via auto (imagine it said in a German accent) from San Francisco to Reno on our way to vacationing somewhere (the where is irrelevant to the story). Unfortunately, on this evening, many other people also decided to trek that path, and to add to the horrible traffic, throw in a massive accident. It took hours to travel the last few miles. We were stopped absolutely.

We would have gone mad, not being a patient sort of persons, but luckily, we had a cd player and an inexhaustible supply of Bee Gees classics to keep us rocking. That's right, we had a Mobile Disco.

A Mobile or Car Disco is an easy thing to do, but a few rules are attached to the concept.

1. It should probably only be undertaken when in truth all the people in the car can participate. That's not fair to the driver, who often times knows best how to get down. Don't deny them the joy.
2. It's not a Mobile Disco if the music is not disco. Bee Gees = Disco. Pet Shop Boys = Dance. etc. and so forth with other musical genres. Other Mobile dance parties can be fun, don't get me wrong, but don't put the peas in the spaghetti; or call a spade a spade.
3. As an adjunct to Rule 1, it is best enjoyed when the car is forced to a complete halt. Example: horrendous traffic jam of doom, or a bridge being raised and stopping traffic, or a really long train crossing. That way, the cars around are also stopped, and those passengers will be in complete awe of how exactly is that guy doing the hustle in the back seat (trade secret) and the joy derived from the incident will be that much greater because you shared with others. Or, others may decide to join with you, and that can be pretty awesome too.

Some suggestions on how the occasion can be improved (upon what? you say that what I have outlined above can not possibly get any better? Well My Friends, read and learn):

1. Sing along. Singing along to a Brothers Gibb classic improves everything, and the overall aerobic experience is bettered by singing and dancing. While in most life falsetto is not a great idea, here's your chance to go for it.
2. Make your own strobe light. I don't know if the newfangled cars of today can achieve the effect quite so well, but in the classic we were driving that night, the rapid open/close of a door caused the interior light to strobe. Take turns doing this, because after a while, you get tired. Doors are not light and easy to control. But only one person do it at a time, otherwise, the rhythmic pattern is ruined.
3. Roll down the windows. Ventilation helps. This also allows people around you to participate unobstructed.
   
4. Take this and apply it to your regular life (non-vehicular).

Total Eclipse of the Heart

Fooled you, didn't I? What I have to say has nothing to do with my heart and has to do with perception, interpretation, and analysis.

Because we deal in language and not direct thought transference, we have all been trained to make logical assumptions based on the communications and behavior of those around us.

For example, when I title my blog "Total Eclipse of the Heart," you might reasonably think, 'she has a story that ties back into the Bonnie Tyler classic song,' and then extrapolate based on your own experiences what that might be, within the realm of limited realistic possibilities. IF I had a story, say about the time I went to Jazzercise with my sister in the 90s and that was one of the songs and the routine was hilarious mostly due to the man in a modified unitard who knew all the words, you probably would not have assigned that specific scenario to the likely stories, but it would be close to the one about Karaoke or some such thing.

Well, the above story did take place, but that is not why I am writing on this the busy of busy days. I am writing to make the point that if you knew me, personally, you might know that that is one of the songs I feel it is nearly impossible to get out of your head, and thus, is an important torture device. If I were feeling particularly devious, I would have titled this "Leaving on a Jet Plane." Behold, my deviosity.

But Interpretation of what I say is based on background, and experience, and overall analytical capabilities. And I am University trained to read between the lines and extract little bits of truth that I will piece together until I find something that reasonably assumes the shape of feasible reality.

Point of the Exercise: Despite the frequent speeches I hear about not having a clue about what is going on in Project Negative Value, I am going to say I think I have a pretty good notion of the picture, thanks muchly, and it is a picture painted in the red. I would offer up specific estimates, but I cannot in good faith do so (publicly, at least).

I will make up for my tricks by telling you a good story next time about a disco. A Mobile disco. (not Simian Mobile Disco) But come on, you know you loved the link. That one is for you, Ms. Murdock. That one's for you. This one is for Paul or Ian.

I was concerted, I swear it

Well, sometimes work just acts like the wort sort of bully, and it is times like those I remember something I once saw on one of the Blackboards of my high school calculus class. It went something like this:

Math is what we do, but we do not do it well, that is why we DANCE!

I take no credit for this. It was a notice for some sort of dance club that I was far too geeky to participate in. But the line stuck with me, and this was my philosophy today at work (substitute work for math). So when Earnesto left the office unexpectedly for the second time today, throwing his schedule into absolute shambles, I turned on the tunes and indulged in a little chair dancing. You know, when you groove around without actually moving the chair.

I think I was inspired by the exhibition opening/ concert I went to on Wednesday. It was a dreadful combination of rich snobby people sneering at my dress, and then indie rock kids sneering at my dress, but at least it had a rocking soundtrack. Why all the sneering? Perhaps it is because my outfit was a tiny bit prom-night-revisited, not chic enough for SFMOMA, but too dressy for the Independent and the Okkervil River crowd.

My dear friend was kind enough to bring me less painful shoes, meaning I checked my 4-inch black patent leather heels. Admittedly, the skirt, knee-length, benefitted from the tall shoes, but my comfort level did not. So I went to the coat check area, and turned over my shoes (my stockings were filled-in-fishnet, but irretrievably laddered, so I took them off and binned them in the bathroom). Following is the exchange between me and the Coat Check Men:

Me: I'd like to check these shoes.
Them: You have to wear shoes.
Me: I am wearing shoes, just different shoes.
Them: But you would look better in these shoes.
Me: I've already been wearing them for 4 hours, and my feet hurt, so I'll wear these other ones, thanks.
Them: That will be 2 dollars.
Me (paying them): Thank you.

Oh the crazy coat checking fashion police!

It was a great show. I really enjoyed it. I was concerted by the whole experience.


very similar to my shoes

With Defiance, and some peanut butter

Yesterday was one of the few days of the year when anyone who thinks at his fine institution that they should have say over what I do piles it up (their insane requests) and then drops it on me like a ten ton truck. I had to work. In fact, I have a surfeit of actual work to do right now. And what am I doing? Blogging, with defiance, and some peanut butter.

Because I don't think we are seeing eye to eye right now. How outrageous is it that I requested access to the datebase of contact information for people I am supposed to be trying to schedule with Earnesto?? In my crazy pov, the only outrage is that the request has to go through 3 people now. Earnesto's always talking about how we need to act nimbly (that's a quote). Well, my nimbility on this issue is being severely impaired by spangly hoops I am being forced to jump through.

Furthermore, just because someone is working on Project Negative Value, it does not make them my boss. It makes them a b-f-b = blind-following-blind. Or Lemming. Some people didn't get that memo. Maybe they were being distracted by some eyewash. I hope they choke on it.

Please pardon my vitriolic rage. It appears we are fresh out of pinatas

A Reward for your Patience

For those of you who have been patiently awaiting my next post, provided that there are any of you, I am sorry. Pre-vacation prep and vacation has kept me away. Here is a brief update of what went on while I was away from the keyboard.

• Henry had his last day and rode off into the sunset.

• My foot swelled up like a sausage and broke one of my favorite shoes.
  

• I was invited to a very la event at SFMOMA, and will go next week. Apparently the person who wangled the invitation for me said I was qualified to go based of my 'young and fascinating" status. I didn't know I was young and fascinating, but hey, I'm not going to argue with it.

• I went on a leisurely vacation far away from my cell/cubicle. Acquired a bit of color that has in the two days I've been back faded back to gray.
  

• Earnesto and the senior managers went on a retreat I planned for them, enjoyed it, talked me up there, and repaid me by de-authorizing my overtime. What a swell guy.
  

But I promised a reward, and you so richly deserve it, don't you? So I will tell you all about the time when I was driven to the brink of madness by Renaldo. That's right, our very own James Brown of the industry/institute have a fascinating history that includes him driving me so batty I walked a mile to buy a chocolate cake.

I have a lovely coworker named Camille, who all the boys love. Not joking. Henry loved her, Renaldo loves her, and various and sundry other pathetic fellows have prostrated themselves at her feet in the hopes she will pay them some attention. To date, that I know of, she has only dated Henry. She has repeated fended off advances from Renaldo, who has an obnoxious tendency to pout in an obvious manner afterwards and general then endeavors to makes everyone around him feel acutely embarrassed for his complete inability to take the none-too-subtle hint.

One day, many moons ago (think May-ish) I agreed to go out one evening and give Renaldo a few tips about the situation. It was a moment of weakness on my part, but motivated by the excellent intention to give him the tip of 'IT'S NEVER GOING TO HAPPEN' and have done with the whole slightly silly saga. It had been going on since last September. Anyway, you know what they say about intentions.

So the evening rolled around and I was already feeling grave misgivings about the whole scheme. Renaldo was just so happy. He was also ridiculously stealthy as he collected me from my cell and we left to the sports bar he had chosen for what would be my torture. I don't drink, but for a fleeting moment I wished I did so I would have something to blunt the agony that loomed. No, just a diet coke and glimpses out of the corner of my eye of a Detroit-Chicago playoff game (that was a tragic series, I rather like the Bulls, but they do have some room for improvement).

Even P.J. Brown felt better than I did that night (and less violated). (Reuters)

Renaldo got himself a beer and what he perceived as license to wax poetical about the virtues of Camille. The best/worst was when he said "She is one in a million, no, one in several million girls." News Flash - That same could be said of me, but it is certainly not high praise, now, is it?

He continued for TWO hours, and every time I tried to reacquaint him with reality, he would reject it out of hand. Add to that overly loud really bad music (pretty much things I would only ever hear if I was being tortured, like being forced to go to a baseball game, or back in time to the 80s ((and not the good bit of the 80s, but the really cringe-worthy parts))) and the fact that I hadn't eaten yet that day, and you will understand, surely. I tried melting into the wooden table top or just disappearing completely, but that is the one time Radiohead actually didn't help. Nothing could prevail against this pernicious crush. It was a new kind of evil.

Finally, I demanded that I be let go. Renaldo relented, in that he took me to the Bart station, but the entire ride was absorbed with his descriptions of his "feelings" for Camille. That's right, he used the f-word. And it wasn't as funny as the clip I just linked and it was more painful than this one (partially redeemed by the Spanish intro). Anyway, feelings are things that should either be able to be explicated - example, I am attracted to Damon, I loathe Styrofoam - or not mentioned. I tried explaining this to him, but something was lost in the English as a second language area.

** DISCLAIMER** Please don't assume this means I am xenophobic or anti-Hispanic or anti-ESL. Not that it matters, but Renaldo is not in fact Hispanic. That's not his real name. It is a simple fact, however, that when going between any two languages there are certain nuances and cultural factors that are frequently misunderstood. That is all I am saying.***

I was in this purgatory of a car ride when by divine intervention, my brother called me to discuss basketball. You can bet our last dollar that I was all over that. Who cares about cell-phone courtesy when their are being granted a reprieve from torture? So I leapt from the car when it came to the station and ran.

I was shell-shocked by the time I arrived home. Shell-shocked and ravenous. All I could think of was, 'must have chocolate.' Indeed, chocolate seemed the only thing that could possible make it bearable. So I proceeded to walk a mile to the store and a mile back (uphill, in the snow, both ways! okay, it's a little cliché, but it is the truth), purchased a fine chocolate cake and ate a healthy slice. By healthy, I refer to my mental health, as it did much to restore my mental health.

Ever since that fateful day, things have never been the same between Renaldo and me. Being around him makes me crave chocolate, even though he has not repeated his version of the Inquisition. It's simply not the way things used to be. He asked, as have his coworkers, what happened that has cause this rift. I don't say anything, because I have realized, it doesn't matter what you say to Renaldo, he has very selective hearing powers. He perceives that which is pleasing to him, and this isn't it.

And to cap this tale, I have made a timeline. Enjoy!

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.

call it a day: why you leave the bar early

For Drinkers and Nondrinkers alike

Are you ready for part II of the Battleaxe farewell tour? No? Because last night was the external party, when every one who has ever worked for her (and it's a lot, can someone say high turn-over?) showed up to drink to her downfall and murmur to each other how well deserved it was. I was went part out of pity and part as an envoy from the Executive Offices. Which is to say, Earnesto couldn't go, so he sent me. Unfortunately, he wasn't bankrolling the venture.

I don't drink. So happy hour isn't my favorite hangout. I just feel redundant as I sip my coke with grenadine and wish I was somewhere else. For example, last night, in the super-posh Fairmont Hotel Tonga Room, I wished I was at home watching the NBA Draft.

(Sidebar: Draft! I love it, except I really wanted San Antonio to take Jarod Dudley from Boston College, but stupid Michael Jordan picked him. Still, some good trading going on, and as a Portland native, I appreciate efforts to retool the team to bring in some quality. End of Aside)

No, I was in a dark and murky bar that I had heard good things about. I guess it shows that everyone who goes there usually is drunk, because sobriety does not make it a fun place. It makes it dark and kitschy and in this case, full of people I didn't really like before, and drunkenness did not add to their charm. Like a guy who used to have my position and filled the computer with porn and demeaning emails about his then girlfriend, one of my coworkers, that I was forced to clean out. Ohhhh, he's a favorite. Favorite person to build a voodoo doll of, that is.

After drinking my coke, and eating some pretty decent Swiss cheese, it was an hour in and it was getting crowded. I opted out, leaving $25 to cover my tab and get one of Battleaxe's. It was a gesture. I left at 6:30, and after a nice walk and train ride, got home in order to catch the end of the first round of the draft. and I only saw one or two of my coworkers fall-down drunk (fast workers).

I just talked to someone there at the end of the night, and it was a great reminder of the evils of an open tab. Apparently they were $120 short at the end of the night. Not my fault. But it sure made me glad I wasn't there at the end to pick up that tab. A good reason to leave early. Which makes the list this:

1. Even if you like a person sober, drunk may be a different story. Avoid being there when the things get so out of hand that someone tears open Hugh's shirt and that way you can maintain good working relationships as well as your eyesight.
   
2. You don't have to pay for all the cheap people who came for the "free" drinks. Just pay what you own (with tax and tip figured in) and walk away, knowing some other chump can deal with the mess.
3. You can still walk in the city without undue fear, and use mass transit without a taser.
   
4. The evening isn't wasted, and neither are you. Go home and do something cool.
5. You cultivate an air of mystery. People wonder where you went. You don't have to tell them you played computer Yahtzee for hours.
   

And the greatest lesson of all is: Never start an open tab.

My Favorite Dave, and other names

I just found out that my Favorite Dave is getting married to some girl named Sarah. That's right ladies, Davey G. is officially off the market (Unless you act really fast). This is after finding out (although I've known for months) that my Second-Favorite Dave is also getting married, to a Sarah. My Third-Favorite Dave is David Robinson, who really isn't a Dave at all, and he is also married. I don't thing numbers 4, 5, and 6 on my favorites list are married yet, but it looks like my single-friend-Dave may becoming an endangered species. (Update, I just realized #6 is married! Oh, tragic!)

This is concerning because Dave is one of those names where I actually did like a lot of them an awful lot. It's rare that I find a name where I know and like enough people to require a list ranking. And It's not just because there are a lot of Daves. there are also a lot of Chris' and Mikes, but I haven't had to list yet. I could probably hammer out a Chris list in ten minutes, but it wouldn't be perfect and wouldn't compare to my list of Daves. Daves just tend to be of a higher quality than other men. And also inexplicably attracted to girls named Sarah, which is upsetting because that's not my name (but that is a song).

I am resigned. I will just have to get to know more Andys, Zachs, and Steves, because I need to find a name that I can list as my favorite, bumping Daves. Daves #1-29, watch out.

The start of something

So it starts, what should be, for someone who once fancied herself a writer, an easy venture, but trepidation fills me as I am about to embark. My worry? That work will not be happy with this (for actual probably legitimate reasons). My answer? No one will read this anyway. My life barely holds my interest. I mean, I even tend to drop off in the slow moments.

So, what do you want to know? What don't you want to know? I find that the latter question is a far more relevant one, since I am well known as more than slightly crazy. The inner workings of my mind remain fairly shrouded in mystery, despite years of therapy and introspection.